Mitzvot, Marrow and More

I have been on one of these wonderful gurneys that take you to cold operating rooms before, but this time things are different. I lay here now not fearing the worst and not dreading any horrific outcomes. I don’t sense that hollow empty loneliness you have when you are being wheeled into surgery either. I’m feeling strong and somewhat heroic. I am a bone marrow donor.
This is how it began. Six years ago in Pittsburgh the community organized a bone marrow registration drive for Jay Fineberg. I was one of the organizers. I didn’t have much of a choice but to register. In the back of my mind, way back, I wrestled momentarily with the far out possibility of actually being a match. It wasn’t a long wrestling bout – “Rivy,” I told myself, “register, you’ll never be a match and if you are – we’ll deal with it then.” Gone and forgotten.
But here begins some little piece of irony. We are not settled in Seattle a month, and we are told that Jay Fineberg himself is in town. A match has been found. Something seems to be following me across the continent.
We stop by the hospital and visit briefly with Jay’s father. He says something that stays with me. He tells us that it is especially difficult to find matches for Jews because of the Shoah. The murder of six million Jews has had a profound effect on our gene pools – here’s a-not-so-subtle aftermath of the Holocaust that had never occurred to me; more evidence that Hitler’s killing just keeps on killing. We leave the hospital and I honestly don’t think much more about bone marrow, matches or donors.
Fast forward six years. It is December ’98 and I am going through a neglected pile of mail that has typically amassed on my desk. I open a rather plain looking envelope from the blood bank in Pittsburgh – assuming that it will be a holiday request for funds, I scan the letter quickly. I am surprised to read that I have been identified as a possible bone marrow donor. The letter politely asks me to call for more information. I immediately call Pittsburgh and I am prepared to leave a message on this Sunday morning, but instead a voice answers. We talk for a while. There is an individual who has leukemia and is in need of a bone marrow transplant – I am one of the potential matches, would I consent to being tested further?
After allowing several vials of blood to be collected at the Puget Sound Blood Bank I again relegate this to the back of my mind. Anyone I tell about this seems to have also been tested – but never been matched. No big deal they tell me. Truthfully? I had a feeling that this would not be the case for me. I had a feeling that I would be the match. I don’t know why – but I had this feeling.
Six weeks later – oddly on the one day that I actually remembered that - gee I haven’t heard back yet have I? - the call comes. You are the best match. Would you consider becoming a bone marrow donor?
Is there any other answer to this question? For me no. It’s one of those choices that really isn’t a choice. They are the very Jewish, kind of choices. They usually go something like this - If you want to live then do such and such…if not, not. No real choice.
There are interviews, blood samples, physical exams and more blood samples. People are impressed with my decision, I am not. True, it is a sacrifice, but in the great scheme of things a small one. The date is set. I begin to feel like I am eating for two. My life is a bit more precious now. I fasten my seat belt and look several times before crossing the street. I try to eat well, even press myself to include more chocolate in my diet – this is the extent of my self-sacrifice!
I wonder about this person, their family, their life. I am naturally curious. On one hand the temptation to become familiar is powerful. But the elegance of anonymity is purer. I recall the levels of tzedaka outlined by Maimonides. The value of anonymous giving is the protection it offers both parties. The recipient does not become beholden and the donor cannot become arrogant. But it does not stop me from thinking about them, usually moments before falling asleep at night.
As the day approaches heroes begin to grow around me. The best husband in the world becomes even greater and understanding. Bosses and coworkers offer to pick up the slack and even the kids are being more cooperative than normal. And finally, good friends reassure me that neither I nor my family will go hungry. People are so good, kind and generous. As I prepare for the procedure I include their gifts in my mind - I may be the actual donor but my gift rests on the shoulders of their kindnesses, they too have a share in this offering.
The day approaches and a friend says something to me that I myself have said many times to others – but this time it really strikes a chord. I begin to tear up. She says, “tizkee l’mitzvot”.
It is a traditional response to a mitsvah. For example if we are collecting tzedaka and someone gives us some coins we say “Tizkeh L’mitzvot. You should merit to do mitzvot. We don’t say thank you – that doesn’t quite fit. How can a fellow human thank another human for the performance of a mitsvah? Instead we give a bracha, a blessing – Tizkeh L’mitvot, you should be worthy to do mitzvot.
I am really struck by this blessing. It makes me think. I am eternally grateful. I do not know why, but I have been given the merit to do this mitsvah, to help another person to live. That it is a merit, to do a mitsvah, to deserve to do a mitsvah is a wild concept really. I begin to think and to extend. Is it not true that God Almighty in his infinite wisdom has had mercy on us and decided that we all deserve to do mitzvot, that we the Jewish people deserve the privilege of 613 commandments. We have merited the gift of shabbat and of kashrut and of course this mitsvah, the greatest of all, to save a life. Tizkeh L’mitzvot.
Day of. I have brought a siddur with me to the hospital. I am not by nature a very pious or sentimental person, irreverence is my usual tenor of choice. But, moments before I am wheeled into the surgery room I quickly recite a prayer which I have found and slightly modified. Here is an English version of it:

Master of all worlds. In the time of the Holy Temple a person would sin and would offer a sacrifice. The fat and the blood would be offered on the altar. And You in your great mercy would forgive the person. Now that I am offering this sacrifice and my blood and my bone is being lessened, let it be thy will that this diminution that I am offering today be as if I have offered it to you on the holy altar and that you will be pleased by this sacrifice and grant to me and my family life.

As I am wheeled in I am buoyed by the prayers and the misheberechs being said for me around this town and around the world in schools and in shuls. The experience turns out to have some surprises. But temporary physical pain is just that and spite of some of the messy stuff I would do it again. I donated the bone marrow to save a life and that is what we are expected to do.
A friend and neighbor who is studying in Israel for the year e-mailed his parents a very thoughtful D’var Torah for the shabbat of my recuperation. In short he wrote something like this. Based on the verses in the parsha about saving a fellow Jew from becoming impoverished; he makes the point that to help a fellow Jew one must be willing themselves to suffer along with the person they are helping. Well, this I know to be true. Thanks to all who helped us perform this mitsvah.