The medical staff is valuable. I now understand that. I tried holding a scalpel. I can’t. They grabbed it from me. That's the law. A scalpel in the hands of a civilian is considered a weapon. For doctors, they consider it a medical instrument. And context turns into law.

I Have to Get Out of the Way
It took a while to educate me as to the importance of doctors performing the surgical procedure themselves.
It took a while to educate me as to the importance of doctors and nurses in the healing process. I am the one doing the praying. As I have been taught throughout my years in Jewish day school and Yeshiva, Gd heals people. Never once did we learn about the importance of the doctor in the healing process. I never said that prayer in shul.
The prayer was always to Gd, about the sick getting better. Never did we say the prayer, "Please doctor, heal the sick." With that kind of message, the shul would've lost a number of its members. We definitely would've lost the daily Minyin. Without death and tragedy, and Gd, people are not showing up for services. Our community thrives off Gd's involvement in sickness.
The hospital doesn't need the rabbis preaching on their behalf. From my understanding, the hospital is doing quite well with donations, without Gd.
If my rabbi would've just said to look down the row and "ask that guy who shows up late for services, talks during Davening, and takes calls in shul on Friday night, to heal you," I would probably give doctors more credit as healers. But Gd is the healer, and the doctor is the guy who shows up late and talks during the cantor's repetition of the Amidah. He is going to Gehenim. My understanding is he has a place in hell. 

They Truly Tried Getting Me Out of the Room
First time, they said they needed me out of the room I came at them, "So, you get to make the decisions around here, because you know what blood pressure means?... I see how this is going to work… So the doctor did not say that my sitting in the guest chair is medical protocol?!"
They've come up with weird excuses to get us out of the room. One of the nurses said they had to change the patient. I came back in the room. It was the same gown. They've said everything. They've even said stuff like, "We need to take blood right now." One said something like, "We are working with IVs." I was fine with that, and then they kicked me out. To get me out of the room one of the aides even told me, "A cousin of yours just brought pizza. It's in the waiting room."
Their true goal is to get me out to the waiting room. It's a hard task to keep on convincing families to wait. The guy was in a coma. The nursing staff had them in the waiting room for three months. Every day they had to reconvince them to go to the waiting room.
​
I'm Still Praying
I get it, medical staff is important. We're all indebted to them. We're indebted for all the great machinery they've created. But I'm a believer in Gd. I'm a believer that the doctors and nurses are doing Gd’s work. I'm a believer in living for a reason, and we are part of the patient’s strength. I'm a believer that all of our prayers and love from everywhere is part of the healing process. Damn. You do not want me around when you are helping somebody in my family. 
You can't shake out the family members who believe. The ones who are there praying. They know that Gd heals. The doctor does the surgery. Gd heals. 
If I get going, you’ll see a community vigil right outside unit four. That's how you help. The medical staff doesn't see that as medically helpful. And the security staff sees that as breaking and entering.

I Will Get in the Way
I will get in the way with my prayers. And that is what is going to happen. nurses have to be ready for me. They need seminars for how to deal with me.
I really am annoying. I'm not just praying. I'm praying and worried. I'm praying there and telling the nurses to check the vent pressure, again. I'm asking nurses about clots, about oxygen saturation. Telling them to suction again. Asking them why Mom is on "that side now." "Whatever that tube is, do something with it." "A number is higher than it was before. Is oxygen important?"
Questioning why something isn’t being done about the blood pressure. That's not a prayer. Yet, I'm on top of it. I don't know if Gd answers the blood pressure prayer yet. I don’t even know what blood pressure is. I know the number has to be over a hundred, somewhere. I know that some squeezy thing is supposed to make my arm uncomfortable for half a minute. 
Me not praying gets in the way of the nurses even more.
I am going to keep on praying. Maybe I'll head to shul.
 
Conclusions
I tried using the scalpel. Couldn’t even get a straight cut in my apple. There are things physicians can do legally, such as holding scalpels in the ICU. I'm also not allowed to operate on a brain. Things they don't tell you when you don't go to medical school.
I just hope doctors are better at cutting apples than myself.

The doctor does the surgery. Love, prayer and nurses heal. And therapists. And family members who fight. They help the most. I know that, because every person who has ever healed had family fighting with each other. 
Doctors know stuff about health. I accept that, now that security has forced me to spend some time in the waiting room.
Whatever the physicians do, you do need love in that room. I get it, they're helping Mom. The doctors and nurses are there saving lives and helping people heal, and they’re not used to my coaching on how to stick in the IV properly, yet.
 
***Thoughts From a Waiting Room are thoughts revisited from 2019-2020 in 2026 form. LRefuah Sheleyma LKol HaCholim and shared laughter with their family and friends, bZchut Avi HaRav Yeshaya Ben Yechezkel HaLevi ZT"L vImi HaRabbanit Necha Bat Chayim Zeydel A"H LAliyat Nishmatam.

It’s been another year and I’ve accomplished very little. I hope I'm doing my father A"H proud. Accomplishing as little as I can.
And it's another year that I've been out of Yerushalayim. Jerusalem, for those who are committed to English. And I ask if I'm living each moment to the fullest. Living it. Loving it.

Everything was a big moment with my father. Especially when it came to prepping my hair for any Simcha. I hated celebrating happiness. The time spent trying to keep down my cowlick. The amount of Dep necessary to look respectable for the family. The frustration and lack of understanding coming through the comb to that one strand of hair. You couldn’t keep the thing down.
Abba lived each moment. Lived it for importance. It wasn't just dinner. It was a ritual. One I never learned about, but it was a ritual. An experience. Whitefish with Abba. A bonding experience one could only value as a child of a great Jew. We never fished. Jewish fathers and sons don't bond over fishing. We bond over Whitefish and lox. Going out for a slice of pizza was an event. For some it's a slice of pizza. For us, it was a celebration of life. Abba got his money's worth on that pizza. No toppings. And we loved it. It was a thing. Everything you did with my father was a thing. A trip to Toronto. Amazing with Abba. He even made Toronto fun. Do you know how hard that is to do.
Abba lived and he loved. You go anywhere it was a thing. Especially when we were in Jerusalem. It was an experience. A gift of life.
Abba would always say, "In Jerusalem, Gd is your tour guide." And we saved a lot of money on tour guides. 

My father lived. It was an experience with Abba. Everybody misses experiences with my dad. Funerals. What a great experience with Abba. He made a funeral amazing. A thing. He made it Kedusha. Holy.
People pass through life. Abba lived it. 
Damn I miss Abba. I miss my dad. Let's do a few words of Torah. Damnit.

