“My mom is the strongest – she has a metal leg!” That’s exactly what I want to hear from my son, Ben, when he’s 4.
Only when he says it, my prayer – or hope – is that all that I am going through will have been worth it.
Just a handful of months ago, my life seemed perfect. I had traveled far in my 33 years; from my home in Peabody, to my dream of making Aliyah 12 years ago, and finally settling in Tel Aviv with my husband and son.
But on Dec. 28, I knew something was wrong. That day, I left my nine-month-old little boy sleeping in his car seat with my husband, and walked into the hospital. After pressing my doctor for days straight and receiving no answers, I entered the Ichilov Hospital’s Emergency Room in Tel Aviv. Following tests, and pricking and prodding to find veins, I was told that I had Streptococcus A flesh eating bacteria in the neck. They wheeled me into surgery the next morning, and that’s when my life would change forever.
Within 24 hours, I was on life support and surrounded by grim-faced doctors who gave my parents, husband, and in-laws no hope I’d live. The surgeons put me on an extracorporeal membrane oxygenation machine – the highest level of life support – and placed me in an induced coma. I almost died twice.
My eyes were closed through January. I experienced vivid nightmares of being held hostage in other countries, familiar and unfamiliar places. Was I still alive? Where was my husband, my son? Was I still in my beloved Israel? Was I still in this world?
I was, of course, still alive. During that time, I had six surgeries. And, those procedures saved my life. But it all came at a heavy cost. Surgeons lost blood flow to one of my legs when I was placed on life support and in order to save my life again, they amputated my right leg.
I barely became lucid at the beginning of February and slowly I’ve been processing it all, mourning my leg. I’ve been angry, sad, and grieving my loss of independence. At the same time, I am grateful for each moment I have with my family and friends. I cherish the time I have with my husband when he cheers me on during my daily physical therapy and gym sessions. I look forward to my afternoon coffee with my mom and nightly girl time with my sister, Rachel, and friends, in my hospital room. I savor cuddles with my son Ben on weekends at my in-laws when I have 36 hours of “freedom.” I’m still in Tel Aviv’s Ichilov Rehab Center and I don’t know when I’ll be able to go home – and even then it will be to a new apartment that will be better-suited for handicapped access.
My life as I knew it in December is now a dream. My life now also seems like a dream. Each day I am learning about acceptance – accepting both my new challenges or “handicaps” as well as my newfound appreciation for the simple things in life I once took for granted. I am now setting new milestones daily and tracking my achievements. I’m determined to walk out of here with a clear mind, strong lungs, and a cool carbon fiber prosthetic.
I suppose it’s part of the human condition to feel like I’ve been held hostage – even though I am at one of the better hospitals. These days, my son has a mom he gets to see on the weekends at his grandparents, in a park outside the hospital, or rehab library next to her room until she goes home to be with him forever. My husband isn’t a widow in his 30s. My parents didn’t have to bury their first-born.
As I heal, I have a better understanding of what it feels like to be a slave – working, or in my case, hopping – with a walker or crutches on one foot in front of specialists to gain approval and acceptance. Each day I contemplate slavery and freedom as I transition to learning how to use a prosthetic leg and live in the present. Each day I hope that as the holiday of freedom, Passover, comes this spring, I too will be free and independent, walking and home with my boys.
Lana Osher grew up in Peabody and lives in Tel Aviv with her husband and son.
Blessings and prayers ….