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Jewfro
Borrowed Time:
Chicago Hope
M

y brother-in-law 
Marc Rosenzweig 
was diagnosed with 
Stage 3 Hodgkin’
s Lymphoma in 
2012 and Stage 4 lung cancer 
in 2013. Borrowed Time is 
a storytelling 
project about his 
journey to the 
present as told to 
me by him.

MARCH 18, 2017
I’
m standing in 
a small, dark 
room. I could not be more 
relieved.
First, just being upright 
feels like an act of defiance. 
I’
ve spent so much of the last 
six months lying on my back. 
Last year, the doctors at the 
University of Michigan tumor 
board wouldn’
t approve brain 
surgery because they thought 
it would leave me paralyzed. 
Turns out, they were only half 
right. 
My new doctors at 
Karmanos Cancer Center 
removed the tumor from my 
brain in October, and what did 
I have to show for it? Twenty-
six staples running the length 
of my skull, immobility on 
the left side of my body, 6,300 
songs in my iTunes library and 
plenty of time to listen to them 
in my childhood bedroom. 
Actually, the bedroom my 
brother and I shared 30 years 
ago now has an Airdyne bike 
and sewing machine. The 
cork-lined wall is gone, along 
with the Styx and Journey 
ticket stubs, the miraculous 
USA Hockey Sports Illustrated 
cover, the tasteful Farah 

Fawcett poster.
I moved into my sister’
s 
old room, which still has the 
state-of-the-art 1973 Nutone 
intercom built into the wall. 
It doesn’
t work anymore, so 
instead of my mom yelling 
into the mic (always yelling) 
for us to get up already and get 
to school, I’
d call my parents 
upstairs when I needed their 
help in the middle of the night. 
Or, if I was too hoarse to 
speak, text with my good hand.
What’
s that you say, iTunes 
shuffle play? I should take 
a road trip? Seems totally 
rational to usher in spring with 
a road trip. That would be the 
perfect way to trade the well-
wishers and worriers at home 
for the freedom of the open 
road.
Back in November, I was 
dying. Chemotherapy had 
become too toxic. The next 
best option was to wait for 
a phase II clinical trial for a 
cancer inhibitor that might 
keep the irrepressible cancer 
cells from congregating into 
another tumor. 
Once I was admitted to a 
drug trial in January and my 
fevers subsided in February, I 
didn’
t feel like I was dying. But 
I definitely didn’
t feel like I was 
living either. 
Plus, I had a ’
99 Corvette 
convertible parked 20 feet 
from my bed. All winter, my 
dad had been starting the car 
regularly to make sure it would 
run when I was cleared to 
drive. He was less confident in 
my ability to take it to Chicago 
and then Colorado, Phoenix 
and California.

The mechanic that I spoke 
to admired my ’
Vette — and 
my drive — but expressed 
doubt about putting on a hitch 
to pull a wheelchair across the 
country.
If the roundabouts on 
Orchard Lake Road were any 
indication, 5,000 miles started 
to seem ambitious, even with 
designated drivers who had 
offered (or been offered) 
to drive and house me for 
different legs of the trip.
But I couldn’
t get Chicago 
out of my head. The city, not 
the band. My son Sammy is a 
sophomore studying graphic 
design at Columbia College. I 
suggested that we go to the Art 
Institute, and he told me he’
s 
been there “a number of times.” 
I had an old friend in Glencoe 
and a sense that Whitesnake 
was singing about me.

Here I go again on my own
Goin’
 down the only road I’
ve 
ever known
Like a drifter, I was born to 
walk alone
And I’
ve made up my mind
I ain’
t wasting no more time.

So I’
m relieved to be upright. 
I’
m relieved to be in this unlit, 
unfamiliar room in Sammy’
s 
South Loop apartment. 
Relieved for my time on the 
road, might as well have been a 
dog with his head stuck out the 

window. I didn’
t even mind the 
looks I’
d get — first indignant, 
then pitying — when I parked 
my fast car in a handicapped 
spot and then slowly hobbled 
out, as if the heavy plastic boot 
on my foot explained both.
I didn’
t bring a wheelchair, 
but there was a hitch ... my 
bladder hasn’
t been the same 
since chemo.
From the suburbs, I had 
realized I was going to be 
cutting it close. I put my faith 
in Waze, braced myself for 
Chicago traffic and made sure 
Sammy had the garage door 
open so I could zip up the 
circular ramp.
 I’
m relieved to be relieving 
myself. Even if I didn’
t make 
it down the hall to Sammy’
s 
bathroom. I had to go. I went. 
I took no pleasure in the warm 
sensation of wetting myself 
and whatever I was standing 
on, but I feel no shame. ’
Cause 
I know what it means ... to 
walk along the lonely street of 
dreams.
“Sammy, I need to borrow a 
change of clothes. Where are 
your pants?”
“You’
re standing on 
them.” 

You can read more reports about 

Marc’
s life, heroically recounted and 

humbly submitted, beginning next 

month at thejewishnews.com.

 OCTOBER 15 • 2020 | 5

Ben Falik

The top of Marc’
s head in 
October 2016 after surgery 
to remove a brain tumor; 
and Marc in March 2017 in 
Chicago with son Sammy

BEN FALIK