Dvar Torah Part 
Moshe wants to be in Israel. Jerusalem. He says to Gd, (Devarim 3:25) "Please let me cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan, the good mountain..." He wasn’t asking for a Tiyul. It’s wasn’t a hike. He wasn’t looking to go to tubing down the Jordan River. He wanted to go to for the goodness. Some people live for these hikes, like they heard Israel has great mountains.
It’s not the Jerusalem fun time playhouse. Moshe wanted to see “the good mountain...” Rashi says this good mountain is Yerushalayim. Moshe wanted to see Jerusalem. He wasn't asking H' for the Catskills. You see Yerushalayim, great real estate. Great breathing air. Excellent falafel. Doable apartments. You’ve got to see it. You want to see it. Moshe wanted to see it for the connection. The Kedusha. The holiness. Moshe wanted to see the goodness. And Abba saw the goodness.
Abba wasn't into hiking. We drove. Made it easier to see the goodness of Israel, hydrated.

Abba would come to Yerushalayim and connect with H’. Jews end up in the Catskills because they don’t know good mountains. You hear Mountains and you think Monticello. It’s Israel the Torah is talking about. Abba loved the Catskills too. That was a Jewish experience. As a kid, I thought that was the land of the Jews. I couldn't imagine we were promised any other land.
The Catskills were great, and Abba loved it. But the goodness of connecting to H’, the land, the people, Abba brought that to Yerushalayim. Living the holy experience was a greater level of goodness than Liberty Pizza.

When praying for this Jerusalem, (Devarim 3:23) Moshe starts by saying to the people, "And I entreated to H' at this time." I have no idea what entreats means. I'm not a linguist. 
Rashi says the Shoresh, root, of VaEtchanan is Chanun, compassion. And every time that word Chanun is used it is asking for a gift. A free gift. Israel is a gift. And Moshe was asking to be in Israel. For that free gift. For that thing he is not deserving of. The experience. And all you anti-Semites heard was "free."
With Abba, seeing anti-Semites was an experience. So many beautiful memories.
Israel is a free gift. Which is what all these kids nowadays think. Going on Birthright. Spending nothing. Free trip to Israel. Only people paying are me, getting price gouged by EL AL.

When we pray it's for Israel, we're praying for a gift. A free gift.
Congregants think they deserve. You want Kiddish. You think you deserve it. You don't appreciate it. You don't appreciate Kichel. Abba appreciated Kichel. Kichel and herring. And lox and whitefish. Abba appreciated it. It was a free gift from Gd. He loved it. Celebrated it.
​People pray for family too. They want a spouse. Some marriages are not as bad as the ones you see at shul. Marriage is a gift. Not a good one for most. But it’s a gift. To have somebody you love. My parents marriage was a gift. Abba knew it. He appreciated it.

Moshe wanted a chance to live the good. To experience. Almost there and he didn't get to see it. Abba lived it. B"H. And that made him happy. Thanks to EL AL and their price gouging. Abba wasn't happy about that. 
He prayed for the gift. Abba prayed for Israel. He loved it. He saw the Good Mountain. He saw the Good Land. And he made it good.

Now that I tried the Dvar Torah thing. 
Israel is a gift. Even just to see it. Yerusahalayim is the place.

Abba saw Israel as good. As a gift. And there are Jews who see Gaza. They see war. Meraglim. Israelis see a beautiful land. Abba saw it as beautiful. Life. I had to say something about the Meraglim, the Jewish spies and haters of their own people who voted for Mamdani. Abba would appreciate that. Nachis from his son.

When you see it as a gift, you're thankful. you enjoy it.
 
Jerusalem
Abba saw it as a gift. He didn't take the Kedusha, the holiness, for granted. As such, it was an amazing experience. Every time. That's what happens when you appreciate whatever comes your way.
Yerushalayim with my father, A”H, was an experience. Magical. He had a smile when he was there. Being with his people. With Gd. Not being around the congregants. That's a gift.

When he saw his community there, it was all joyful. Like a Geula. Redemption. Something you plead for from Gd. Unity. Oneness of the nation. Abba brought that. An experience unlike any. A continuum of community from his childhood.
Seeing his congregants. Abba kept in touch with people. Even congregants. In Israel, he would visit them. In Israel it was a gift to see the congregants. As long as he didn't have to see them at shul. Seeing them anywhere outside of shul is a pleasure.
His childhood friends, his Yeshiva friends, his congregant friends. All friends. All there taking in the gift of Melech HaFelafel. The Mountain of Jerusalem and 5 shekel felafel.

Coming to my club and making everybody feel good. Caring about the people more than they had anybody caring about them in years. They all remembered that experience. They saw the gift.

He called people together in Yerushalayim. He was the leader. Like Aaron, bringing Shalom. He wanted to be with the people and H’. Everybody remembers the big get-togethers.
He actually cared. He knew it was all a gift. And he passed on that gift.
 
Any Kotel visit with Abba was an experience. And Abba knew the guy. Even if he didn’t. He knew them. Which could be awkward, but great. He brought his smile and joy everywhere he went.

Shawarma with Abba. No greater happiness other than a burger and a steak. The Shipud places. Loved the skewers.
People go to all of these Kosher heaven places. Abba lived them. Abba made eating a Shawarma a holy experience.

We would go all over Israel. Loved it all. Felt the gift of the good land.
He loved all of Israel. Tzfat, Eilat, Tiveria, Boca. Abba loved any place that was warm. Places where you can drive and not catch a draft. Abba didn't like drafts. Didn't like car windows down. 
And Tiveria falafel. Nothing better. The Tosafot. They had all those extras down.

It was an experience. Life. Abba enjoyed each moment. He lived it. He prayed to H' for it. He realized it was all a gift.
We should be Zoyche to recognize this gift that Moshe wasn't granted while we're in this Olam. To live and celebrate it.
 
Damn. I miss Yerushalayim with my parents, A"H. I can set the temperature in the car to cold now, but I miss it. I miss that gift. The celebration of the Good Mountain that they brought.
I miss them paying for dinner. Every time they paid for dinner, that was a free gift.

Lessons I Learned from Abba this Yahrzeit
Stop thinking you deserve stuff, and you will experience the gifts of Gd. Israel. Jerusalem. The good Shawarma.
Gd is an amazing tour guide. And He's cheaper than Tzachi. And you end up meeting people when Gd is your tour guide. You celebrate them.
 
Abba lived each moment to its fullest, because he saw it all as a gift. He was thankful to H’. He appreciated it. And that is why every moment with Abba was a celebration. We were blessed to have that experience of being in Israel with Abba.

I have to see the free gift. To appreciate Israel and Jerusalem for what it is. To appreciate life more. Even if school taxes coming up.
Abba wanted to be in Yerushalayim. Everything changed when he was there. He saw it all as a gift and he wanted to see more of it. But this world doesn't always allow for that. Got to cherish the gifts. We don't get them in the physical world forever.
Been away from Yerusahalayim for a while here. I’ve got to turn that corner and see the Good Mountain again. To appreciate the gift I had, and to appreciate it now.
 
I don’t appreciate EL AL. Ripping us off.  EL AL has got to being down the cost on these flights. It's crazy. Since all the COVID and war stuff, EL AL has been banking, pulling in a lot of money off people who see Israel as a gift.

