Today I am offering 2 voices, one telling of horrific realities, the other an assertion of hope. I begin with recent FB posts from Rabbi Kara Tav, a deep and precious soul. Kara is a chaplain and the manager of spiritual care at N.Y.U. Langone Brooklyn. (See recent NY Times article about her and other chaplains, “The Men and Women Who Run Toward the Dying.”)
April 6. Every morning now we split up the list of deceased to make condolence calls to families. Every day the Palliative team gives me certain patients whose families need a check in. Everyone is grateful for the call. Even the angry, exasperated ones. And everyone cries. Today I called the 18 year old daughter of a deceased 41 year old man. She was about to drive to Manhattan to her mom’s house so that she could tell her sister. Her sister is 4. I talk her through how to speak of death with a 4 year old and what not to say (daddy is not sleeping). What to expect, how to keep it honest and keep it concrete (his heart doesn’t pump anymore, his eyes don't see, etc.). She became the adult in the family overnight. Funerals and money, and oh, that poor thing.
Call #2 A Jewish woman whose husband is in hospital. She begs me to daven for him. She has been bargaining with God, she confesses. Whatever God wants, she'll do. She's never spent a single night apart from him in 30 years. 30 YEARS!! "Such a tzadik, learned, generous.. .he’s the manager of a nice kosher grocery. How could this be happening"?? She begged me to tell her he was doing better (I cannot) she begged me to tell her he'll be home for Pesach (I cannot). I know this illness sometimes tricks doctors. It looks like patients turn a corner, and then they suddenly die. I promise her that prayers help. I promise we'll do everything we can. Zei gezunt, I say and when I put down the phone I cry…
These two vignettes were the first half hour of my day. What if I told you it only got worse?
אשע עיני אל ההרים מעיין יבא עזרי? My eyes look up to the mountains, from where will my salvation come?
April 16. It was a full day. There was normal administration to do - notes to write up, follow up calls, the diocese dilemma continues, the palliative care roster to review, etc.
My team and I continue to absorb the environmental pain, fear and despair. The humor around is darker, the skins are thicker, the fuses are shorter. At least it's not silent any more. I guess we're growing accustomed to this new normal. I notice they're discharging geriatric Covid+ patients back to their nursing homes... I learned that the homes are setting up communal rooms for them, to stave off loneliness and delirium.
Besides my administrative duties, I cared for 10 different patient families by phone today, 3 Catholics, 2 Jews, 1 Greek Orthodox, 1 Muslim (Bengali), 2 Christians and 1 "no religion." Each story was heartbreaking and complex… I gently use expressions which are starting to feel natural like: "I cannot imagine what these conversations must be like when you are so close to hearing of the end of your father's life".
I heard desperate messages from around the hospital today: from the geriatric unit "We have some beds open, that has to be a good sign, right"? From the EMTs: "We are getting more calls than ever, but people are gone when we arrive. People are afraid to go to hospital. They know they'll die alone there." From the palliative team: "This is happening in waves and we had only 10 deaths overnight - we must be on a hiatus. It reminds me of the early days of A.I.D.S.".
And so another evening rolls in, I'm getting used to the routine - handing things over, piece by piece by the door. Kobi [husband] wipes each one down and sets aside: glasses, mask, shoe, shoe, phone, phone, wallet, badge, watch - until it's just me, my scrubs, my socks and my hair elastic. I'll go into a scalding hot shower. Kobi will wash my clothes in the tub later (now who's the hero?!).
Rabbi Amy Perlin, a beloved friend and the first female rabbi in America to start her own congregation, writes today about Comfort in Continuity:
Nothing is normal now.
Parents are teachers and teachers are home.
Some are able to work remotely,
and for others the possibility of work is remote.
Human touch and contact are discouraged, even as
human yearning for connection fuels the courage of the distanced.
And those who are essential sacrifice their lives to save lives,
as we redefine priorities and prioritize that which is a necessity.
And so, I open to this week’s Torah portion to prepare for Shabbat Shemini,
as I have done for decades, and find that it is still there.
Moses and Aaron; sacrifices both animal and human;
Once again,
I struggle to find meaning in the death of Aaron’s sons,
even as I embrace his silence.
The weekly order of Torah continues,
immutable in a plague and pandemic.
Here in Leviticus, the biblical saga continues to unfold.
It doesn’t stop, because we have stopped.
And that is a comfort to me now.
Now, rather than struggle to find meaning in the words,
as I have for what feels like an eternity,
I find solace in the fact that they are still here for me to struggle with,
and that the weekly portion we all share is still there for us to share.
We may be socially distant from the Torah scroll itself,
unable to kiss or touch it in person,
but the words are there on the page before us –
Eternal, Enduring, Everlasting.
And I find comfort
in this ceaseless cycle of readings –
They give order to the current chaos of my life
and structure and direction as I drift from day to day.
This week in our haftarah from Second Samuel,
King David dances before the holy ark,
as he brings it to Jerusalem.
We can feel the mixture of his holy joy as a Jew and
the sting of the criticism he faces as leader of the Israelites.
And I realize that I don’t have to find a message in the words,
At this time, their existence is a haven,
And their coming this week, reliable and unfailing,
is all I need right now.
I find comfort in the continuity of Leviticus on this spring morning,
as the trees begin to bud green,
and the daffodils break through the still chill earth.
Vayikra, Tzav, Shemini…
And next week the big two:
Tazria-Metzora, filled with its assorted diseases,
will most certainly follow.
I find comfort in the continuity,
as Shabbat is coming.
And right now, that is enough.
Do you know essential workers like Kara? How can you be of help to them? Do you know any of those who’ve been infected, or are the most vulnerable? How can you be of help to them?
This is a very difficult time for all of us, some of us struggling to just get through the day, What are the needs of the people you are closest to? How can you be of help to them? What challenges are you having to surmount to get through your day?
Amy finds comfort in cherished traditions, in the regularity of Torah reading and Shabbat. Where do you find comfort?
Good Shabbos, stay safe and find peace in the day.