by Steve Lipman (Forest Hills, NY)
The most notable change in my life took place when I was briefly hospitalized a year ago. I had to undergo a two-day procedure to remove a large kidney stone, and my stay was extended when a CT Scan turned up what my physicians thought was an early sign of pneumonia. That was when I had to reconsider my Hebrew name.
My accustomed Hebrew name is Zerach ben Pinchas, the title by which I am called to the Torah for an aliyah. Pinchas was the assigned Hebrew name of my late father, who was raised in a very secular household in pre-war Germany, and was never given a Hebrew name. So, with a rabbi’s advice, I decided that his shem Ivri would be Pinchas, the peh aligning with the letter-P that began my father’s English (or, if you prefer, his German) name.
During my short stint in the hospital, many of my Jewish friends asked, “What is your Hebrew name?” They needed it for reciting a misheberach, a blessing for my health.
I had to think for a few seconds.
“Zerach ben Chanah.”
Chanah, of course, is my mother’s Hebrew name; a misheberach is said using a mother’s name, calling on G-d’s (maternal) trait of mercy.
Rarely ill, I could not remember the last time I identified myself as Zerach ben Chanah.
It was a slight change, but a stark reminder of the change (very temporary, I hoped) in my status. I was a choleh, a patient in need of a refuah.
Not only was it a shock to my system—people were praying for me—but I started to look differently at the divide between the healthy and the not-so-healthy.
For a few years I had served as a volunteer several days a week at the same hospital (Long Island Jewish Forest Hills), down the block from my apartment building. As a de facto Jewish chaplain, I would receive a printout of that day’s Jewish patients, and I would offer each person some company, some encouragement, some reading material, some prayers and some moral support. I also spoke with men and women of any faith in the same rooms, who were largely alone during long stretches interrupted only by visits of doctors and nurses.
As a volunteer, I was doing on a regular basis with strangers the type of Bikur Cholim visits that many people in the Jewish community do occasionally, usually with people whom they know.
I had no training as a chaplain; I operated only by common sense: What would boost my spirits if I were in their shoes … or in their hospital gowns?
After my time in the hospital, I knew.
I had seen the hospital experience from both sides as the person standing next to the bed and as the person lying in it.
The do’s and don’ts of Bikur Cholim are not automatic or instinctual. The brilliant “How NOT to Perform the Mitzvah of Bikur Cholim” video shows in a loving-but-humorous way how even well-meaning visitors can foul up.
I was not subjected, thank goodness, to the ham-handed comments that the video depicts. Hospitalized for such a short time, I experienced Bikur Cholim phone calls only from the few people whom I informed of my temporary status and venue, and all were uplifting. The only person to stop by was my neighborhood’s Chabad shaliach, Rabbi Eli Blokh, who thoughtfully brought a set of tefillin and some homemade vegetable soup. He knew perfectly how to behave in a hospital … with consideration but not condescension.
Some Bikur Cholim techniques are obvious. Some you learn on the job. Some, by being on the cholim side of Bikur Cholim.
LIJ is a teaching hospital; being there taught me a lot.
When I return to my rounds, I hope I will be a more sensitive volunteer, and can put into action some of the lessons that I learned as a patient.
The most important lesson I learned was that no matter how sympathetic I thought I had been while volunteering, no matter how empathetic I thought I had been, I realized that I had no clue about how it felt to be lying in a hospital bed, the object of someone’s altruistic outreach.
Only someone who has been there, if only for a few days, even if only for a minor infirmity, knows.
It’s like when I lost my father nearly two decades ago. Only people who had also gone through a father’s death could most effectively offer words and advice of consolation.
Now I understand that hospitalization for a diagnosis that may appear minor, such as mine, can feel major to the patient. Even “minor” surgery (my incision was barely an inch long) is still surgery.
I understand now, as well, that I should not take it personally when a patient is not particularly alert or attentive to my presence. You don’t get much sleep in a hospital, often awakened regularly during the night by monitors beeping, nurses doing their job, and people making the sounds of unwell people. And that’s not counting the after-effects of anesthesia or the residual soreness from a breathing tube that had been placed in the patient’s throat during an operation.
I understand that a patient is bombarded with well-intentioned questions by doctors and nurses about what ordinarily would be private information about one’s bodily functions. Asking “How are you feeling?” has an entirely different, generic meaning when posed by a layman, not by someone wielding a stethoscope or medical chart.
I understand that in the hospital you lose your privacy (health care professionals may walk in at any time), your modesty (your hospital’s gown, which opens at the back, has to be held while walking to literally cover your behind, and a drainage bag collecting urine is on full display), and your control over your life (your time is not your own).
I understand that your concern – even while masked – about contracting Covid or the flu or some other unpleasant pathogens in the hospital’s wards pales against what a patient may be facing.
I understand that the person may be in pain, even though he or she is not moaning.
I understand that it’s embarrassing to summon a nurse in the middle of the night when you have to go to the bathroom and the drip bag in your arm needs to be disconnected.
I understand that a simple gesture, like offering someone some reading material, or lending an ear to a nervous person needing to unburden himself or herself, or knowing when to leave and let a patient rest, carries benefits you can not imagine.
I understand that you hear “God bless you!” more often during a few hours doing your rounds than at any other time in your life.
These are lessons for which I did not enroll, but which I appreciate.
Now I’ll cautiously speak about life on the outside – even about something as innocuous as walking to the hospital.
Confined to a hospital room, you don’t get to breathe un-recycled fresh air. I didn’t realize this until I felt the chill of winter air in my lungs; it had never felt so good.
When my peak of health returns, I look forward one day to once again serving as a volunteer in the hospital that took good care of me.
I’ll return properly chastened about how to be a more effective volunteer.
And I look forward to being called Zerach ben Pinchas once again.
Steve Lipman was a staff writer for The New York Jewish Week from 1983 until 2020.
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