Having Abba and Mommy was a gift. I entreat every day for their presence. To see them. If that makes sense. I still have no idea what entreat means.
Life was a gift and he was thankful to H'. As was my Mom. It's a gift to be around holy people like that.

I stopped saying ZT”L. It’s turned into A”H. A”H is more personal. You need an acronym after the name. This way you can make a statement, and people don't know exactly what you're saying. Abba ZT"L A"H. I miss him. I cherish taking in the gift of life and Israel with Abba.

BE"H next year we'll relive more experiences I was Zoyche to have with my dad A”H.

***For an Aliyas Neshama for הרב ישעיה בן יחזקאל הלוי זצ"ל and all the Tzadikim who made and continue to make this Olam a great life.

AHHHHH!!!!!! OHHHHH!!!!! DAMN!!!!!! AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!! 
OK. Man, that hurt. Nobody is doing anything!
There's no way that didn't show on the squiggly line screen.
The family is sitting right there. Doing nothing. Watching TV. Is nobody going to do anything?!
AHHHHHH!!!! DAMN!!!!! DAMN YOU!!!!!! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS PAIN????!!!!
OK. I feel better. The tubes though.
Got all these tubes in me. I had a dream I was going to be a balloon in the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I still can't get over the trach. They trached me. Didn't ask me. Just stuck a tube in me. Thought, "Let's put another orifice in him. And then stick plastic in there." You ask people before putting a tube in their throat. It's the proper etiquette to ask.
Doctors love seeing tubes in people. They like to pop that thing in. Then they stick you with thirty tubes. Tell you they're for hydration and nutrients, to keep you alive. The extent they're willing to go. Whatever they can do to see more tubes coming out of you. I thought I had another limb coming out of my neck. 
Doctors get very excited when they get to cut holes in people. Dr. Feigenbloom was so happy, yelling, "I'm cutting a hole!!!!! We can get another hole in Phillip's arm."
My doctor thinks it’s a lab. They think I'm an experiment. He took a scalpel. Thought I was a frog. 
They only thing more exciting to my doctor than cutting a hole in me was him popping in the tube.
It gives them something to do. We need to give doctors other activities. They're very fidgety. Maybe darts. If they played darts more, that might keep them occupied. I would have less tubes coming out of me. My doctor would probably put the target paper on me and start aiming. I can't stand the guy. He's definitely out to get me. Either he's trying to kill me, or he's poking me with as many needles as he can, or he's got a weird idea of how to tickle people. Whatever it is, it's an abusive relationship.
​
Now they're all looking at me differently. I'm not a person anymore. They don't see me. They see the tube. It's like I'm a machine now. A machine with a prosthetic throat.
It's the tube. That's why people are looking at me differently. The stroke and not being able to move or talk might also have something to do with it. But it's definitely the tube. Not one person has asked me "what are we doing tonight?" Since I've had the tube in, nobody's asked me to hang out. Not one person has mentioned pickup basketball. Not one person brought up shopping. I would like a new button-down. Nobody told me about the sale at Kohl's. Summer vacation coming up. Nobody brought that up. Nobody brought up camping. I just got a new tent. 
​I'll get over it. Do you ever get over a tube in your throat? Is there a point where that becomes a regular thing? "That's the way Gd intended it." Is that what people say when they're living their whole life like that?! "Electricity. I need electricity." "We can go hiking on flat ground, as long as there is a sidewalk. And electricity. A nature walk, where we have outlets."

Did we miss the Yahrzeit? Who is doing Kaddish. Man. They're leaving me out of stuff. They better not have missed the Yahrzeit. The candles are in the basement. I told them the candles are in the basement. I don't see a candle in my room.
Dad passed. You better be lighting the Yahrzeit candle. The one that says "Yahrzeit" on it. Better not be lighting the Dollar General stuff. The sacrament candles. Trying to convert everybody to Christianity. You think you're spreading some decent scents in your house, next thing you know, they've baptized your house with the scent of the church. Then you have doctors trying to heal your home, drilling holes in your roof.

I'm worried about the Yahrzeit. Nobody said a thing.
The one thing I ask. Respect the Yahrzeit of my dad. Did you all go to the Kever? If you went to the grave, did you ask them to put in a good word for me with Gd? What did you say?
There is no way they put in a good word. Unless if they're asking my dad to put in a good word with Gd to get more tubes popped in my throat.
Your prayers aren't working. How bad is your Kavanah? Focus. Tell them he doesn't want more orifices, and he doesn't want a needle in his... He wants to be able to pee.
What are you doing there, at the Kever? Spacing out?! It's the Yahrzet. Get something done.

The Yahrzeit is important. That's why I live. You want to think about the past. The people. Pay respect.

Isn't it Tisha BAv? Was it Tisha BAv. Forget about me for a moment. Dad passed. And the Temples are destroyed. We're in exile.
Who is mourning here? Every one of my family members is watching the WNBA in the waiting room. Relaxing and eating pizza the community bought. They're not even here for me. They're here for the free pizza.
Must not be Tisha BAv. They're not fasting. Did they at least fast on Tisha BAv? They were definitely not mourning. They showed up to visit me to have an excuse to sit on chairs on Tisha BAv. ​They're here because they want to sit on chairs.
Do I have to remind these people of the destruction of the Temples.

People are definitely messing up stuff. The Kiddish at shul is messed up still. Have they changed the egg salad back to regular egg salad yet. They better not still be using the pre-peeled eggs. Those things are disgusting. The egg salad at our post shul snack Kiddish is a pre-mourning meal. That should be the last meal of mourning before Tisha BAv. Our sisterhoods pre-peeled egg salad.
What has society come to where people can't peel eggs anymore. 
If I can talk again, I will make sure that people are respecting dad's Yahrzeit, mourning the Temple, and making decent egg salad. I will also stop doctors from cutting up people without their permission. That's a cause I'm behind. You show up to a doctor's appointment and they assume you want them to slash you. I would rather get jumped in the streets. At least there, I have a fighting chance.

​They need me. They need my voice. The community needs me. The family needs me. The death and destruction of my people needs me. AHHHHH!!!!!! OHHHHH!!!!! DAMN!!!!!! AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!! 
I am feeling pain today. At least I'm feeling the pain of my people. The pain of missing dad. AHHHHHH!!!! DAMN!!!!! DAMN YOU!!!!!! 

I've got to get better to tell them about the Yahrzeit.
I do see a digital light in the corner of the room. You can't digital a Yahrzeit candle. A plug-in Yahrzeit candle. Don't tell me they got a plug-in. They now have pluggable Yahrzeit candles. Are we going to be doing pluggables for Chanukah now. And plug-in Shabbat candles. Did the stroke turn me reform. Am I a reform Jew now.
AHHHHH!!!!!! OHHHHH!!!!! DAMN!!!!!! AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!! 
Why did everybody leave. They better be fasting. I'm mourning and I'm fasting. The doctor cut me up and there's a tube in my neck.

