A Place of Pain and Miracles (Notes from a Sunday at Hadassah)

 

Every Sunday my husband has to have his treatment at Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital in Jerusalem. Although it is not a merry occasion, I have to say I enjoy travelling to Jerusalem. Yes, I know, shame on me. But just hear me out and you’ll understand and even agree with me.

First. The road. The feeling that with every kilometer traveled I get closer to the city I love with all my heart and soul. When I see the Jerusalem’s hills my heart skips a beat… Then, as we get near I see the hospital and above it, the golden domes of the Russian orthodox church.

At the hospital entrance, the security guards always have a smile for you.

People from all layers of society mingle in the huge entrance hall.

A tall old man stooped over a piano plays soulfully. Somebody is recording him. A group of young men are surrounding another young man with an amputated leg. Friends? Family? They are talking all at once and laughing together.

Haredi men in their black suits, white shirts, and black hats.

Jewish women. Two dressed from head to toe in black garbs, only their eyes showing. What sect are they, I ask my husband. Lev Tahor? Maybe, he shrugs. A secular woman wearing a miniskirt. A religious woman reading from a prayer book.

Two white nuns in white habits, waiting their turn in reception.

People getting in and coming out from elevators, talking in French, English, Yiddish, Russian, Hebrew. Me and my husband, in Romanian.

Arab women, young and old, patients and workers, doctors and nurses. Young and old. Traditional and secular. Arab men, Bedouins dressed in their traditional clothes, with white keffiyehs held on their head with thick black cords – agals.

A hospital - especially its oncology section - is a sad place to be. And yet, somehow, a hopeful one, too. A quiet place for people to come and be healed.

Shevael. I liked the name of the nurse who administered my husband’s treatment.

Among machines that make annoying noises, and medicine and drawers filled with stuff I don’t know and scary medical equipment, she has a warm smile and a kind word for everyone. She knows that people that come to her are scared, terrified. So she assured them with a smile. That there are in good hands and not to worry. God willing, everything would be all right.

After I leave this place of pain and suffering and miracles, I feel hopeful for us, as individuals and as communities as well. Until Shevael has a smile for everyone, we’re good.