One of the first things I did after giving birth was send flowers. No, not just to my wife. To my mother. Until you experience it, you don't really understand how much gratitude your birth mother deserves. She went through all that with my birth? Wow.
And this is of course just the beginning of the beginning. Because the trouble of raising boys really doesn't end, as we know, in the delivery room. It starts there.
Our parents diaper us, bathe us, feed us, dress us, buy for us, pick up the little Lego pieces we scatter on the floor, the soup almonds we scatter on the floor, educate us, raise us, take care of us. And we, the children, actually begin to grasp the full meaning of this only at a relatively old age – when we ourselves begin to do it to our children, who will only grasp it many years later, when they themselves begin to do it to their children, who will only grasp it many years later when they themselves, etc.
Want more news, videos and stories? Join the Haredim 10 WhatsApp channel >>
Now for the fathers. The truth? We too may receive flowers after birth. Precisely because we stand by in those stressful moments, and don't know what to do with ourselves (except to say Tehillim, of course), precisely because we are so much a part of the story and so not – birth is such a complex experience for us. True, nothing hurts us physically, but standing in front of all this from the sidelines, without any ability to do anything useful (except to say Tehillim, of course), is also painful.
No wonder it was a man, and not a woman, who wrote the lament for the destruction of the Temple that is recited on Tisha B'Av, "To the gods of Zion and to their cities, like a woman in a trance." That same poet had probably experienced a very joyful event in his home a few months earlier. Birth. But when he was looking for the most difficult and traumatic image to describe the destruction, he remembered precisely those moments of his helplessness, out there. To the gods of Zion and their cities, like a woman, even with an epidural, in a trance.
And there's that famous joke, which makes me laugh anew with every birth, about that father waiting outside the delivery room, as his wife's screams erupt from inside, and he stands by and can't do anything (except say laments, oh, Psalms). Then, finally, the birth ends. The nurse comes out and happily announces to him: "Congratulations, dad, you've had a daughter!" And he breathes a sigh of relief and says: "Oh, thank God it's a daughter. She won't have to go through everything I've been through here in the last few hours.".
I have a warm place in my heart for the Shaare Zedek Medical Center. The hospital has been around for 112 years, but it still moves me. Of course, I wish for myself and the entire Jewish people to be there only in circumstances like these, of births, but there are other cases in the world, and such a respected and large medical center (2,500 employees, 30 departments) that is run according to Halacha, is strict about treating minor as serious cases, and is considered a leader in the country and even in the world – it is simply a sanctification of God.
And there is no time when you can see it like on Shabbat. Apparently there is the well-known rule "Pikuach Nefesh rejects Shabbat," so come on, let's do everything like on a weekday. Pikuach Nefesh, right? So that's it, that's not so much. What must be done urgently - is done, and what can and should be done by a non-Jew - is done by Sister Hanin from Abu Ghosh.
And all this while exercising discretion and thought, with a lot of experience and rules that are passed down from generation to generation, from the days of the founder of the place, Dr. Wallach, and the mythical nurse Zelma at the beginning of the last century, until Shabbat Parashat Vaira 5775, when - among all the beeps and devices and measurements and tests and records - the sanctity of Shabbat was also well felt.
112 years means thousands of special Shabbats like this, like the one I experienced there.
And the religious nature of the hospital is not only expressed in the observance of Halacha. I always ask myself, does Shaare Tzedek have different admission requirements than other hospitals? Different training? How is it that, of all the hospitals in the world, the midwives who most resemble Shifra and Puah in character, dedication, and pleasant manners, end up here?
Shabbat and evening prayers. The large minyan on the 8th floor brings together not only all types of Jews from all sectors, but also people in all types of moods: some have heard bad news and are praying for salvation, some have just heard about improvement and relief, some are undergoing surgery or accompanying a loved one to surgery, some are recovering, some are new fathers with a smile on their faces, and some – Prof. Shimon Glick, father of Yehuda Glick.
I met him there along with many of his family members. It was a reminder of the precarious security situation. It was almost unpleasant to celebrate this week when every few hours we hear about someone being murdered, and the Jewish state is pursuing the Jewish state.
This is the second Shabbat they have spent around Yehuda's bed, singing to him, talking to him and rejoicing at every sign of alertness. At the hospital, everyone looks at the Glick family, recognizes them and approaches them to talk and wish them a full recovery. At the end of the prayer, I ask Prof. Glick something practical: what is his wife's real name? At first they said to pray for Yehuda Yehoshua ben Brenda, and then the name changed from American to Yiddish, something along the lines of Briana.
So who should we pray for? "Every day we call my wife Brenda, but her name in our ketubah is Ita Breyna," he says. In the ketubah? Yes. It turns out that 82-year-old Prof. Glick went and opened his and his wife's ketubah from decades ago this week, to refine the prayers for his son's recovery.
If someone had told me that just 24 hours after the little baby came into the world I would take her first picture, I would have laughed at them. But Shabbat told me that. And suddenly I found myself sitting there after the birth, on Shabbat night, and realizing how much in previous births I had missed parts of the powerful experience, because of all kinds of text messages and phone calls and pictures. And it's not that I have anything against photography (especially cell phones). Quite the opposite. But what can you do, it sucks, it takes, it distracts.
A birth on Shabbat doesn't have all of that. There's no one to ring. There's nowhere to run. Just digest and truly experience the experience. Until the end. A birth on Shabbat is a pleasure. So it's true that there's no record of me blessing the baby with the Sabbath night blessing minutes after she was born, but inside me, this experience will be treasured forever. And I hope for her too.
And with a Shabbat birth, the news to the rest of the family is also different. It's not just a long-distance phone call. It's a day when you physically go to announce the news. At eleven at night, I left the maternity ward of Shaarei Tzedek and set off on a night march of about forty minutes. First, you have to go down hundreds of steps inside the building, and then make your way to the entrance to Jerusalem, to tell the grandparents and the children who were waiting with them that they had a granddaughter and a sister.
This is an experience I've never had before. You really make an effort to share joy. You embark on a journey. No shortcuts. Another step, and another step, and here is the neighborhood, and the house, and the stairs, and the door opening, and the looks full of anticipation, and the good news face to face, and the great joy.
It was so different and exciting that I really had to stop myself, so that I wouldn't set out on a journey on foot to tell my grandparents on the other side, my wife's parents, in Herzliya.
• The column is published in the newspaper 'Bisheva'.'
