Walking Toward the Tsunami

The sea disappears.

You look toward the horizon.

Then it comes back.

A tsunami.

A towering wall of water rises on the horizon, higher than the buildings, stretching as far as your eyes can see, moving toward you with terrifying speed.

You hear its roar. The ground trembles beneath your feet.

There is nowhere to run.

And you understand something with absolute clarity:

you cannot stop it.

Now imagine something extraordinary.

Imagine standing there and feeling something unexpected beneath the fear:

peace.

Not because the wave is harmless. You see its power. You understand exactly what it can do.

But you know something about the ocean that the ocean does not know about itself:

It is not the Master of the world.

The water has power. It does not possess the final word.

You do not know what will happen when it reaches you.

And then, instead of running from the wave, you begin walking toward it.

One step. Then another.

I have stood on that shore. There was no ocean.

There was an oncology department.

The First Infusion

In November 2019, I entered the infusion room at Memorial Sloan Kettering to begin chemotherapy and immunotherapy.

My wife and my parents came with me.

We had spoken with the doctors and considered the risks. The treatments intended to save my life could also place an extraordinary burden upon my body.

The wave was coming. But we had decided how we would meet it.

It was no longer somewhere on the horizon.

I carried a tzedakah box, my worn copy of Chitat, a small piece of afikoman matzah, and a book I cherished: In Good Hands, a collection of letters and talks of the Lubavitcher Rebbe.

The title had never seemed more appropriate.

The infusion room was bright. Reclining chairs stood beside IV poles and machines. Nurses moved between patients, checking medications, adjusting tubes, asking questions.

I sat down.

A nurse approached and began preparing my arm.

My wife leaned toward me.

"It's just juice," she whispered.

I smiled.

She was not denying what was inside those bags. She was refusing to allow fear to become the only language in the room.

Then came the consent forms.

Pages of possible complications. Reactions. Injuries. Things that might happen to the body when powerful medicine enters it.

I read them.

I understood that signing did not guarantee a particular outcome.

And I signed.

My wife was also designated as my caregiver, agreeing to help care for me and make decisions if I could no longer speak for myself.

I looked at her.

A husband and wife had entered the hospital together. Now we were signing documents acknowledging how much one human being might have to carry for another.

Some promises are made beneath a chuppah. Others are discovered years later beside a hospital bed.

Then the nurse returned. The treatment was ready. The wave was upon me.

One Drop

The chemotherapy began to enter my veins. I watched the clear tubing extending from my arm toward the hanging bag.

Drop. Another drop.

The ocean I had imagined could swallow buildings and rearrange coastlines. But the force entering my body arrived almost silently. One drop at a time.

The medicine could destroy dangerous cells and harm healthy parts of my body. Heat came. Chills. Exhaustion. At one point, my urine turned red from the medication.

The body does not always recognize healing when it arrives. Sometimes it experiences the treatment itself as another assault.

I looked at the cover of In Good Hands. I was in His hands.

Around me, nurses continued their work. Machines hummed. Someone adjusted an IV pole.

I began saying Tehillim. Quietly. One verse. Then another. Prayer did not make the medicine unnecessary. Medicine did not make prayer unnecessary.

The physicians had their knowledge. The nurses had their training. The medicine had its purpose. The drip continued. So did the prayer.

When the Wave Arrived

Then came the immunotherapy. Within minutes, my body began to react.

My blood pressure rose. My breathing shortened. Tremors overtook me. Chills, neck pain, nausea—one sensation following another until the room seemed to lose its familiar shape.

The machines sounded. Nurses rushed toward my chair.

Suddenly there were people everywhere. Oxygen. Medications. Questions. Someone checking my blood pressure. Someone else speaking to the doctor.

My wife was beside me. My mother began to cry. I remember looking toward her through the confusion and asking her to leave. "Leave, Mama. Please." I did not want her to watch what was happening to me.

The shaking continued.

My teeth. My chest. My spine. It seemed as though my entire body had become one uncontrollable tremor.

The wave had reached the shore. Now I was inside it. I could feel my body struggling and see the nurses working urgently to stabilize me. I was frightened.

But beneath that fear, something remained remarkably still. I began saying Shema.

Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad.

Again. And again. The words were familiar. I had said them countless times before.

Now, with the room moving around me and my body beyond my control, I understood their simplicity differently.

Hashem is One.

Not only when the sea is calm. Not only when the doctors bring good news. The same Hashem is present when the wave arrives.

The water was everywhere. So was Hashem. Slowly, the shaking began to ease. My breathing settled. The room became recognizable again. I could see my wife's face. I was still there.

The Second Wave

The doctor decided to stop the treatment. I rested. An hour passed. Then another. Eventually, I turned toward my wife. "Let's try again." I knew what had happened. I also knew that the treatment remained part of the medical path before me. The team agreed to attempt another infusion.

But the reaction returned. The wave came back. Once again, my body began to revolt. Once again, the medical staff intervened. This time the doctor stopped the treatment for the day. "Enough. We'll continue tomorrow."

I accepted his decision. The next day, we returned. The treatment resumed under their supervision. This time, my body tolerated it.

In Good Hands

That first day had taught me something I could not have learned while the sea was calm.

Bitachon had not made the wave smaller. It had given me one certainty the wave could not take away: even when I could not control what was happening, I was still in Hashem’s hands.

That morning, I had entered the hospital carrying a book called In Good Hands.

I thought I had brought it to remind myself of something. By the time I left, I understood the title differently.

There had been my wife's hand holding mine. The nurses' hands administering the medicine. The doctors' hands working to protect my life.

And beyond every one of them, the hand of Hashem.

I had not become stronger than the wave. I thought I was walking toward the tsunami.

I was walking into His hands.