Joseph Levy Escapes Death. Rick Strassman
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Levy had written an especially uncharitable critique of a recently-published Bible commentary, of all things. The book was an English annotated translation of Abravanel’s (1437-1508) Genesis commentary. Don Isaac Abravanel was a Spanish royal advisor, rabbi, and philosopher. In his capacity as a financier in King Philip and Queen Isabella’s court, he arranged funding for Columbus’ first expedition to the New World. In his capacity as a Jewish exegete, he composed biblical commentaries that were staunch defenses of traditionalism. His enemies were the “modernists,” those who used traditionalist arguments to promote their iconoclastic agenda. Faced with such opposition, Abravanel laid out formal and meticulous arguments, making tightly-reasoned point after point in his Hebrew writings.
The author of the translation took liberties with Abravanel’s text, removed this or that section which he believed might not hold readers’ attention. Going even further to not to overtax contemporary Bible students, he used a breezy style and modern jargon, both of which detracted from and overpowered Abravanel’s message. Most Amazon reviewers shared Levy’s dim view of the new project.
For Levy, however, the truth was more complex. He resented the book because it revealed his own deficiency in Hebrew. He’s got a 150-year-old Russian edition of Abravanel’s Torah commentary in Hebrew on his bookshelf. It’s one of his library’s treasures. But he can’t read medieval Hebrew, not even modern. One day, he used to think, I’ll write just such an annotated translation of this beautiful book. But, he’s too late. He lost that race.
In Levy’s review, he wrote that the book’s style made him “grit my teeth.”
Aha! That’s it! Levy realizes. It’s “measure for measure.” Punishment reflects the misdeed. It’s like sexual indiscretions leading to diseases of the sexual organs, one of Levy’s favorite examples. Condemning the review with his teeth, Levy suffers through a tooth.
He revises his review and expresses remorse for the tone of the original. He tracks down and apologizes to the author, who is gracious. He agrees that some of Levy’s points are well-taken, while admitting to discomfort at the harsh tone. They exchange several respectful collegial emails and Levy feels forgiven. He’s repented according to the tradition and feels closure. He’s admitted his offense, expressed regret, made amends to the object of his hostility, and asked for forgiveness. The author had forgiven him. Would God? Now, will his tooth feel better?
In the shower that evening, he turns his face into the stream of water. He lays his hands over his eyes and face, looks upward, heavenward as the hot water pours over him. He feels a healing angel touch the tooth.
“Oh, God. Thank you for sending me a healing angel. Finally. My God. You really put me through it this time.” Tears mix with the water. Ground down tooth, gritting his teeth, apologizing. Karma. Reward and punishment.
The next morning, the tooth feels as bad as ever. He returns to McPherson’s office that afternoon. Another 300-mile round trip.
The x-ray shows no sign of infection, no abscess, but the tooth is swollen.
“I think you’ve got pulpitis,” the dentist opines.
Pulpitis. Levy’s never heard of it, but it sounds reasonable. The tooth’s pulp is inflamed and swollen, pressing on nerve fibers supplying the tooth, causing pain.
McPherson says, “I’d like to prescribe a short course of steroids. They’ll reduce the swelling and give the tooth a chance to heal. As long as it’s swollen, the blood supply is restricted.”
Levy has never taken steroids, drugs like prednisone. But his mother had. Many times, for recurrent pneumonia. High doses in the hospital for a few days to reduce lung swelling and inflammation. After returning home, she’d stay on a lower dose for several more months. Prednisone made her happy and easier to relate to. Levy could tell by her tone of voice over the phone what dose she was taking. More than 5 mg and she was chatty, slightly elated, and optimistic. Lower than 2.5 mg and she sounded dull, lethargic, and slightly depressed.
Levy says to McPherson, “Okay,” and adds, “Besides, I could use the mood elevation.”
The only complication is an upcoming trip to Santa Barbara. In 10 days, he’s flying to the West Coast to meet Karen, a woman he’s met on Match.com. A Chinese immigrant who teaches English for the government. They’ve been emailing and Skyping for several months and it was time to meet.
Dr. McPherson and Levy do the math.
McPherson concludes, “You’ll be off steroids for a couple of days before flying.”
If all goes well, the tooth will be good, his mood better than good, and a romantic rendezvous on track. The less optimistic scenario is beclouded. He simultaneously represses and denies any but a rosy outcome.
Levy picks up the “Medrol Dose-pak” at the Wheaton CVS. He recognizes “Medrol.” In solution form, it’s Solu-Medrol, a drug whose name he remembers from medical school. Neurosurgeons used it to reduce brain swelling after strokes or in brain cancer. Everyone—medical students, residents, and attendings—regarded it with fear and awe. It was the nuclear option, leading to bleeding stomach ulcers, psychosis, and malignant hypertension. And don’t forget otherworldly infections due to the drug’s devastating effects on immune function. As Levy recalls, only senior level medical staff could administer it. A chill runs up his spine.
He looks at the package. The initial days’ doses are massive. Then, they taper precipitously over the next week. Giving big doses quickly and getting out just as fast reduces the risk of shutting down your own adrenal production of steroids—another potential catastrophe.
Levy’s tired of the bad tooth, now into its second month. It’s time to feel normal, happy, and healthy again. Within a few days!
Feeling sickly, he takes the first dose. In a few hours, his mood rises; or rather, his mood accelerates and amplifies. It’s not happiness or euphoria, per se. More like a heavy coat of shiny paint over rusty metal.
For the next three days, his tooth hurts less. He eats more easily, but maybe not, as the drug suppresses his appetite. He feels strange, half in and half out of his body. He lowers his Tylenol intake but can’t stop it. The trip to Santa Barbara is approaching. As the steroid dose descends rapidly, Levy’s anxiety rises in equal proportion. Is it because of the steroid or because of its withdrawal? Or is it anticipation of flying to California to meet an internet date? There’s no way to tell.
The night before his planned departure, he meditates on his cushion for an hour, hoping to broaden and deepen his perspective. Instead, terror descends. How can he possibly travel in this condition? Should I cancel the trip? he wonders. I have an excuse, two excuses, maybe three. He writes in his journal, “Don’t go.” I’ll sleep on it, he finally decides.
He dreams. A horror cat sinks its claws into him, all four paws. It attaches itself to one of his hands, the right one. The cat isn’t moving nor letting go, just attached. It hurts, but not more than he thinks it should. After he awakens, he considers how he would have dislodged it. He’d