The kids are already in on it. And now they're asking questions. And I can't answer anything. They want to know about aneurysms, strokes and cancer. Sometimes, it's hard to come up with a good answer for a six-year-old. It was easier to answer the questions about how they got into this world.

Sniffles Didn't Work
Hiding a stroke and cancer with "sniffles" does not work. Most of the nephews and nieces didn't fall for landing in a hospital for months due to sniffles. The kids didn't go for the stories about sniffles that kill people. The jig was up.
They're saying, "I had a fever last week. Can’t Grandpa take Tylenol?!" "If it's nothing serious, why can’t we visit?" "Why did Grandpa have surgery?" "He had a cough." "I had a cough. They cut grandpa’s throat for a cough?!… Maybe it's the sniffles. That's the real bad stuff."
The only positive result of sniffles was one of my nephews lost days of sleep after he sneezed. He's now extremely conscious of his sniffles. And that's sanitary.
​
They Started Doing Research
Antennas are up. The kids are all over the internet. And I'm not letting them on my phone. I'm not going to be an accomplice for sniffles.
They’re showing up to school, talking about intubations and how pulling out plugs isn't always a good thing. Now the one is taking the Rorschach test. My brother is getting asked questions about why his child thinks you have to cut open a throat and passively kill a family member for sniffles.

It's the Right Thing to Let Them Know
Give the kids a chance to be decent people.
In Israel, kids know. They know they're in a bomb shelter. They hear about people dying. They hear the bombs going off. And then they go out and play on the swing set. Knowing that bombs are coming into their Sderot neighborhood. Asking why their parents are fine with them heading to the jungle gym. And they're still happy. They turn into caring people.
Give the kids a chance to help. They should know life sucks. Strokes, aneurysms, cancer. You're in kindergarten, you should know that death is just around the corner. You get recess, you run around the soccer field and then there's intubation. 
Maybe the death thing is a little much. We're talking about care. About wanting to be there for people who aren't doing well. Maybe focus more on financial crisis and the collapse of the economy.
Maybe coloring books. Maybe have them color some "get well soon" cards. That's maybe the way to go. Maybe I jumped the gun with daily discussion of bombs going off at recess. 

It's About Caring
Let them know. Maybe they'll turn into decent people that care. That realize life has its hard times. Maybe they'll think twice before scoring a goal in a soccer game.
Visiting the sick and the elderly is something little kids should know about. It's part of life. If you're not privy to catheters by the time you're in first grade, you're not going to grow into a caring individual. 
My nephews and nieces heard about their Bubbie in the hospital. They want to visit. They want to make cards with pictures of illness. Cancer abstracts.
They know grandpa has deadly sniffles, they can now pray and say Tehillim for the sick people. They can visit. They learn to appreciate school without getting shot at. They want to go to nursing homes. They have a reason to draw something and give their extremely poor art to somebody. They learn to thank mom for dinner and the ability to eat food that's not pureed.
I'm suggesting tours of nursing homes and the ER for the little ones. That's how you get them to behave.

OK - Sharing Intubations with Kids is More Nuanced
Parents have to make decisions based on their children and how their state enforces child services.
Maybe not all the kids should know everything. Got to finesse that.
OK. Maybe there's an age where you start to tell them. Maybe they're not ready for all the ins and outs about cancer in preschool.
Showing up to show and tell with a trach isn't the usual thing. Now the kid is in kindergarten, showing his friends, "This is an intubation tube… My grandpa is dying. Check this out. It's called a trach. You see. It's a tube. You cut open the throat and stick it in there. My grandpa has one of these. This is a catheter. They put that..."
I can tell you, in Israel show and tell is a little different. "They blew up my house. Rockets came in from Gaza. And this is the piece of my house that's left."
Maybe some kids need a couple years to think you can play on a seesaw and not get shot at. There are a lot of weak kids nowadays. 

When I see my nephews and nieces and all these kids that deal with real stuff, it leaves an impact. And most of them want to be good people. Some like being very not helpful. But you let them see the trachs, you can at least weed out the bad ones.
Now one of them wants to be a doctor.​ I would not trust that kid with a scalpel. That kid's got to finish the fourth grade. Can't even figure out multiplication. Very excited about intubations. Too excited about incisions and cutting people open at this age. Trying to get her to focus on the prayers and the get well cards.

Conclusion
​Give kids credit. When they're children, they can still care about life. They have feelings. At least we like to think they do. Some of them have feelings. I met one that cared. There's got to be another one out there.

Not all kids are ready for the ICU information. You've got to pick what you share. When they're in nursery school, you let them know grandma has a booboo. When they’re in elementary school, you let them know grandma has it bad. She’s in the hospital. When they’re in high school, you let them know it’s their fault. 
Maybe wait till they're out of the ICU. The kids can know something is bad. But it's better they're not in the ICU. Maybe high school. Once they're in high school, the ICU is a time for them. Just make sure the idiots aren't in the waiting room playing spit. I see my high school nephews and nieces having a ball, screaming "spit." The family next to us is discussing when they should pull the plug. The post-surgical intensive care is not the right place for hide and go seek.

For those too young to be at the hospital, prayers and drawings are a beautiful way to show love. Abstracts of aneurysms is not a card somebody wants to get. Maybe leave it at "Get well soon." For teenagers too stupid to be in a hospital, send them for ice cream.

People want to help and they need that chance. Even little kids, who do nothing of use. You need to be honest with your children to give them the chance to not grow into total selfish jerks. COVID already did a number on their personality. Let them know they should think about other people, because you never know when sniffles and cancer hits. That's how good parents say good night to their children.
​
***Thoughts From a Waiting Room are thoughts revisited from 2019-2020 in 2026 form. LRefuah Sheleyma LKol HaCholim and shared laughter with their family and friends, bZchut Avi HaRav Yeshaya Ben Yechezkel HaLevi ZT"L vImi HaRabbanit Necha Bat Chayim Zeydel A"H LAliyat Nishmatam.

All this circular talk covering up stuff ends up bad.

We already know you can't use other languages to hide sickness from kids. They catch onto bad foreign grammar real fast. And you, as parents, don't even know what you're saying in French. You use some different language you can’t speak to hide the bad news, and now your ailing relative is getting the wrong medication.
I say don't try to hide the sickness. It's their grandparent. They know. And they should know.

Kids know there’s something wrong when mom and dad walk into the den and shut the door. They know there's a bad illness somewhere. Either that, or you got their report card. Either way, something is not good. At least that was the case when I was a kid. My report card came and I couldn't tell if mom and dad were mad they raised an idiot, or if somebody died. Whatever it was, I failed my family.

