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August 29, 2011: A Ray of Hope

I could have written about a lot of stuff tonight.

I could have written about the visit of Stella’s parents and just how wonderful that has been for all of us. And I think I will.

Just not now.

I could have written about today’s chemo treatment, about my thoughts when seeing the diversity of cancer patients — Arab, Jew, religious, secular, etc. About how cancer is an “equal opportunity” employer. And I think I will.

Just not now.

I could write about how my dear, sweet, kind, beautiful wife is also tough as hell, and she is right now grappling with the agony of chemo with a stoic expression, locked in a private combat with an invisible enemy. Come to think of it, I will write that now.

But most importantly, I want to write about what the Doctor told us today.

He showed us a piece of paper with the number “97” on it. Don’t ask. I have no idea what there are “97” of. But I do know this:

That there used to be over “300” of whatever is now “97.”And that’s very good.

Because the Doctor told us that the “97” instead of “300 something” means that the chemo is working. Stella is responding to the treatment.

Now I am not naive.

I know full well that at the moment, the cancer is neither operable or curable.

I know that we are facing a long and tough battle that is against the odds.

I know that this was simply one marker from one test and that there will be many, many more.

BUT — for the first time since the beginning of the nightmare, we have received some medical information that was not preceded by a Doctor apologizing. For the first time, we have actual, bonfide good news. For the first time, there is some real data on a real piece of paper that is giving me real hope.

And I will take that.

And ask for more.

We have no doubt that the chemo treatments, as horrible as they are, are having an impact.

And we have no doubt that the sincere prayers and positive energy that we are receiving from around the world are also doing their share.

Please, dear friends, do not think that saying a short prayer or sending us an e-mail or a Facebook comment is in vain. Today while we sat in chemo, we were fully aware that we were not alone — not by a long shot.

Many, many wonderful things that are against the odds have happened. The very nation in which we make our home is a place that survives and thrives against the odds.

Now I wish I could be this positive all the time. But let me be honest, I can’t.

So if I ever look like I need to be reminded of my very own words, feel free to do so.

There’s lots more to say.

Just not now.

Liela Tov, Goodnight.

Yarden and Stella

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