Summer Sparks
A TRUE STORY AS TOLD TO ESTY STEINMETZ
Who is wise? He who learns from every person. Pirkei Avos 4, 1
The emergency room was even busier than usual that night. The little girl I was examining was pale and shivered uncontrollably. Her parents reported that she couldn’t keep any food or liquid down.
I nodded. “Probably dehydration,” I explained to the concerned parents. “I’ll just hook her up to IV fluids and the doctor will be here shortly to talk with you.”
I wearily made my rounds to the next room, where a lanky teenager had a deep gash above his right eye.
I efficiently disinfected the wound before checking on my next patient, a thiry-two year old patient complaining of chest pain and shortness of breath.
I checked his heart rate and saturation level. The former was a little high, but the saturation was at 97. I assured him that a doctor would be in shortly.
Before continuing on, I glanced at my watch - it was close to 1:00 AM. That meant I had been working uninterrupted for almost five hours, save for a hurriedly downed cup of water on my way to page the doctor.
Everything seemed calm momentarily, so I quickly made my way to the nurse’s station for a quick coffee. I had just added a heaping spoonful of sugar to my coffee when my buzzer blared.
An emergency in room 9. An accident victim. I left the coffee on the table and ran, the tantalizing aroma wafting temptingly after me.
It turned out the patient had a concussion and some minor bone fractures. I hooked him up to IV and put in the order for x-rays. After seeing that the patient was calm and settling down to sleep, I returned to the nurse’s room for my patiently-waiting cup of coffee. I was not waiting so patiently. I longed for that shot of caffeine to clear my head after my long, tiring night. After that I would be ready for whatever the next few hours would bring.
When I got to the room, massaging my aching temples, the coffee was cold.
I spilled it and reached to make another one, when my buzzer startled me. Another emergency call. It seemed it was just not destined for me have a coffee tonight.
The call sounded serious - a middle-aged woman with a history of liver disease was hemorrhaging.
I put my weariness aside and all thoughts of a break out
of my mind as I hurried to room 23.
Every second was vital, so I barely had a chance to glance at her, but when I reached to attach a line to her arm, I noticed that every inch was covered in tattoos. No matter. I continued doing what I had to do to save her life. In the ER, we treat everyone equally - even patients who yell anti-semitic slogans while I prick their arms.
Fortunately, with the help of two doctors and an intern, we succeeded in stabilizing her, though her condition seemed dismal. I removed my gloves and checked on the patient one more time. She was sleeping, her chest rising and falling steadily. I decided to try for a coffee again.
This time I was lucky, and I managed to sip my coffee unhurriedly, grab a danish from the chessed room, and rest my aching feet for a few moments.
Energy restored, I made the rounds again. I checked the IV drip in the toddler’s room, and noted she was sleeping peacefully, roses blossoming in her previously sunken cheeks. Her parents were also dozing, so I went to the next room.
The boy with the gash had been discharged, and the patient with the chest pain was momentarily not in the room, having finally been taken for a CT scan.
The accident victim seemed to be in pain, so I put in a request for the doctor to approve more morphine and promised to be back soon.
When I reached the room of the woman with tattoos, I was surprised to see that her eyes were open.
Her hair was a washed-out blonde, streaked with orange highlights. Her face was translucent. And wherever I saw skin, I saw tattoos. I glanced at the name at the side of the bed: Marilyn Evanson.
“Hello Marilyn, how are you feeling?” I asked gently. She didn’t answer, just looked around blankly. Her face was impassive. I wondered if she didn’t realize the condition she was in, or she simply didn’t care.
“Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” I tried again.
“Du bist a yid,” (you are a Jew) she said suddenly, so quietly that I was sure I had heard wrong. My heart rate accelerated, and my hands became clammy.
“What did you say?” I asked shakily.
“Du bist a yid,” she repeated, stronger this time. “You are a Yid. I am also a Yid.”
And as I stared in shock and stupefaction, the tears started rolling down her previously blank, impassive face.
“I know I’m not going to live for much longer. I’m a sick woman. I have no children, no family, no nothing,” she choked out between wrenching sobs.
I stood uncertainly, with tears forming in my eyes as well. I gleaned at the screen; her vitals were steady but weak.
“Marilyn, there’s still hope,” I tried to reassure her. “You can still recover.”
She continued speaking as if I hadn’t spoken. I realized that she was lost in her own world of memories.
“Why did I abandon Yiddishkeit?” She moaned. Her words were soft, reproachful, and laced with so much guilt and torment that I felt my heart shattering into pieces.
“Why did I forget about the Ribono shel olam? Why, why, why?”
I stood there transfixed, tears rolling down my face as well.
“Now it’s too late for me,” she continued in an agonizing whisper.
And then she looked up, eyes bright in her pale face.
“You are a Yid,” she exclaimed again, in wonder and awe. “Can you give me a hug?”
Her tone was plaintive and oh-so hopeful. I battled for a moment - ER nurses know never to get emotionally attached to patients. But this was a dying Jewish woman, who wanted a connection with a frum Jew in her final days. How could I deny her that?
With quick strides I crossed over to bed and leaned down to the frail, tattoo-covered woman in the bed. I wrapped my arms around her for a long moment and she cried into my shoulders.
Then I gently disentangled myself. “Marilyn, stay strong,” I whispered. “I have to go to my other patients, but I’ll be back.”
I left the room and, but contrary to what I told her, I didn’t go to the other rooms; instead, I found a quiet corner to mourn Marilyn. She was probably Miriam once, a frum, happy young girl with a future. And now… she was an empty, pitiful shell. When all my tears were spent I quickly dried my face and transported myself back to the bustling ER.
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Duty was calling. In the ER, there was no time for luxuries like tears. During my shift the next night, I visited Marilyn again. She was having trouble breathing and was attached to more machines than the previous day.
I showed her the kosher food I had brought her from the chessed room and her eyes lit up.
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When I came next, Marilyn was not in her usual room in the ER - she had been transferred to hospice.
I knew from the doctors that Marilyn was not expected to survive for long. There was nothing much that could be done for her sick, ravaged body.
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I continued bringing her little treats and gifts every time I came, infusing her with a little bit of hope.
Every time I visited, her eyes would light up, and she would smile a melancholy smile.
Once, after my shift was over, I offered to say Shema with her. She nodded softly, eyes filling up with tears. I said the words slowly, one by one, and she clearly and fluently enunciated every word after me, as if she had been saying the timeless words for the past 40 years. As if the 40 years of disconnect had never happened.
The room was silent for a charged moment when we finished. I held her hand, squeezed tight.
“I’m sure our Father up above is very proud of you now,” I whispered through the lump in my throat.
She smiled peacefully, eyes clear and full of light. “Now I can die in peace,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
I embraced her again, feeling the frailty of her physical body and yet drawing strength from her courageous spirit.
Marilyn was so grateful for everything I did and every little gift I brought, so appreciative of the time we spent together. I felt so lucky that I had this opportunity to sweeten Marilyn’s final days.
A few days later, when I came for my shift, Marilyn’s room was empty.
“Last night she went into distress and her systems started shutting down.” The doctor explained. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Marilyn is not alive anymore.”
I nodded stoically, but when I was alone in the room, the tears came. Teras for myself, for Marilyn’s suffering in her final moments, tears of regret that I hadn’t been there with her at that auspicious time.
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And then, as I started to come to terms with events, cleansing tears, for Marilyn was no longer suffering, no longer at battle. Marilyn’s neshama was finally at peace.
Marilyn was gone.
But the lesson she taught me about the power of a Yiddishe neshama, about the
that can never be extinguished, lives on.
•
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