The Cover Ups - Don't Try
I'm hearing these parents describe extreme ailment, and it makes no sense. "Sniffles. Grandpa has the sniffles." "Sniffles" is now the technical term for "can't walk because he had a stroke and cancer." 
It’s all lies. When they talk to kids, it’s all lies.
The cover ups are rampant. Parents can't just tell the kids they're broke. They start selling ideas like a "home entertainment system." A whole scam, lying to the kids with concepts like going out in their own house, because they have a “home cinema." "Why do we need to go out to the movies and dinner. We have a home entertainment system. We have a cinema in our living room. And an oven." Then mom and dad express their thoughts on the cost of food. "You know how much the hamburger would be in a restaurant?! And coffee?! The amount they charge for coffee."
You know mom and dad are having a hard time paying the bills when the conversation is "you know how much that would cost at a restaurant." “No. We don’t eat out. Because we can’t afford it.”

Always covering up. "Your uncle isn't poor. He just likes to eat food in pita pocket form. And he likes to sleep in a tent. He's a hiker. He hikes in our neighborhood." The embarrassment of imperfection. "He's not really your uncle. When they ask you at school, you’re not related."
You cover it up and the explanations don't make sense. "Your cousin has a fever. That’s why he’s got a bullet wound."
It gets to the point where parents have to lie, even when it’s good. "We're not talking about Aunt Minnie's wedding in front of the kids. Tell them their aunt came down with the sniffles." Mom and dad will turn weddings into a sickness. You have a Simcha, you think you can tell the kids. Nope. It’s marriage sniffles. “Aunt Minnie has marriage sniffles.” And now the kids think Aunt Minnie caught a disease before her wedding.
The cover ups don't work. Your cousin got shot because he's an idiot, Uncle D is poor and can't afford to purchase food you eat with a fork, mom and dad went broke paying for your summer camp last year, and they haven't had a date night because of you, and grandpa would love to see you before he dies. Go and visit him, you selfish piece of sniffles.

Just Say It - You Can't Protect Them
Parents always want to protect their kids and hide stuff from them. I get it. But you can’t. Think back to your childhood. Did you like it? Exactly. You found out people were dying when you first went to shul and so the old guys Chuching up phlegm wads.
You can’t hide it. "Grandpa is in the hospital for twenty-five days, because he has sniffles?!!!" They know something is wrong when not one doctor can figure out to cure grandpa with a tissue. And they know things are real bad when mom and dad repeat the last word of their explanation a good three times. "It’s a cold. A cold. He has a cold!!!"
Don't try to protect the kids. Tell them, "We're going away for a couple of weeks. Grandpa is about to die. At least he's real sick. He asks about you. Enjoy." Leave your children worried. Every day of their lives they should be thinking "Grandpa could die." That will help them get through elementary school.
Maybe hold off on the dying part. A little hope doesn’t hurt the little ones. You don’t have to make their whole life into panic. You already brought them into this world, sent them to school. That’s horror enough.

We Tried Hiding It for A Bit
Trying to tell them about their Bubby not feeling well, you try to protect the kids. Why. You try the "Bubby’s in the hospital, because she has a booboo." The kid is like, "I had a booboo. You just kiss it and goes away." Then they see the trach.
Some of the family uses it to make the kids more religious. "You have to say extra Tehillim and Tefillah every day and treat people well, for Bubby's booboo to go away. You share with your friends and there's no more booboo. But only if you sit at the table and eat nicely." And now the kids are messed up and praying to Gd. Saying the Birkat Hamazon prayer. It’s amazing what people will use to manipulate their kids into behaving. “Let’s not let the aneurysm go to waste.”
That is a dead giveaway to a six-year-old. She’s thinking, "I have to share my toys. Somebody better be really sick."

Thank Gd, the most my family does is "booboo" and "sniffles." We adopted sniffles from the other family in the ICU. From my understanding, sniffles means you’re on life support.
You call illness what you call it, depending on your age. It's "booboo" through eighth grade. Then you get "sniffles" till you're around thirty. We develop very slowly in my family.
We're not using any code words for bowel movement. BM. Pups. Not poop. Pups. Dinkel. Now your kids are screaming "Dinkel" everywhere. You look like idiots. You look like people who come home with bad report cards.

I can understand hiding cake. But they see worry, they hear French, they know Hebrew, they know. If there’s cake in the house, they know. "There's Boston cream pie running around the house. Grandpa is in the hospital, or dad is out again drinking."

Conclusion
Don't hide it. Once the other language jig is up, there's no way to hide it.
The only news you should be hiding from kids is if there’s cake in the house. Or when you're planning to go to the amusement park. Because they won't shut up about it until you go.

My niece sneezed the other day, and she's having nightmares about how sniffles kills people. Maybe you should hide sniffles from the kids.

Use normal words when people are in the ICU. Don't use your family code words for "about to die." 
Random people in the waiting room are now mad that somebody's taking up a bed in the ICU with sniffles and BM. "What is this BM thing?! There are people now taking up ICU beds and getting trached up for sniffles?! Sniffles and BMs?! What happened to cancer and strokes?! Heart attacks. I want to see people here with heart attacks!!!" "You don't understand Sir. It's really bad sniffles."

Something about knowing things are not all perfect makes for better people. People know. They can now come. They can visit. They can think about the person who has cancer and multiple heart attacks. It allows them the opportunity to walk around depressed for the rest of the week. And to pay for hospital parking.
It also lets you know who the messed-up ones are. The ones who don’t visit. The ones whose Simchas and funerals you can skip. And that is quite valuable information. That will save you a bunch of weekends and money on gifts.
 
The lies started with my grandma. She lied about her age. Since my grandma was younger than my mom, all family facts had to change. Grandma was driving SUVs in the 1930s when she was alive, and yet younger than my mom who wasn’t born yet. And now we’re stuck with sniffles.

Now we're all going around the ICU talking about sniffles. We sound like idiots. Fifty-year-olds who can't even say "cold." 
I'm going to make a Sniffles teddy bear that sneezes and dies. That will make good money. 

***Thoughts From a Waiting Room are thoughts revisited from 2019-2020 in 2026 form. LRefuah Sheleyma LKol HaCholim and shared laughter with their family and friends, bZchut Avi HaRav Yeshaya Ben Yechezkel HaLevi ZT"L vImi HaRabbanit Necha Bat Chayim Zeydel A"H LAliyat Nishmatam.

You can't hide the bad news from kids anymore. Their Hebrew is too good. And whose fault is it. Yours. You sent them to Jewish day school, you sent them to Israel. Some of you made Aliyah and moved to Israel. And you wonder why you have to load up on sugar cereal every time you go to the supermarket.

Parents Try to Hide Stuff
Going shopping. You don’t want them to know. Otherwise, you’re picking up ice pops and Frosted Flakes again.
Parents try to hide information from their kids. That is the goal of parenting. You don’t want your kids to know stuff. Otherwise, you have to start explaining to the little critters why you brought them into this world. And you can't explain that. You're still trying to figure out why Frosted Flakes are so bad. Thus, you hide everything. "We're going camping tomorrow." "When are we going to let the kids know?" "Never." "Won't they figure it out once we're there?" "No."

