Two candles, starting at equal length. One candle is still alive, the other barely, almost extinct but not. It is the last spark that goes out, at times with a sliver of dusk and no more, that captures my imagination as much as the glory of the lights of two candles symbolizing Shabbat. The candles are like a married couple, a man and a woman, the essence of life.
The candles symbolize the holiness of the Shabbat. They are holy since they capture our heritage, hopes and innermost wishes. They signify all of Judaism in one act of separating from the six days of work to a day of rest.
Harry
Each of four patients at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, a Los Angeles hospital that has the Star of David on either side of its towering buildings, is in what for insurance purposes is called a “semi-private room” (in effect, a private room with a restroom and a shower). The four rooms create an island, with a nurse / aid station (with the best, and probably most expensive, office chairs in existence – I have one like them at the office, a present from my brother). In addition, each floor has several main nurses stations.
On one side of the island is Harry’s room. I know Harry as Tsvi. Harry was born on 8.8.1909. He is 100 shy three months. In the room opposite is a Chinese man, about 98, with a non-stop stream of visitors. There is someone in his room at all times. I find it extraordinary: Are Chinese people such devoted family members too? In the third room is a 99 year old, and I do not know who is in the fourth. I feel that Biblical times are here again, almost four hundred years among four patients in one island of one department of one hospital.
There was an angel, whose name I do not know. I probably will not be able to recognize her if I saw her again. She was a fill-in, a sub of sorts, working at different departments of the hospital. She came into the room and made Harry sit down.
Just the idea was almost outrageous, the results amazing. He became a different person, assuming his old self. After three (or was it four, five or six) weeks in bed, he forgot how to walk. His muscles would not hold the body any more. Sitting upright returned the dignity, brought him back to life.
The next day, Rosa came in, all smiling. She, too, is a “fill-in.” She made sure Harry was OK, took care of all his immediate needs, and she, too, assisted me in sitting him on the chair. Harry’s daughters, each a grandmother, were elated and talked about the 100 year birthday celebration. The doctor insisted it was time to release Harry, but Harry was afraid.
It was the third day when I encountered the nurse at the station. She was there before, and she was busy doing some paperwork all afternoon. I was afraid moving Harry from the bed to the chair on my own. Knowing what I wanted, she avoided me. Harry complained before of the horrible staff. This nurse, with the tag shouting RN in large, red letters, was the poster-nurse.
When I became insistent, she came with a chart and explained to me the doctor ordered for Harry to sit twice a day. He already did, there was no need for it any more. She was free to continue ignoring me and returned to her feeling-bossy and being busy-doing-nothing. What exemplary care! It is exactly the difference between those who are too important to do anything and those who are usually unrecognized but affect our lives out of the goodness of their hearts.
It was Harry who expected to sit. He was waiting for an hour sitting like a person, with a friend at his side. He was afraid of leaving the hospital, as if he knew the future: leaving the hospital would hasten his departure. It was entering into the hospital that achieved it.
Leon
Leon’s room is just next to the synagogue. He shows up every Saturday morning to complete a Minyan (the presence of ten men required for Jewish communal prayer). His wife would come wandering in, and he would tell her, “not now, we are davening.” The wife has a number engraved on her arm. She is first cousin of the late Yigal Yadin, a former Israeli Chief of Staff, politician and a famous archeologist.
Leon was born 4.20.1912. I was born five days and fifty four years later. Leon has an appreciation of the importance of Minyan that many do not understand today. Even if it were difficult, he would show up. Nothing mattered more: His presence was required.
Leon is at the hospital today. He fell and broke his hand and some ribs. Alert, hardly hearing and seeing even less, he has a clear message “I am OK, do not worry about me.” He even ate almost all on his own. He constantly complained about the horrible service – meatballs for breakfast instead of seven prunes! He needed someone to bring him his electric shaver. The nurse outside at the island was busy doing nothing. Every request was met with “yes, I will have someone do it.” The person can in the meantime pass out or pass away, she will eventually get around (if she remembers) to call someone else.
It is a pity. Walking outside one sees the banners, highlighting the 2,000 volunteers at Cedars, proudly putting the nursing staff on a pedestal. As long as you do not need to rely on one of them!
The End of Our Days
At the end of our days, time assumes a different dimension. Each hour is full of minutes, and each minute is a whole world. Light outside may mean morning or evening, the days get confused, so do the weeks. If the person is alert and able to hear, we can communicate, else we are there, sorrow filling us, just repeating what we said a few minutes ago. It is no longer the person we knew in yesteryears, and the love only deepens and grows, sprinkled with a deep hurt – of not letting go.
At the end of days we are often forgotten. Everyone will come to the funeral, dressed wonderfully. Eulogies will be said. Deli food will be served from huge trays. The person will be remembered from the perspective of a distant past. Grandchildren and children, cousins – first, second and third removed – will mingle and reminisce of years past, occasions, happenings. Each will take the shovel in turn and throw some dirt onto the coffin.
The son of my mother’s best friend, a very successful doctor, insists that his wife would go to Israel every so often to visit her mother. “Take the time now,” he tells her, “while your mother is still alive.” We should all listen and learn this lesson. We should all be so lucky to have such a son, a foresight and wisdom.
I know where he got this unique understanding – from home, from his father who passed away and his mother who remembers sitting with two others in an attic for two years while Jews were hunted, every suspicious movement reported, people murdered for no other reason than being Jewish. The appreciation of life now, at the present, has been embedded and engrained in those who have seen it taken away.
It is Mother’s Day today, and my mother refuses to “celebrate” it. For my mother, it is a special day every day, not only once a year. On the holiest day of the year for Jews, the Day of Atonement, my mother says the same: We should try to be good human beings every day of the year, not wait for one day of fasting and repentance and then resume our normal behavior the following day.
So go visit your parents or grandparents. Call to say hello. Suspend for a very short while your own very busy schedule, you will benefit immensely, and you will make someone else – a friend, a family member, sometimes a complete stranger – happy and grateful for not being forgotten.
