Prelude

The four months between when your procedure was supposed to take place and when the folks at the hospital actually got around to yanking out your catheter, did it seem that the days went flying by, or did the time just drag on? Actually neither. These days, I get up in the morning, say my prayers, ending with the shir shel yom, so that I’m clear that it’s Monday, Tuesday, etc., in effect, a new day for me and a reminder that I recited that same psalm a week before, and what did I accomplish in those intervening seven days? I consider the day over and done with when I say goodnight to my wonderful wife, turn off my nightlight, and settle into bed. Whatever I did or didn’t do after I got up, it’s on me. Each day takes the same amount of time, so, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no faster or slower – just better spent or the opposite.

The question in the back of our minds the entire time while we were waiting and hoping for the best: What else could go wrong to prevent my rescheduled procedure from taking place? Would it be possible that war would break out again as it did the first time – even if it took the form of random rockets disrupting our routine? I could imagine a whole slew of other issues that could get in the way, pandemics, labor disputes, Haredim blocking the light rail tracks or the highway going out to Ein Kerem, but the most worrisome one was the one seemingly most remote, the resumption of hostilities. The best way to approach the situation, I reckoned, was to just go about my business and try to minimize worrying – easier said than done for a confirmed expert in the field.

Sometime in May, we would have to return to the E.R. to have my catheter (or in Hebrew, ‘katEter’) swapped out, because it had to be done every ninety days, but I could factor that appointment into my I-need-to-worry schedule without upsetting the apple cart. And I had every other appointment scribbled on my JSPCA wall calendar. The rest of the time, I was free to enjoy life as a civilian, up until Sun. June 14, when things would start to heat up.

What’s Worse Than a Dangling Participle?

The morning in question, we would start at our local clinic, for them to do the required blood and urine tests and an EKG, then walk over to Terem, the other clinic we use, to get a chest x-ray, because that’s what the hospital required. All strictly routine, at least for most people. But most people have no trouble peeing into a cup. If I could pee into a cup, I wouldn’t be here!

There is a way of getting a urine sample from a catheter, but you have to know how. The nurse on duty knew how to do an EKG, but not how to wrestle urine out of a tube. Because Barbara and I are such big shots, we assured the nurse that we knew how to do it, having watched others do the procedure before. Except that our bravado was greater than our skill, so that, by the time we got home, the catheter was dangling in the air, unmoored from my body where it was supposed to be. (What’s worse than a dangling participle?)

All I wanted to do was have a proper meltdown, as in: WHY??? We’re this close to procedure day. All we had to do was not screw up. But we did, and now we had no choice but to stop everything and go – one more time – to the E.R. What we were supposed to be doing instead was preparing a light lunch for The Levines, who were – after several aborted efforts – finally on their way down to spend the week with us. We’d better let them know: Barbara and Richard, change of plans. Stop on the way and get something to eat. We’re on our way to the E.R.

It could have been worse.  It wasn’t too crowded in the emergency room, and there were two Arab nurses on duty who got me in and out in a reasonable amount of time, with a properly attached catheter. At least we know what not to do for future reference, although I’m hoping and praying there will never be another catheter in my future.

In Search of Innocent Merriment

The Levines were waiting for us when we returned, even getting most of their stuff upstairs, usually my job. Let’s just order Japanese takeout for dinner. Which we’ve done before without incident. This time, the delivery guy somehow couldn’t figure out where we lived, and by the time our sushi arrived, well after 9PM it was almost anti-climactic. Not a good start to a relaxing week, but we were determined to spend our time together in search of ‘innocent merriment.’

One thing that cements a good friendship is a shared passionate interest in something. (It doesn’t have to be everything, but something.) If the four of us, the two Casdens and the two Levines, would be sitting around, and somebody said, Who wants to go to a winery, eyes would brighten, lips would pucker, and virtual glasses would be raised in anticipation. We haven’t been to Agur in several years. And so on Monday we were off, no reservation required; just show up at their boutique winery a ways past Beit Shemesh off R. 38. But pay strict attention or you’ll drive right past, the sign in front of their entrance in drastic need of a refresh.

Their sign might be old, but their welcome is genuine, and their wine is ready to be drunk. A tasting for four with some cheese, etc. Unless you are totally indifferent to what’s on offer (and, sadly, there are such people), you would be properly impressed by what they are pouring. What usually happens when the four musketeers show up at a winery, the folks there come to realize in a matter of minutes that we are serious wine people to whom (with Barbara L. flashing her rosé wine report card for anyone to see) attention must be paid. And almost always, we are treated like the wine royalty we like to think we are, meaning that, sooner or later, someone up the chain of command strategically drops by to chit-chat.

Agro Café Is Right on the Way

Several hours later, having finished everything they had to offer, (What’s this; you now have a dessert wine as well?) and collectively purchased an appropriate number of bottles, we left the winery. I had something else in mind to top off the afternoon, but for that I would need an accomplice. Barbara Levine, can we convince Richard to stop on the way back. Agro Café is right on the way, and we could both use a cup of coffee.

