If You Have Your Health, You Have Everything

After my third surgery this year, familiar words—and familiar prayers—became personal.

My parents used to say,
“If you have your health,
you have everything.”

I believed them.

But believing those words
and understanding them
are not quite the same.

After my third surgery this year,
I understand them differently.

Thank G-d,
I am not severely ill
or facing a life-threatening condition.

Still, there have been nights.

Shooting pain
that would not pause
or relent.

I tossed and turned,
trying to find a position
that did not hurt.

Sitting was uncomfortable.
Standing was painful.
Sleep stayed out of reach.

I wondered how long
the night would feel like this,
and when relief
would finally come.

On a scale of one to ten?

With a little dark humor,
I sometimes wondered
whether eleven
was an acceptable answer.

Oy geshmeria.

I would have preferred
to learn this lesson
over a cup of coffee.

On those nights,
I was not thinking
about another accomplishment.

Not a title.
Not an honor.
Not how much money
was in the bank.

Those things have their place.
I have worked for them, too.

But none could give me
what I wanted then:

A comfortable position.
A few hours of sleep.
Some relief.

My parents’ words
were no longer a saying.

They described
what I was missing.

After we go to the bathroom,
we say Asher Yatzar,
our blessing of gratitude
for the workings of the body.

How often have I said it
while already thinking
about something else?

Now I pause.

The body has done
what it is supposed to do.

An ordinary function.
An extraordinary reason
to give thanks.

I am beginning to notice
what I used to notice
only when something went wrong.

In the Shemoneh Esreh,
our daily standing prayer,
we ask Hashem for healing
three times a day.

Rofeh cholim.

Words I knew
before these surgeries.

Words I need differently now.

Please ease the pain.
Please restore my health.
Please give me patience
with recovery.

Some days,
I have more to say.

Other days,
“Hashem, please help”
is the whole prayer.

And the thanksgiving
of Birkat HaGomel
reminds me
to recognize His kindness, too.

Even as I ask
for further healing,
there are people caring,
checking in,
and helping.

I am still asking
to feel better.

I also have reasons
to say thank You.

Those difficult nights
have made me think
about people whose pain
does not end
with a period of recovery.

People facing
another treatment,
another medication,
another procedure.

People waiting to learn
whether something has worked,
or what their condition
will mean for their lives.

People whose days
have been upended
by illness, injury,
or disaster.

My experience is not theirs.

But I think about them now
with greater seriousness.

I better appreciate
how much effort it can take
to get through a day
and still answer, “I’m fine.”

And how hard it can be
to ask for help again,
worrying that you are asking
too much.

Needing care
does not make anyone a burden.

But the worry itself
deserves compassion.

I cannot explain
why suffering comes.

But I can ask
what I want to change
in my own life.

Where have I been impatient?
Whom have I been too busy
to call?

What apology
have I been preparing
to defend
instead of simply offering?

Turning toward Hashem
means bringing Him
these questions, too.

Asking for mercy.
Asking for healing.

And trying to correct
what I can.

To listen
without rushing to advise.

To offer help
instead of waiting
to be asked.

To give the people I love
my attention—
not only what remains
after everything else.

Illness does not diminish
the worth of a life.

But this year has taught me
the worth of good health.

I hear my parents now
with a deeper gratitude.

All the money,
titles, accomplishments,
and honors
cannot replace it.

So I pray
for restored health,
for relief from pain,
and for renewed strength.

For myself,
and for others
whose struggles
I may never fully know.

L’chaim.
To life.

La-bri’ut.
To health.

And when I feel better,
may I remember
what I understand today.