Celebrating Shabbat in a Post-Surgery Rehab: An Apparition or a Kindness?

He stands there, all calm, watching me as I lay in bed, staring at the black letters dancing across a dry erase board in front of me. He’s a nice-looking man in his late 30s, I guess, with a ginger, paddle-shaped kinked beard somewhere beneath his small lips. His glasses are Clark Kent-ish in their simplicity and familiarity and he’s got a burnished ginger halo-cut hair style. Everything about him reads approachable and trustworthy.

His first words are simple: “How are you feeling today? I stopped by to see if I could help you with anything. I know you’ve only been here a couple of days, but I thought it might be time to stop by.”

I believe I answer him by asking his name. “Eric,” he says.

“Hello, Eric. I’m Ronnie and I think I’m doing mostly fine. I’m a bit uncomfortable, but I’ll get used to it. Who let you in here?”

He responds, “I visit as many new guests as I can to welcome them and see if there’s any way I can help make them more comfortable or get them something to keep them busy. Small things. A courtesy really.”

“That’s very nice,” I reply. “I’m recovering from spine surgery, and I can’t navigate anything on my own yet. Look around; you’ll see my gait belt, wheelchair, walker, daily PT and OT schedules and that I’m only able to elevate by moving the bed itself, not me. Oh, and I have a brace tossed across the bed next to me. That’s mine also. I don’t have a roommate. At least not yet. Thanks for stopping by, but I think I’ll go back to sleep now.” I think I say all this. But maybe it’s an internal dialogue within myself.

He responds, “Of course. Before I go, I noticed all your lunch is still on your tray. Weren’t you hungry?”

I cough up an “ugh” and say, “The food is like cat food here. I won’t eat it. My friends and family bring me treats and meals. Besides, I don’t eat this type of food anyway. Every meal comes with some sort of sausage and milk. I just can’t eat that.” I thank him, but all but dismiss him as I return to pretend-reading the magazine my Hadassah friend dropped off, though it’s not Hadassah Magazine but another similar targeted missive.

Eric replies kindly that he understands and might stop by again when I’m not so tired. Would that be okay? I say, of course, nice meeting you and point to his way out – which, of course, he knows.

What I can’t understand is why he seems so corporeal, so human, so real and yet so phantom-like all at once. He’s not really there because I can’t touch him or see him walk away. He merely vanishes. I’ve been noticing this more and more often in these hours of solitude while I am under heavy medication.

I’ve seen sci-fi landscapes, which I reach out to climb or touch but my fingers go right through them. Purple and violet lights create ethereal yet very real landscapes, which I’m traversing but can’t grip. People glide in and out, following or trailing soft light from another place. But this time it’s a kindly quiet man who drifts into my mind’s eye. I’ve accepted these phantoms as my new reality but haven’t quite figured out just how many pain killers I’m on.

A few days later, it’s Friday and my oxycodone dose along with muscle and nerve relaxers have been scaled way back. I’m still refusing this cat food, but I get fabulous food care packages from my friends. Even my brother delivers a cardboard box of a delicious fish dish from Paco’s on the West Side of Los Angeles. Yum.

Eric walks in the door, seemingly as much flesh and blood as I am. He’s still gentle and caring and asks if I remember him. He then asks after my progress. He even tilts his head to the crucifix staring down at me from the forward wall. I’m at the Little Company of Mary Medical Center’s Rehabilitation Unit in San Pedro, Calif., after all.

I tell him the food situation has improved with the lunches and dinners brought to me from outside the rehab. I explain that I’m walking sometimes, albeit with the aid of a walker, which I point to in the corner of my room. I tell Eric that I really don’t even take notice of the guy hanging from the wall straight ahead of me.

Then I take a closer look at Eric. His cardigan doesn’t quite cover the lanyard holding the identification badge that announces he is a hospital chaplain.

I try to apologize for being so casual about my reference to his savior, but he puts me at my ease immediately. “No problem. I’m not here to discuss that at all. I do see that you’ve decided to eat and that you are more aware of your surroundings. In case you don’t recall, I was here a few days ago and, when I left, I felt you would be fine soon. You’ve got a strong spirit.

“Tell me,” he continues, “would you care to celebrate the sabbath here in your room?” If there were no railings on my bed, I swear I would have tumbled to the floor in surprise. And his manner is so soft and all but off handed.

“Can I do that?” I say dumbfounded. “Can I light candles here?”

Why that’s my first response I don’t know.

He says, “Give me a minute and I’ll be right back.”

I drift off again into what I am sure must be a new reverie, cranked up in my bed as if waiting for Godot.

Sure enough, Eric returns with battery-operated shabbat candles, a challah roll and some grape juice. He also supplies leaflets from various local synagogues as well as the Chabad, which contain the sabbath blessings and explanations should I need them. I am all but brought to tears.

Eric was real all the while! He must have seen my Jewish Journal, must have understood my angst at having pork and milk –the combination of dairy and flesh — served at the same meal.

I told him I was glad he was not just a drug-induced fantasy, and I also thanked him for providing a reassuring moment in what could have been solely a strange and scary stay.

—

Ronnie is a member of the Hadassah Writers’ Circle, a dynamic and diverse writing group for leaders and members to express their thoughts and feelings about all the things Hadassah does to make the world a better place. It’s where they celebrate their personal Hadassah journeys and share their Jewish values, family traditions and interpretations of Jewish texts. Since 2019, the Hadassah Writers’ Circle has published nearly 500 columns in The Times of Israel Blogs and other Jewish media outlets. Interested? Please contact hwc@hadassah.org.