We're Trying to Hide the Sickness
We're trying to hide the stuff about their Bubby’s condition. Figured, that's what we can do to help. We don't have much say as to the medical treatment, but we can hide stuff from the nephews and nieces. The problem is their Hebrew. The Jewish day schools are teaching too good.
I tried talking in Hebrew about Bubby. It was over in a second. "I know what 'Tiguva' means, I learned it in school." He then went off on a whole rant with the word. No concern for his Bubby, he was just so proud of himself for knowing the word "Tiguva." I had never seen such happiness to a conversation about somebody in the ICU for three weeks.
I have no idea what Tiguva means. I just used it because it sounded Hebrew. I think I was talking about some vacation I went on. I don't know. It was Hebrew. I truly didn't understand what I was saying. I just got involved in the moment. Heard everybody else talking Hebrew. Thought "there's illness, and you don't use English when somebody's sick." I am thinking English is an Eyin Hara. And I don't want to bring the evil eye when kids are around.

Their Hebrew
Their Hebrew is better than mine. My Hebrew is too basic to hide stuff from kids. I can’t Echad Ha’Am my Hebrew. I can’t pull out Navi Prophet words, that are now considered modern poetry if somebody uses it in their writing. People are amazed when somebody uses the Biblical "Vav." The way that letter that changes the future to past tense is mesmerizing. If you can’t understand my transliteration of the Hebrew letter, you're also lacking basic parenting skills. How do you plan to hide stuff from your kids if you can't transliterate?!

Jewish Day Schools Have Ruined Parenting
They’ve got to stop bringing these Israelis to American schools, teaching Hebrew. It is killing parenting. You can’t hide sickness from kids. "'Choleh.' That means sick. I know. I learned it. I'm awesome." No care about who is sick, just happy and prideful they know the word.
They know Hebrew, yet they're not saying Tehillim for their Bubby. They learned the word Tehillim in school, but they can't say the prayers.
And then they're teaching the kids a third language. Now, you can’t hide from them in French. Forget Spanish. They know that too. If I'm going to parent, I am learning Norwegian. They don't teach that in school.

Even if They Did Bad in School
They know something is up, even if they don't speak the language. They know, they hear Hebrew, it's serious. "Mom and dad are talking a language in grammatically incorrect form, somebody is ill."
You speak any language other than local dialect, they know it's not good. "Mom and dad are talking Portuguese again. Somebody must've passed away this time." “Anytime mom and dad talk Portuguese, something bad happens. I’m starting to see a pattern. I think grandpa just had a heart attack. And I think Portuguese is quite ominous.” “How do you know?” “They switched from English to Portuguese. Mid-sentence." 

Now the Kids Think Your Native Language is an Angry Tongue
You speak to your kids in Russian all the time, they are asking, "Why is Russian such an angry language?" Because your mom talks to you in Russian. And your mom doesn't like you.
You think French is the language of love. That's until you hear mom. Mom uses French to scream, because she's French.
I hear a woman speaking Spanish, I know she's mad at her husband. In English she's all kind with her, "Oh Honey. Jue are sweet." Might throw in a Mi Amor. She switches to Spanish, she starts talking fast speed, something went wrong. Dad's in trouble and kids are taking out the trash.
Jews, we used to have Yiddish. Got out our anger among the kids in Yiddish. And everybody knew who the Putz was.

Next time something bad happens, just say "Shalom Koolam Hakol LTova" when you get home. The kids will know, it is Hebrew, something bad is going on. No need to yell. “Mom and dad are talking with messed up grammar again. Something is wrong.” 
Or you can just tell the little ones, "Somebody died. There is death in the world. You don't have too long in this place. That's why you've got to put more effort into the Siddur party."

Conclusion
You want to really protect your kids. You want to hide information from the kids. You want to parent right. Stop teaching them Hebrew. Keep your kids uneducated.
Don't send kids to Jewish day school. Definitely don't teach them languages. Focus their education on English. Nobody uses English to hide news from their kids.
Me and my wife are going to learn sign language. It's harder to yell in sing language. And I want my kids to know that sign language is a language of love.

If you don’t care about protecting your kids, move to Israel. They will definitely know something is wrong when you try talking in Hebrew with your messed up vocabulary. They will realize how dumb mom and dad are, when they can't order Falafel like a normal person.
It's easier to keep your kids dumb in America.

And I am stuck trying to figure out why my sister-in-law is trying to teach her kids French.

***Thoughts From a Waiting Room are thoughts revisited from 2019-2020 in 2026 form. LRefuah Sheleyma LKol HaCholim and shared laughter with their family and friends, bZchut Avi HaRav Yeshaya Ben Yechezkel HaLevi ZT"L vImi HaRabbanit Necha Bat Chayim Zeydel A"H LAliyat Nishmatam.

My Tuchis just got clean. I feel like a million dollars. Now, it would be nice to have people visit. Somebody to turn on the TV. Can you imagine TV with a clean Tuchis. Heaven.

Thank Gd. Family finally visited again. I guess you have to wait till Sunday to get guests. They come on Sundays. And if I don't have guests, other people get them. Which is sometimes better. You see new faces, different people, and you don't have to deal with them. They disturb other people's sleep. But family is here and it's great and they better turn on the TV.
The rest of the week I'm on my own. Trying to flip the channels through telekinesis.

And they put on the TV. Thank Gd.
And like idiots they put on Fox News. You don't put on Fox News when there's nursing staff. They hate Trump.
I heard my nursing assistant say something about privilege and having to eat baked ziti the other day. She said that she doesn't have the privilege of families bringing her doughnuts like the other aides. She hates Trump. And with Fox News and no doughnuts, I will never have a clean Tuchis again.

I know there's a war going on. I hear it when they put on CNN. That's how I know they hate Trump. One staff member said, "I hope the Americans die." And there you go. You put on Fox News, you're taking a chance with my life. It's like a military field hospital here. We're all in beds. They see Fox News, they get the feeling we're at war. They see I'm the enemy.

Wait!!! This nurse is a MAGA person. I know because she never says anything. She wants to keep her job. Put on Fox News now. Switch it!!!
Today, you can put on Fox. I'm blinking. It's a Fox News day. Does anybody notice I'm blinking?

I still can't get over the trach. They trached me a few days ago. That got the doctors excited. Doctors get very excited when they get to cut holes in people. Dr. Feigenbloom was so happy, yelling, "I'm making an orifice!"
My doctor thinks it’s a lab. They think I'm an experiment. He took a scalpel. Thought I was a frog.
They only thing more exciting to my doctor than cutting a hole in me was him popping in the tube. Doctors love putting tubes in people. It gives them something to do. The doctor re-trached me today. The excitement showed when he yelled, "I'm popping in another tube. I'm making another orifice!"
If the aides would only get this excited to clean a Tuchis.

