A View From My Hospital Bed Dear friends, I am writing this letter from Hadassahs orthopedic department, room eight. It is a fairly large room with windows that face greater Mount Scopus. My roommates are as varied as the Eastern Jerusalem scenery that I face. One is a nun in her seventies. She was born in Barcelona, and entered the convent near the Mammilla mall as a young woman. She is a kindergarten teacher; her charges are unwanted children of both the Christian and Muslim communities to whom she is totally dedicated. Interestingly, she didnt spend many hours at prayer; she made due with about fifteen minutes worth of devotions, spending the rest of her time recovering from her surgery, and entertaining the nuns who came to visit her throughout the day. Some of them were familiar faces. I had met them at the hospice where my friend Marcie Alter (who many of you know through these letters) has been living for the past six years. Sister Martalla was accompanied by her assistant, a young Muslim woman named Sabrina who has been with her for the last fourteen years. It took only a few minutes to discover (using my bad Arabic and her somewhat better English) that she lives in Ras al Amud, not far from Jabel Mukaber the nest of some of the worst terror organizations, including the one responsible for the killings in Har Nof. She is one of the most apolitical people I ever met. Although she must be in her late thirties, her interests were those of most American teenagers-clothes socializing and fun. In the melting pot of Hadassah nothing seemed discordant about our sharing time and experiences. My other roommate was a devout Muslim woman, who spent hours praying out loud to the tune of what those of you who went to Neve recall from the 4am muezzin that we all hear in Northern Har Nof. What bound us together was the unspoken sisterhood of having met Dr. Mattan, the orthopedic surgeon who we all got to know…. My own acquaintance with Dr. M. began on Motzei Shabbos. I was at the Leonardo-Plaza for a Shabbaton. My youth, high energy, and beauty must have deceived the organizer into thinking that the perfect room for me would be the one with a view of the Old City on the 15th floor. There is a Shabbos elevator, but I wasnt sure whether it was meant for general usage or just for people who are elderly or disabled. I sent my daughter to ask the famous authority, Rav Neventzals son, to whom the elderly Rav often refers people. He told her that it is fine for someone of my age (again!!!) to use it, but if I wish to go the extra mile, I may feel free to do so. I saw this as a challenge (and a convenient escape from the reality of no longer being in what some euphemistically all, my first youth). It took me no time and little effort to climb to my floor. The next morning, when got up early and when I saw the splendor of Yerushalaim before me, it was all worth it. I left at about 8am for the Great Synagogue to hear the famous chazzan Chaim Adler who perform (no... thats not the right word…) on the Shabbos before Rosh Chodesh. I tripped on the concrete stairs via my slippers near the 14th floor. I guess I missed the Fountain of Youth this week. I spent about five distressing moments on the floor (with a pair of tourists and two eleven year old boys in their Shabbos suits stepping over me gingerly as though it is the most natural thing in the world to see a woman stretched out on the floor). A young man named Menachem Weiss stopped in his tracks. He offered his help with extreme care and courtesy. He went down to the desk, summoned help, walked back up and helped me into a chair. The emergency medicine squad soon appeared and recommended that I go to the hospital. Weiss had kindly gone to the synagogue and asked a religious American doctor to give his opinion as to what I should do. He agreed with the recommendation, and soon my daughter Chani and I were off to Shaarei Tzedek. This is where I had the first inkling of what I was meant to learn from the entire (mis)adventure. I was stationed in the Emergency Room corridor. The woman in the bed behind mine, Batya Maklis, was the no-hold-bar most positive person that I ever met. The staff, G-ds providence, meeting us, were all like gifts wrapped in beautiful packaging to her. All of the residual negativity that I felt faded, and I realized that meeting her was one of the most important things that had happened to me in a long time. After being examined, we consulted and were advised to transfer to Hadassah Har Tzofim. In case I didnt get the message straight, the ambulance driveron Motzei shabbos told us that Dr. Mattan was our man. He recommended a hip replacement, and the surgery was set for the next day, Sunday. By this time, I was feeling really well as long as I didnt move around. My second lesson was that you can think out of the box. I notified the people in England (where I had planned to speak on Monday when I ACTUALLY had the surgery…) and then asked the head nurse if I could do the shiur here. Yes. The nun, Muslim woman, and Sabrina were all pro. It was an unbelievable scene. The third (and thus far last) important lesson came via one of my visitors. Esther Pollard came by. I was so moved that she extended herself in this way. It would be so easy for her to create a world around the embitterment of living in a world that used her husband Jonathans information to destroy the Iraqi reactor and then turned against him. Instead I found myself facing a well-dressed, friendly woman who gave me a get-well teddy bear. There were other women who came who are the Whos Who of Torah Judaism. Lesson four- great people are humble. So Ill end off now by giving you a vision of the entire kaleidoscope- the nun and company watching me set up for the Torah shiur, The people like Batya Macklis and Ester Pollard who break the stereotypes, and finally the really chashuv rebbitzens who gave such wonderful lessons in humility. Most of all, thanking you for all of your tefillos, I remain, With love, Tziporah tziporahheller/
Posted on: Wed, 21 Jan 2015 10:36:23 +0000
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