The Pain Factor

I have a unique point of view on the High Holidays this year. I am viewing everything through the haze of pain. A little more than a week ago I broke 5 ribs in a mountain bike crash. As anyone who has broken ribs will tell you, it's tremendously painful. Even now, post-crash, I can hiccough, burp, reach too far with my arm, twist in my seat or any number of other seemingly innocuous actions and be in agony.

Rosh Hashanah services are a social affair. I am almost universally known in my community -- I held a position of leadership for 5 years and I interacted with every subgroup of the synagogue.

Pain tends to make one anti-social, however. I had no interest in the traditional Rosh Hashanah hug -- especially a surprise hug or a friendly arm around the shoulder. So I wore a sling, which I don't really need, but I figured I needed the visual signal: Don't Touch Me.

Unfortunately, the sling also sends another message: I'm Hurt and You Need to Know What Happened. I tried to keep the explanation short and sweet every time. Broke some ribs mountain biking. Yup, it hurts a lot. Oh, about 4-6 weeks. Yes, definitely, good drugs.

And since the time for conversation during and around services is limited, the above interaction was 90% of my social interaction for the day. I had very little time to catch up on what my friends were doing, and I found myself the constant object of sympathy, which I would have expected to enjoy more than I did. Who doesn't want to be fussed over?

Me.

Being fussed over is like receiving a constant stream of compliments. It's nice for a while, but responding to each and every instance is exhausting.

I was also distracted by pain during the service. My attention wandered to the physical rather than the spiritual. My chair had no arm rests, so balancing myself while standing and sitting was difficult and painful. The sitting and standing itself had its own complications, and eventually I found a place in the back to stand. Sitting pushes the rib cage down into the abdomen. Owwie.

Half of the prayers flew by me. Partially because I was in pain, but also because I was not able to participate in the singing and reciting of the prayers. There just wasn't enough breath available. Listening to prayer is not the same as praying.

Pain also makes you grumpy. My patience with the rabbi's 45-minute sermon was nil. When my children dragged their feet about leaving, neither of them wanting to part with friends, I was snappish. In short, I didn't feel very spiritual at all.

The irony of Rosh Hashanah is that it is all about renewal and second chances, but there is only one chance per year to be part of the kehilah, the community that only comes together for High Holidays. I feel as if I was distracted and absent.

Most of all, I am saddened by the missed opportunity I had to share with my community. I was originally slated to speak from the bimah today about the Akedah, the Near-Sacrifice of Isaac by his father, Abraham. I have been thinking about it for weeks and working through idea after idea. After all, it's quite possibly the most-discussed story in all of Judaism, and it's so important that we read it every year on Rosh Hashanah. I was excited to write it (made impossible by the drugs) and deliver it (made impossible by the lack of stamina and breath). I miss being a teacher, and this was a way back in. Perhaps I will post it here. It is still asking to be written.

So I am poised to move on through the 10 Days of Awe to Yom Kippur in a continuing haze, one which I can only hope will lift occasionally. I am at once too distracted to partake in self-reflection and so isolated and alone that self-reflection is the only option some days.