Before I share with you an extraordinary surgery experience I had, I want to emphasize that I’m okay and will be fine in about a week.

For the past four months I’ve had continuous bronchial problems, a strong colored phlegm-filled cough and a head cold. At last my doctor put me on antibiotics, but they didn’t clear up my symptoms. He suggested that I see a pulmonologist (lungs). The pulmonologist was convinced that my problem wasn’t based in my chest and lungs (though they were secondarily affected), but in my sinuses, and that I should be examined by an Ear Nose and Throat (ENT) doctor. To be certain, my pulmonologist ordered scans of my chest and head and passed them along to my ENT physician who showed me the scan of my head on a computer screen. He pointed out that there are two large sinus cavities behind my forehead, eyes, cheek, and jaw that show up as black on the screen if they are normal and open. I was more or less fine on the left side – black. On the right side, there was no black at all indicating that my sinuses there were impacted. He told me I had one of two treatment choices: a three-week regimen of antibiotics, that he was certain wouldn’t solve my problem, or surgery.

I asked what would the surgery entail. He explained that it would be done in 1.5 to 2 hours under general anesthesia. He would insert a probe into my nostrils with a small light and camera at the end of it, and he would drain and remove any polyps that might be there. It was an out-patient procedure and I would go home the same day.

When he explained, I cringed. Sorry for passing along the specifics, my gentle readers, but I wanted you to get the full picture.

I asked him, “If this were you – what would you do?”

 “Surgery,” he said.

“Ok – how soon can you do this?”

“The soonest is in 3 weeks.” We scheduled the surgery for yesterday, September 25 first thing in the morning.

Over the following two weeks after my decision, I got all the pre-op check-ups that were required from my internist and cardiologist. My son David, picked me up at 6 am for a 7 am call time at the Marina del Rey Hospital, a site associated with Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Everyone from admissions to the nurses who prepped me were wonderful – kind, inquisitive and helpful as they explained everything I needed to know.

At 9 am, my RN nurse came into the room, a lovely masked young woman named Ronah with a Magen David hanging on a necklace around her neck.

She said, “I see on your chart that you are a rabbi. I’m Jewish too.”

“I know,” I said. I see your Magen David.

“I’m Sephardi,” she said. “My parents are Iraqi and Moroccan and we lived in Israel when I was young. My boyfriend is a Persian Jew.” She spoke English with an American accent.

“Do you remember your Hebrew,” I asked.

“Ken – betach – yes – of course,” she said. From then on we spoke only in Hebrew, which relaxed me – somewhat.

“Eich atah margish – How are you feeling?” she asked as we entered the OR and she placed the oxygen mask over my face.

“Ani chosesh chareda harbeh – I’m feeling very anxious,” I answered.

She took my hand gently and held it until I drifted into unconsciousness. The last words I heard her say were “Al tid’ag  – Don’t worry.”

There were 7 people in the OR including my doctor and the anesthesiologist. Before I drifted into unconsciousness, I said to everyone: “Thank you for all you are about to do.”

When I awoke, the recovery nurse, named Liv, couldn’t have been kinder as well. The doctor told me that everything went perfectly well, that he removed all the fluid in my sinus cavity and polyps that likely were cause of the impaction. Barbara came into the recovery room smiling at me, asked my nurse all the questions Barbara needed to know to care for me over the following days, and an hour later Liv wheeled me to the valet. I stood and tentatively got into the car (I was feeling woozy), and we drove home.

The anesthesia high (like a drug trip) and the painkillers stayed with me until the evening. The combination plus another painkiller afforded me an intense feeling of physical well-being, but I knew well that the next few days would be likely the toughest after the anesthesia wore off. My kids were texting me and I spoke with them later in the day.

My feeling of gratitude for the love of my family and the great medical care, for the kindness of every nurse who cared for me, my doctor and anesthesiologist (a woman from Iran – I spoke to her with the few Farsi words I learned long ago – which delighted her), and every single nurse, especially Ronah and Liv, and my ENT doctor and anesthesiologist, will stay with me always.

I intend to write a letter to Cedars-Sinai and ask that everyone who attended to me receive a copy of my letter so they know how grateful I feel towards them.

Many years ago, when I had prostate cancer surgery, I bought a two-pound box of Sees dark chocolate creams and had it open in my hospital room. I offered a piece to everyone who came in. I remember one very large man, a custodian, who was quietly taking out the trash from my room late at night. I asked him his name. He told me (I’ve forgotten it now), and I said, “Want a chocolate?”

He looked at me like I was nuts.

I said, “Really. Take one.”

He happily did so. I then said, “Take two more – they’re here for you and everyone who visits me or has a job to do in my room. Tell everyone they are welcome to come on in whenever they need a chocolate fix.”

He said, “Thank you bro – no patient has ever done this before.”

I said, “Bro – I’m so grateful that you all saved my life. This is the least I can do in return.”

He smiled and went on his way.

Gratitude (Hebrew – הכרת הטוב – literally, “recognition of/knowing the good”) has always come easily to me. I learned this foundational value from an early age from my parents and its ability to create close relationships. I don’t regard it as a quid pro quo – just as an attitude of the heart towards others who are kind and generous. Both of our sons (now 39 and 34) are the same way, and our son and daughter in-law are teaching that value to our grandchildren (ages five and a-half and two and a-half).

Post-op, I’m doing now everything the doctor and nurses told me to do – sinus rinsing, no strenuous exercise except easy walking around the house, taking the painkiller as needed.

I wanted to write this blog while I was still in the thrall of my experience with such kind medical professionals because I believe what I have experienced and felt has a strong common take-away for us all.

I know that the best hospitals (here in LA include Cedars-Sinai Medical Center and the Reagan Hospital at UCLA where I’m a patient – there are other great hospitals in LA too) are in stiff competition with one another for patients, donor and government grants, etc. Patient service is a high priority for both moral and pragmatic reasons. But, that pragmatism doesn’t negate the importance of kindness of staff who have devoted their lives in service to others.

In advance of the surgery, I received at least 6 texts reminding me what to do, as well as 3 phone calls checking from my doctor’s office and the hospital going over details and asking if I understood everything. I also received by email a packet of materials to read that covered the pre-op period, the surgery itself, the immediate post-op tasks I needed to remember to do and not do, and the two post-op appointments in the next two weeks. I should be 100 percent recovered in a week, a day before the onset of Rosh Hashanah 5785.

One of the things I’m also grateful for is Medicare. Everything I experienced was covered 100 percent (except, of course, the premiums). But, I know there are still so many Americans who don’t have adequate health insurance, though the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare) has dramatically embraced millions of Americans.

I remember asking a nurse 15 years ago immediately after I was in recovery from my cancer surgery (it is now completely controlled by medication), “What do people do who don’t have insurance?”

“They die,” she said matter-of-factly.

One day, everyone (hopefully) will benefit as I’ve benefited from our health care system and all the doctors, nurses, orderlies, custodians, and hospital staff who have treated me with such kindness and professionalism.

Ralph H. Blum (1932-2016), a cultural anthropologist and author, offered this insight: “There is a calmness to a life lived in gratitude, a quiet joy.”

How right he was.