The next morning – after another night of sleep disturbed by changing shifts – my family came over to pick me up. Both Sigal and Itamar had come to visit me earlier and from each I had tried to extract some guarantee that the small size of my lymph glands was an undisputed sign that they were unaffected with the cancer, but they remained non-committal and insisted that we wait for the lab results, due some 10 days later. It was only later that I could appreciate their professionalism and honesty.
The pain in my arm, the discomfort of the tube and my general misery underscored the realization that I was now a victim of cancer and I began to cry. While my family tried to comfort me, from the bed opposite mine, the Arab lady with the strange patchwork of bright red, white and grey hair slipped out of bed and brought me some paper towels to dry my tears. This simple human gesture transcended the realities of the world outside the hospital. Despite its very obvious shortcomings, Hillel Yaffe, like all Israeli hospitals, dispenses medical treatment to all without discrimination. Arab and Jewish medical staff tend to Muslims, Druze, Christians and Jews in islands of neutrality with total disregard of the provenance of their patients. We are all, the patients, our families and the medical staff, united against the common enemy of disease to the extent that the issues of the non-sick become irrelevant. Hospitals are a place where humanity reigns in pure form.
Gabi helped me dress and we left the hospital, the tube dangling from my armpit.
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