People don't take you as seriously when you have a trach. The conversation changes. Not as many questions. They seem to talk a lot more. 
Now every visitor looks at me differently. I'm not a person anymore. They don't see me. They see the tube. It's like I'm a machine now. A machine with a prosthetic throat.
It's the tube. That's why people are looking at me differently. The stroke and not being able to move or talk might also have something to do with it. But it's definitely the tube.

Great to see you all!!! I guess they can't hear that. Well. They left.

Shoot. They left Fox on. I hope they blame that right-wing Trump loving nurse for this. I want somebody to clean my Tuchis before next Sunday. Politics should not influence Tuchis cleaning.
I hope they at least clean that new orifice my doctor threw in. I don't even know if he had a reason. He had his scalpel and figured "this guy won't say anything."

Why I'm abandoned? I'm not annoying. I don't cough. I don't talk. I don't slick back my hair. I seem to be a pretty decent guy to hang around right now. But I will not see them till next Sunday.
I hope Fox does a news exclusive on how important it is to bathe.
Do these people here think I'm supposed to do it myself. Are the aides and the medical staff walking around, talking about how unhygienic I am?!

The new shift just came. They changed it to CNN. I have feeling they're trying to indoctrinate me. That's what they do. They see a trach and they work with the nursing homes to indoctrinate you. And then they vote for you.
I hope I can talk again. I have so much I want to share about the war. If my family finds out I've been watching CNN, they will kill me. But as I learned from the nursing staff, never listen to your family. Your family is evil.

Mom taught me to not waste time arguing with people. That’s how she got me to go to sleep early.
It was about giving people their space. Allowing for their self-expression. In this Olam, world, there is a lot of selfishness. Not Mom. Mom, always focused on the other person's needs. Those needs never included myself skipping school.

(Vayikra 25:10) "And you shall sanctify the fiftieth year, and proclaim freedom in the land for all who all its inhabitants. (Yovel) It shall be a Jubilee for you, and you shall return each man to his property, and you shall return each man to his family." And I am hoping that jerk gives me back the Mickey Mantle card he lied about when I was a kid.
In Yovel, slaves become free. Slaves are given their freedom of movement and are thus free. (Ramban). When people can move as they please, they are free.
The year of rest. The year of Yovel. The year of "Dror." Freedom. A year where kids shouldn't have to go to school.
"And man shall return to his inheritance." Returning to who you are. It is that return that gives Dror. Freedom. And my Mickey Mantle back.

Mom, Necha Bat Rav Chayim Zaydel vRiva Leah, passed away in a year of Yovel, Jubilee, after a life in this physical world of giving us all Nechama, comfort. She did this by allowing people to be who they are. By respecting what is theirs. Giving and accepting.
This acceptance of individuality gave people freedom of movement to be who they are as people, as Jews. Never wavering her commitment to Torah, she never used Torah to judge one’s personality. She used it to follow in Gd's ways, and to allow people to make very dumb decisions.
That gift of freedom and non-judgmental acceptance allows for celebration. And Rebbetzin Kilimnick gave everybody celebration.

About Taste You Don't Argue
Mommy always said "Al Taam vReyach Ein LHitvakeiach." "When it comes to taste and smell, there isn't what to argue about." She said it in Hebrew, which made it sound Biblical. Which means it's true.
Mommy and Abba always used Hebrew or Yiddish to make a point. I learned at a young age that you can't argue anything said in another language. Especially when you don't understand it.
I learned later on that it has to be said in Hebrew. In English, the saying doesn't rhyme.  
Mom allowed people freedom. She allowed people to be who they are. And that is Kadosh.

Mommy repeated it a lot. It was Mom's mantra. Whenever giving advice. And it manifested itself. I had no idea what it meant. If she would've just said it in English. As I recently learned later, it means “other people are very stupid. Don’t waste your time arguing with them.”
For years, we had arguments. "I hate soccer." "Al Taam vReyach Ein LHitvakeiach." "OK. Sounds good."
Mom thought I was getting a Jewish education. She thought I understood Hebrew. The only thing I learned in Jewish day school is that other Jewish kids also don't know Hebrew. I definitely don't understand transliteration. I now know that "Al" doesn't mean AI.
Al means "on." It might mean "about," or "when it comes to." With an Aleph it means "don't." It means too many things, and I stopped trying in fourth grade.

It was a matter of acceptance. Even when Mom came to my comedy and karaoke club, she accepted everybody. Along with Abba, she encapsulated a Yiddishkeit, a way of Jewish life, that people wanted to attach to. One in which they weren't judged for being a weirdo. A Yiddishkeit in which you could be free to serve Gd as somebody who has fondness of singing off tune.

Mom Wanted Me to Think of Others
When I think about other people, I like to think how they're wrong.
Al Taam vReyach Ein LHitvakeiach is about thinking of the other. About making them happy. About appreciating their thoughts. Nothing to do with arguments. That's why we gave gifts all the time. They start arguing with you, you give them a little trinket of a rebbe, they stop arguing with you.
I was into my own stuff. Mom wanted me to not be selfish. To not be focused just on me.​ Which is why I did not make it to the NBA. 
Mom wanted me to grow up to not be like the eighth-grade jerk who traded me Mike Greenwell cards for a Mickey Mantle and told me I was getting a great deal. How could I argue with him. He was very happy getting the Mickey Mantle. Al Taam vReyach Ein LHitvakeiach. If I only knew what it meant. The jerk had a penchant for stealing from people. Mom would've been proud of me if I had told her I gave away three thousand dollars because an eighth grader said, "You're getting such a good deal. I'm only happy, because I’m happy for you."

Mommy thought about other people, and she wanted me to think about other people. We even wrapped gifts. Half of my childhood I remember wrapping up stuff for other people. "Why do they get a Nintendo? I would like one of those." I think the Nintendo is enough. No. It has to be wrapped and personalized. A note, "This Nintendo is not for David."
It was about celebrating the other person's uniqueness, even if they liked carrots and peas in a can. To this day, I still don't know who's buying that stuff.
We would personalize the gift. Celebrate each unique person. 
Al Taam VaReaich. You get a gift you don't like, you can't argue. We thought it was a good idea. A gift specifically for you. My nephew hadn't learned that yet, when we gave him a train set for his birthday. He wanted the one with more colors. And so, he rightfully threw it and cursed out his Bubbie. 

Mom Was an Excellent Cook
Finally I moved to Israel. I realized the saying meant, "Don't argue with Sefardim about food." If they like it spicy, don't judge them.
Mom was an amazing cook. Great Taam. Loved her food. B"H my sister does a great job with Mom's food. Duck sauce chicken, amazing pies, quiches, Kugels, best lasagna, oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. I can go on with the different dishes that made me fat.
The only person who argued with Mom’s taste was a Sefardi guy who made a point of saying the food has no taste. Apparently, if it's not Schug, it has no taste. I guess he didn't understand the saying, and that Ashkenazim have different taste. And he would argue about it. This guy needs Schug in everything. He needs his lemon pie Charif. The guy needs his desserts spicy. "Oatmeal cookies with Schug and Hilbeh. Disgusting. Who eats like this?! Who eats sweat desserts?! Ashkenazim."
I will say, you can argue when somebody makes duck sauce chicken wrong. Even so, Mom never made somebody feel bad for their food.​ It was their taste. Even if they are Sefardic.

