Words no army parent wants to hear: ‘Get to the hospital now’

Tuesday, November 19th, changed our lives forever. What began as a regular Tuesday morning — my routine Nordic walking group followed by work at Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies — turned into a day we will never forget. I usually listen to a daily Daf Yomi shiur (Talmud class) on my phone during this time and don’t take calls. But that morning, my daughter-in-law called.

Assuming she needed help picking up my granddaughter, I ignored it. Then she called again. And again. After the third call, I knew something was wrong. I called her back from my office phone. Her words were devastating: “Get to Beilinson (hospital) now — Eitan was wounded.”

What do you do when you hear those words? Is he alive? How badly is he hurt? I had no answers. My other son called shortly after, and I jumped into a cab to meet him. Other family members, including my husband, who had been on his way to work, were already rushing to the hospital.

At Beilinson (now part of the Rabin Medical Center), the hospital social worker met us. We still had no idea about Eitan’s condition — or whether he was even alive. We were quickly taken to the waiting area outside the surgery ward, where we met another family whose son had been with Eitan. At that point, all we knew was that he was alive, but very seriously wounded and undergoing hours-long surgery.

We waited. And waited.

A doctor came out briefly to give us an update: there was still a long way to go. After eight agonizing hours, we were led to the ICU, where we were warned that Eitan remained in critical condition and would likely be intubated and sedated for at least two days.

Our first miracle: Eitan was awake, alert, and talking.

Since then, we have experienced so many miracles, thanks to the incredible medical team at Beilinson Hospital.

An Outpouring of Chesed (Kindness)

From the moment we arrived, the outpouring of kindness (chesed) has been overwhelming. Organizations showed up in the first week with gifts — some practical, others less so. Groups of mothers of soldiers came by, as did volunteers offering fruit shakes. An anonymous donor brought Black burgers daily from a local branch. A kind couple distributed homemade sandwiches during the week and jachnun on Shabbat. Some people didn’t just offer help — they took charge. One volunteer organized an apartment for Eitan’s friends so they could stay close to him over Shabbat.

And then there are his friends — an extraordinary group of young men and women who have taught me the true meaning of friendship. They lift his spirits, sleep overnight in the hospital, and anticipate his every need.

The Weight of Loss

Even as Eitan begins to heal, his thoughts remain with his comrades. He worries deeply about his three friends who were also wounded that day and mourns the profound loss of the one who did not survive. This has been a heavy burden, adding emotional pain to his physical recovery, but it underscores the depth of his connection and loyalty to his “chevreh” (group of friends).

The Importance of Sharing

We have learned how vital it is to share what has happened. We grew up in the era of the Vietnam War and the Yom Kippur War, when no one talked about their experiences. But now, we listen as soldiers talk to each other, to social workers, and to psychologists who offer a listening ear.

We’ve also become part of a club no one chooses to join. Parents of wounded soldiers have offered us support and shoulders to lean on. Their understanding and strength have been invaluable as we navigate this new reality.

A Calming Oasis amid the Chaos

Amid the emotional turbulence, I found an unexpected sanctuary: the Shmuel Flatto-Sharon Art Museum at Beilinson Hospital. Walking through its serene halls, surrounded by art of the masters, became a brief yet vital respite from the overwhelming stress of the hospital. Those few moments of stillness allowed me to pause, breathe, and gather the strength I needed to face the challenges ahead. It was a profound reminder of art’s ability to heal, comfort, and provide light even in the darkest moments.

The Journey Forward

These past two weeks have been incredibly challenging. We’re learning a new language — army lingo — and figuring out how to navigate the system, all while supporting our son as he slowly recovers.

The outpouring of support from friends and family has been both heartwarming and overwhelming. After long days at the hospital, we’re often too exhausted to take calls or respond to messages. We’ve discouraged visits — not because we don’t want them, but because we simply don’t have the energy. This is a journey, and we know that, as others step aside, we’ll need our friends to be there to help us pick up the pieces.

Lessons in Bikur Cholim (Visiting the Sick)

This experience has profoundly taught us the meaning of bikur cholim — visiting the sick. It is about the patient, not the visitor. During the early days of hospitalization, consider why you are visiting. Will your presence bring joy or comfort to the patient? Or is the visit more for your own sake?

Remember, a person is in the hospital for a reason. This is not the time for long visits or prying questions. Take your cues from the patient. Don’t overstay.

If you want to bring something, think practically: what would be genuinely helpful for the patient or their family?

This journey has reshaped our lives and taught us invaluable lessons about resilience, kindness, and community. The road ahead is long, but we are buoyed by the support surrounding us and the strength we have discovered within ourselves.

Please keep Eitan Asher ben Devorah in your prayers for healing, among the other injured soldiers.