I wasn’t exaggerating. Right before you get to the main road, there’s the sign for Srigim, and within 30 seconds you can see the sign for Agro Café big as life. I wouldn’t kid you, Richard.

We’ve been there before, and I know I’ve mentioned the place, because why wouldn’t I? It’s the only coffee purveyor in our part of the world that’s any competition for Power Coffeeworks. But there are differences. Agro is probably the only shop of its kind for 20 km. in any direction. There are at least five competing places within one km. of Power Coffeeworks, one right next door, in fact. So Brandon and Steph have to be constantly on their toes.
Agro’s packaging says it all: ‘Saving Family Farms One Sip at a Time.’ They work with a few small coffee growers in Ethiopia and Colombia, providing them with logistical support and marketing. Brandon gets his beans from commercial distributors here in The Land, so there’s a lot less ‘feel-good’ involved and a lot more variety on offer. A lot. If you purchase coffee with the folks at Srigim, you’ll see on the package a portrait of Yuval Nir, who ‘fell as a hero on Jan.30, 2024, in the southern Gaza Strip during the swords of Iron War…. He was instrumental in establishing Agro Café…’ I’m delighted to say that Brandon Treger, even with his background in security and medical assistance, has not been required to offer his life on behalf of his neighbors and his country. Stay safe, Brandon, and keep on roasting; we need you.

The two Barbaras and I sipped our coffee, and Richard found a fruit drink that met his expectations, giving me time to look around the joint. Sure enough, they had a scale that was a serious upgrade from what I had been using to weigh my beans and the kind of goose neck kettle that I had been lusting for these months. And yes, I also purchased a bag of Colombian coffee to compare with the Volcan that came from Powers. But, as I explained to the young woman behind the counter, I would be continuing my main purchasing from my friends in Jerusalem, because that’s what loyal customers do. Understood. Let’s head back to Ma’ale Adumim with all our goodies. And that is an example of how some of us seek out innocent merriment – when we get the chance.

More Merriment on Offer

The next day was more physically demanding. Gil had informed us weeks before that Liel would be in a play, and would we like to attend? So we and The Levines headed to the Jerusalem Theater – or better, to one of the smaller venues in the complex – not

knowing that it wasn’t handicapped accessible. But The Levines gamely trudged around the building, and we sat for an hour watching a bunch of teens and ‘tweeners perform in Ivrit. Something about the Holocaust, but I have no idea what.

As a reward for our efforts, on Wed. we decided to venture all the way to the Barkan Winery, which is ten or twenty times the size of Agur but no easier to find if you don’t know the way. What is similar is the excellent service and the quality of what they serve. A great many of the serious wine professionals in Israel have earned their stripes here over the years, so attention must be paid. Which we were happy to do.  Their Beta experimental series, available at the winery and at Mesameyach in Jerusalem, is as good a value as one can expect these days. The fellow running the visitors center gave each of us two glasses and poured some of their Carignan in one and some Argamon in the other. Which did we prefer? Don’t do this to me!

Thursday would be the highlight of the week, The Mikado, performed for the third time by my former colleagues at Encore! The first time, in 2008, we had just arrived, and the idea that I could attend something by G&S in my new homeland was so gratifying that I made certain we saw the production. Including the Maestro, Paul Salter, and the perennial Yum-Yum, Aviela Trapido, there are maybe five performers involved in that first production still around. The second production was my farewell with the company. There I was, sitting on the side of the stage, acting as a scribe, taking ‘notes’ of everything that was going on. The Levines remember that production as well; they were in the audience for one performance, and, because I happened to be seated under a microphone, they could hear me as if I had been a soloist, which I wasn’t. Wait a minute; that was in 2017, nine years ago. That’s how long it’s been? Is that what happens when one day methodically follows another? I’m beginning to wonder if Time isn’t a lot sneakier than how I think of it.

Wait a minute, I said to someone recently. You’re telling me that So-and-So is 60. That’s not possible. To which he responded, Why not, So-and-So’s mother is 87. And I said, I know she’s 87; I’m 85. But that doesn’t make her daughter old enough to be 60. You see my problem with time. It seems to be moving faster or slower depending on the people and situations involved. Was Power Coffeeworks up and running in 2017, because I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t, even though I know it didn’t exist in 2007 when we arrived. I need to calm down and get on with my life.

The Levines were leaving us Fri. morning, off to one of their folk music events. I would put together something appropriate for Shabbat meals and then get ready for what was to come. The next Wed. would be my pre-op appointment out in Ein Kerem, signaling a week and a half to my procedure. Even two weeks after, I think about what happened with a healthy measure of relief, if not enjoyment. But that’s next. This post has taken me twice as long to prepare as usual, mostly because my energy level is still sub-par. I’m not getting any younger, no matter how I finagle the passing days.