Purim 5779 - at Hadassah Mt. Scopus

Purim this year was spent partly at the hospital, and partly at my old neighborhood.
The more meaningful part for me was, of course, at the hospital, even though it was NOT easy, I must admit. It started when Thursday day time, which was Purim all over Israel except in Jerusalem, I took my little recorder and went to visit a few patients who already know me. I played some soothing music without any other players with me, and was surprised how much they liked it. In one of the rooms, I visited an older woman, who used to be a tough bus driver. Her bed was hidden by a curtain, but she welcomed me in happily. We talked for a long while, and then I took my recorder and played. At that moment, a woman in the nearby bed asked who is playing, and asked for permission to open the curtain, to be part of this too. We opened the curtain, and she listened with a smile on her face. I didn't know if this had any meaningful effect or not, but when I finished the first song, she showered me with good words and told me that it lifted her up. I suggested that she "order" songs, if there are any songs she likes. She asked me to play Eli Eli by Hannah Senesh. When I did, she closed her eyes, and when I finished, she told me that it was like a prayer for her. She is secular, so hearing these words from her had an added meaning for me. I then played my favorite Jerusalem song: "From the top of Mt. Scopus, Shalom to you, Jerusalem". It is doubly moving to play it and for the patients to hear it, from the Mt. Scopus hospital.
I bought a few "Mishlochei Manot" (bags with candies that we give each other on Purim) and gave it to some of them. I was sorry that I didn't have more, because there was a nurse who wanted one too. It was so cute. I'll go and give her next week. I stayed at the hospital until night, and brought certain patients to the hospital synagogue, to hear the reading of the Book of Esther. It was good - but emotionally tough. After I finished the day, I felt that I needed a break from visiting the hospital for at least one week, to regain my emotional strength, but Saturday night I felt an urge to go again, to visit one specific patient who is in the hospice.
A hospice, for those of you who do not know, is the place to which patients are sent to end their lives peacefully. It is the most beautiful part of the hospital, but also the toughest of them all. Terminally ill patients, who have no hope of recovering (according to the doctors), are sent there to spend the last days of their lives there. Very ironically, it is situated right in front of the delivery rooms - so in one end of the corridor people are being born, and on the other end of it, people die. Very symbolic - a closing of a circle.
A few weeks ago I met a middle-aged woman there, who suffers from cancer. Her belly is very big, and not because of fat... It is very hard to see, and when I visit her, I try hard not to see it. She is constantly crying and feeling sorry for herself, and it is not easy to be around her. Saturday night I felt that I had to go visit her. When I arrived, after she stopped crying, she told me that she felt so alone and prayed to G-d to send someone to visit her, and very shortly after that, I arrived. I did feel as if G-d sent me. I didn't plan to go to the hospital for another week, but something inside urged me to go, specifically to see her. I spent three hours with her, and it calmed her down, but I know that it's not much, because it won't have a lasting effect on her. Soon she will start crying again and feeling sorry for herself again.
I told her that there are no mistakes in G-d's plans, and that if this is the experience that He gives her now, then it means she has a mission to accomplish in this specific situation. First and foremost, when her secular family hears her talking about G-d even though she is in such a situation, it gives more validity to her faith in G-d. It is very easy to talk about G-d when everything is good. But when you do that when things are not good and there is no medical hope, it gives your faith in G-d more value in the eyes of others. At that moment, I told myself that it's probably very easy to say, and very hard to do, but my answer to myself was that G-d forbid, if I'm ever in that situation, I will truly think this way and try to accomplish this mission rather than feel sorry for myself. The question should always be What can I give rather than Why don't I get what I want. Second, her family comes to visit her sometimes for parts of the Shabbat. Not every week. But when her sister comes, for example, both of them go down to have a festive Shabbat meal with other patients and their family members. Her sister told me that she hasn't experienced a real Shabbat meal in her life and that she so enjoys it, so this is her chance of experiencing some Jewish life, hear words of Torah on the table and sing Shabbat songs.
There is a generous donor who gives a lot of money every Shabbat to allow big, festive Shabbat meals, with salads, fish, meat, desserts - what not. Every week. He does this anonymously, no one knows who he is, but it allows patients and their families to enjoy Shabbat together. It is so amazing. The hospital gives a special hall for this purpose, and there are volunteers who serve the food. Those patients who cannot go down to the hall and eat there, can enjoy packed Shabbat food in their beds. Their family members can go down and take a nice Shabbat meal and give them. It is so nice. I have never seen anything like this anywhere in the world except here. Very moving. The first time I saw it, I couldn't believe it. It was so nice and generous and the atmosphere was so good and festive. I don't eat there (I did it twice when I spent a whole Shabbat at the hospital for bed-ridden patients who needed someone to be with them). But just knowing that something like this happens here - warms my heart.
In short, I'm grateful for having moved here and that now I can walk to the hospital and give something to the patients, give them strength and alleviate their suffering a bit. Baruch HaShem.