// 845.371.2222 aids and a medical staff. That is where I became a regular Sunday afternoon visitor and part of her life. It began with a call from Bikur Cholim. Knowing the dispatcher as one who never refused to extend herself to someone in need, I had no solid reason to decline, even though my Sundays were busy days. “A mitzva! How can I refuse such an opportunity?” I answered, echoing her enthusiasm, and responded with a resounding “of course” magnanimously. “Of course!” I repeated in my most cheerful voice, deep down knowing that this would command respect for my willingness to help others. It was such a heroic “of course” that I repeated it for effect about three times. I felt charitable – and very giving. That evening, I let all my acquaintances, my children, my friends, and anyone within my vicinity know that I will not be available Sundays between the hours of 8.30 and 12.00 “because I am going for bikur cholim....” I assumed that they thought at least half as highly of me as I did of myself, as a pillar for the community – a sample for mankind. Like a V.I.P. I sat in the bikur cholim van which was taking visitors and patients to their medical destinations, wrapped in my own thoughts, filing this good deed in my mental archives with all the others, and calculating the schar I would receive and multiplied it by ten. Beside me sat a frail, little elderly lady, who I knew as Mrs. Mayer. We began talking and though I did not boast, I did not hide my mission assuming she would ask me to elaborate. She didn’t. I asked her if she had a doctor’s appointment. “No,” she answered, leaving me to try another avenue for conversation. We (or mostly I) spoke a little about the weather, until I managed to smuggle a full sentence from Mrs. Mayer. “I usually go with the bus, but the weather is so bad I decided I would get there faster if I accepted a ride.” I found out she too was going for bikur cholim, not as a patient, but as a volunteer. I was humbled to know that even at this ripe age, she went on her own initiative not waiting for transportation. I asked her if she would be visiting Mrs. Weisman. “Yes. um, no.” She said as her gaze and her voice melted into the thin air. “Uh, her too.” “Mrs. Weisman loves visitors.” I said in an attempt to reopen a conversation. “Yes,” she sighed. Again, the conversation fell flat, but I tried again. “Since when have you been going for Bikur Cholim,” I asked. “About forty-five years” she said, gazing into the past, as if to remember when sheep used to graze on the land where the hospital stood. I swallowed BY CHANA LEBOVITS my next question, together with my glorified feelings of grandiose, I became tongue tied. I felt too silly and embarrassed to even mention my mitzva. We parted in the corridor, and I saw Mrs. Meyer enter the volunteer room. All the staff greeted her like a celebrity. Later I met Mrs Meyer with a uniform and a pin, feeding elderly patients who could not feed themselves. I was clearly not her peer in her noble activities. I entered the room where Mrs. Weisman lay, greeting her in the most cheerful and professional voice - the voice of a tzadeikes. She looked at me and matched my smile – except that hers was crooked and took her much more effort to wear. I made her laugh, and she bentched me repeatedly. Her words were a balm, and I hoped that Hashem was listening to them and would make them happen. I swallowed her words, together with the lump in my throat to see this former health activist in this compromised way. I tried to spew forth the words of wisdom that would inspire hope and inner joy. She made me feel as if I was the malach elokim, which did not need too much convincing. I included the attending nurse in our conversation. “I wish to adopt her. I need a mother.” I said jestingly. 133
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