The Most Heartfelt Shehecheyanu I'll Ever Say

This Friday night Rosh Hashanah begins. At our dinner table I will raise my kiddush cup full of wine and say a blessing I likely said hundreds of times in my life. Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha'olam, shehecheyanu, v'kiy'manu, v'higiyanu lazman hazeh. Thanks for reading Yitzhak Santis - The Salty Zionist! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Blessed are You, Adonai, our God, Sovereign of the Universe who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this moment. In my house we sing it, ending with a loudameyn!and a heartyL'hayyim!And then we get on with the meal. This year, I suspect I will have some trouble getting through it. Because 'who has kept us alive' suddenly means something very different this year. Just a little over a month ago, a cardiologist informed me that two of the arteries feeding oxygen to my heart were severely blocked in three places, some more than 90 percent. Within days, my chest was opened and I underwent double bypass surgery. The operation saved my life. It also beat the living hell out of me. Shehecheyanu. Who has kept us alive… There are easier ways to contemplate mortality, but nothing quite prepares you for waking up in an ICU after heart surgery. Drainage tubes. Catheters. Breathing tube. IVs in your arm and neck. Holes here and there. Pain. Confusion. Helplessness. Your body has suffered enormous trauma, even if that trauma was inflicted by extraordinarily skilled people for the express purpose of keeping you alive. A few days after coming home from the hospital, feeling like an elephant trampled me, I had an extraordinarily spiritual dream unlike any I can remember. There were no words, no other people, just me on a darkened earth. There was little sunlight, the sky was overcast. I heard a whooshing sound, looked up and saw great feathered beings overlapping each other blocking out the sunlight. They had no heads, no tails, just wings. They moved as one, like a river, scudding across the sky. Without warning I became one of these beings and rose toward the moving feathered sky river and joined it. I moved with all the others, upward toward the dark overcast. After breaking through the clouds, I emerged into a wide-open deep blue sky and bright sunshine. Then, I woke up. I am still trying to understand what it meant, if it meant anything at all. But it left me with an overwhelming sense of peace and reassurance. Then came the other side. Weeks later, late at night, lying in bed sleepless. Suddenly, I was back in the operating room, being moved from the gurney to the operating table, surrounded by strangers, going under, awakening in the ICU. This wasn't a memory. I was there. Apparently, my healing sternum and my subconscious have somewhat different recovery schedules. Fortunately, I haven't been recovering alone. Surgeons can bypass arteries. They prescribe a pharmacy full of post-operative meds, but they cannot give what I received afterward. And it matters. My wife, Anat, has been beside me through every miserable, frightening, frustrating and occasionally ridiculous moment. My family and friends surrounded me with calls, visits, messages, food, encouragement and love. I keep thanking Anat for being here, getting me through this. A thousand thank yous will never be enough. She is myeshet hayyil, a woman full of valor and love. On the first day home from the hospital, walking a quarter of a block felt like an expedition up Everest. I shuffled along, exhausted, acutely aware that only days earlier there were people rummaging around in my chest, holding my heart in their hands, and fixing it. Now, just over a month later, I walk about three kilometers every morning. Not effortlessly. Not briskly. And certainly not looking like an advertisement for cardiovascular fitness. But, damn the pain, I do it. I do it because I refuse to sit and mope. We may thank God for keeping us alive to this moment, but it's a partnership. My part is walking, then getting back to the gym, getting on a bicycle, whatever it takes. It took a double bypass to teach me how much of life we simply bypass without noticing. There is another Jewish prayer that has acquired deeper meaning for me:Modeh Ani.Literally 'I am grateful.' It is said when waking up in the morning, even before putting your feet on the floor. It's an expression of gratitude for receiving the gift of another day. It's all about starting the day with an attitude of gratitude. At 68, mortality is hardly breaking news. I knew perfectly well that no one gets out of here alive. But knowing that you are mortal and experiencing your mortality are two very different things. Trust me, I haven't emerged from bypass surgery as a serene saintly sage. I still get annoyed. I still worry about stupid things. I still yell at Israeli politicians gracing my TV screen. I cuss at the cat for walking on my sore chest. But something has shifted. This Friday night, I'll be sitting beside Anat. I'll have my family, my friends, my absurd menagerie of eight cats and a dog. Then I'll raise my kiddush cup. Shehecheyanu! Only this time, I will know exactly what I'm saying. Thanks for reading Yitzhak Santis - The Salty Zionist! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.