I remember it as if it were yesterday. My beautiful 16 year-old daughter Lauren, dancing just the night before, lay motionless in a hospital bed in pain.
A poet at heart, she had been on the roof at sunset watching the colors change from pink to deep orange, when she lost her footing and fell, shattering her third and fourth vertebrae.
Her father and I privately nursed our worst fears about what lay ahead: from permanent paralysis to a lifetime of chronic pain.
My daughter was more upset about the immediate future. Would she have to miss her prom? Could she still perform in the school musical that was opening in two weeks? Would she be able to go back to school to finish her sophomore year?
My response and ability to cope was nourished by many sources. It began with the way my husband reacted to our daughter in the emergency room, as she lay perfectly still in pain, afraid that any movement might injure her spinal cord causing paralysis. His tenderness and ability to let his love for her shine through his own fears helped me focus on what was most important in the days ahead. As we grappled with decisions about pre and post surgical matters, pain control, medications, and the deep sadness of watching our daughter experience so much pain, fear and disappointment, we stood together thinking of only one thing — how best to love her so that she would get well.
Family and friends huddled around us like a tight knit team, offering words of comfort, friendship, encouragement and even humor. But it wasn’t just the words or the flowers, books, and food that they brought into our hospital room that lifted our spirits, it was the gift of being supported and strengthened by our community. That we did not have to go through this difficult time alone made all the difference in the world; it literally gave us the energy we needed to keep going even after many nights without sleep.
The Jewish tradition has always paid heed to the deepest of human needs and feelings. One way Judaism responds to important emotions and landmark life events is through the use of rituals, blessings and prayers. Whether in response to the joys of birth, the covenant of marriage or the deep sense of loss caused by sickness and death, Jewish rituals create a pathway to more fully understand, appreciate and grow from our life experiences, especially when we are struggling to make sense of them.
Throughout the time we were in the hospital and after we came home, I saw first hand the almost magical powers that the Jewish commandment of bikkur cholim, (visiting the sick) can have on a person.
My daughter’s mood and determination to get well were strengthened daily by the presence of friends and family around her. Visitors helped all of us fight the feelings of isolation and loneliness that accompany most illnesses; their presence was as a constant reminder that we were not alone in our crisis. Visitors also brought us love and the continuing hope that all would soon be well again.
One evening we had a nurse who insisted on telling us about her own surgery, complete with a viewing of the scars. I know she meant well and was only trying to bond with my daughter, but it didn’t make any of us feel better.
In its attempt to be sensitive to how a sick person feels, Jewish law has an extensive list of suggestions to guide people who make sick calls, most of which are concerned with being sensitive to the person who is ill. Simply stated, we are expected to be cheerful, positive and compassionate when visiting someone who is sick.
Along with the visitors came many cards, phone calls, and prayers for a refuah shlemah, a complete and speedy recovery.
Jewish law demands that whenever we hear that someone is sick, we should offer a prayer on his or her behalf. The shortest prayer in the Torah for healing is the one Moses said when his sister Miriam was sick: “O L-rd, please heal her.” (Numbers 12:13). A simple but genuine request to be sure, which makes it clear that our own heartfelt prayers are an important part of responding when someone is ill.
The more formal Hebrew prayer for healing is called the Mi Shebeirach, which is recited during the Torah service. Rabbis from every congregation called or visited us at the hospital and put Lauren’s name on their congregation’s Mi Shebeirach list so that her name would be read along with others in the prayer to heal those who were ill.
I have always believed in the power of communal prayer, that when people come together to pray for peace or good health, energy is created which moves the world in a more positive direction. But I never truly understood the strength and comfort that I would feel from knowing that for one collective moment, a community was praying for the recovery of my own daughter.
I wouldn’t wish what happened to my daughter on anyone and I don’t believe that it is necessary for us to suffer in order to grow.
What I do believe is that given the inevitable challenges of living, raising a family and growing older, it is both comforting and empowering to know how important Jewish traditions and community can be for us if we let them into our lives.
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