Mom would bake the pecan pie for people. Because somebody wanted it. Somebody had that taste. Everybody had their taste and everybody like pecan pie with chocolate chips. Mom was a master of chocolate chip usage.
And I can't cook.

Celebrate Others
Everybody has different tastes and there is so much beauty out there. This lesson of different tastes and celebrating uniqueness had me ending up on a lot of really bad dates.
I will always remember the uniqueness of the jerk that lied to a sixth grader and ripped him off. Taking his Mickey Mantle. I truly do see that guy's uniqueness as a Ganev.
​
Mom brought comfort to people celebrating their individual freedom to be themselves and to smell bad. Come to think of it, Mom never told anybody they smelled disgustingly bad.
At camp, when I was sleeping next to a guy that smelled disgusting, she gave me soap to give to him. His name was not on it. It should've been. The soap should've been inscribed, "Shower. You smell disgusting."  
Thanks to Mom, I didn't argue with him about his smell. I just gave him soap. It was always a matter of making people feel good. Feeling good for who they are. Make them feel good for smelling disgusting.
Mom taught us all to be a Nechama. Be a comfort. Don't be an argument. And in the case of the guy who never showered, Mom taught me to be a kind solution and passive aggressive.

Lessons Learned
Don't argue, unless if somebody says something really dumb. Something political. Like, "Obama and Biden were great presidents."
When it comes to dating, "Al Taam VaReiach Yesh LiHitvakeiach."

You notice people's taste, you bring them pecan pie, you bring them happiness. People have their own thing. Their own taste. Once you understand that you can be kind. Tell that to the Sefardi guy that's still complaining about Ashkenazi food. Ashkenazim uniquely still can't handle Charif. They can taste stuff that doesn’t burn their mouth.

Mom focused on others. That's how she brought comfort. True to her name, Necha.
You felt good when you were around my Mom. You were comfortable. You could celebrate. You could be yourself. You could be free. And she had a whole community celebrating.
When you recognize what belongs to people, when you recognize their identity, their family, their needs, their uniqueness, how much they messed up, that is when you make things holy. Mom lived a holy life.
Jubilee. Sounds close enough to jubilation. By allowing all the comfort of personal expression, Mom brought joy to this Olam.

And what was Mom's freedom. Her being. The laughter, the kindness, the smile, the listening, the giving, the Torah, being a comfort to all.
I learned so much from Mom's example and Mom's teachings. And I now know people are idiots. Don't waste time arguing with them.

The Yovel year came and I did not get my Mickey Mantle card back. That guy owes it to me. That thief. 
I will not get over the Mickey Mantle.

***For an Aliyas Neshama for Rebbetzin Nechie Kilimnick נחה בת חיים זיידאל וריבה לאה ע"ה and all the unique Tzadikim who made and continue to make this Olam a great life.

You can't cry in the waiting room. You need a spot. You need a private spot, especially if you're crying and changing your outfit. 
You can’t get out the real tears in public. You can bring the end cry to the people, but the climax cry is a private thing.

Location of the Cry Spot
You need your cry spot to be within crying distance. That is the distance needed for a tissue when getting out a sneeze. Once you get that feeling in your nose, it could be a cry or a sternutation. At that point you don't know. Either way, it will end up as sinusitis. 
You need spots. Every twenty feet, you have to know where your nearest cry spot is. Exits and cry spots. You don't want to be choking on your cries because your closest cry spot is thirty feet in the other direction. And you don't want to get caught in a cry when there's a fire.

Bathrooms Are Useful
Know where your bathrooms are. There is no better place to cry.
You can start your cry in the waiting room, but you can’t get out the real one in front of everybody. The general big cry starts in the waiting room, goes to the hallway, ends in the bathroom. The bathroom is where the real cry comes out.
Make sure it’s not a multiple stall bathroom. You can't get out a full on cry when a guy in the stall next to you is peeing. 
Only thing that can make crying with a guy in the stall next to you comfortable is a guy crying in the stall next to you. That kind of shared cry could last hours. You hear their cry, they hear you cry, tears are built. You feed off each other.
Bathrooms also provide paper towels. They're full of paper towels there because they know that tissues do not suffice for SICU tears. That first week in the ICU, those are the kind of tears that need paper towel. Industrial. Brown. Not rippable paper towels. The kind of towels that leave a mark when you dry your face, and a papercut.

Never Take the Stairs
Some people have their cry spot in the stairwell. Rookie mistake. Too many people there.
After a couple of weeks of being at the hospital, people start working out at the hospital. They stop taking the elevator. Something happens where they see sick people and they start thinking, "I have to work out." They pass the cardiac unit and they're thinking, "We need to do more cardio." Next think you know, they're walking. They're taking the stairs.This is why you never see the medical staff on the elevators. They see too many sick people.
People are trying to keep in shape, now there's one less place to cry. You just can't cry in the stairwell anymore. Too many walking groups there. People going up a couple of flights talking about their kids.
And the nursing staff is taking two stairs at a time, screaming "LEFT." You can't cry when people are yelling "LEFT." You start to get the feeling you're swimming laps, and nobody has ever cried in a pool.

Have Spots Near the Room
The emotion in the room is a different level. You need a spot within ten feet. 
Mom’s room is where the real emotion is at. That's where the real cries come, in the room. You think bawling and snot phlegming is a big cry. You don't know what a cry is until you've seen your loved one come back to this world. That's a loud cry. Tears coming out of the soul. Christians have been crying for two thousand years.
Any tiny movement is huge. That first show of life on the vent. You cry. You see your loved one after surgery open their eyes, you start thinking "eyes work?!" Can't explain it. You just cry.
That's why family loves going to the hospital for surgeries. They want to get out a good cry. That cry you can't get out when the toaster stops working. An appliance breaks, you show to the hospital. "They winked with her eyes closed!!! They understand!!!" You can get out that cry for having to eat a thawed room temperature bagel.
And each time it's a different cry. Can't explain it. This is why you need spots within ten feet. This is why many rooms in the ICU have their own bathroom. You think the guy that just got out of open heart surgery yesterday needs a bathroom?! It's for family to cry.
Your mom's room doesn't have a bathroom. Jump into one of the other rooms. They're on vents, they just got out of surgery, they can't say anything.

Avoid Contact Upon Return
When returning from your cry spot, anything can set you off. Avoid all people. A touch will set off a post cry. A passing shoulder rub will have you on the floor bawling. Anything anybody says can set you off. Avoid all questions. Answering any questions about how you are will set off cry puddles.
Get out your cry. Come back. Pretend like nobody notices, with your bloodshot eyes. "I got it. All is good." And don't say "all good." Not even to yourself. You say "all is good," tears are pouring again. "All good" is a cry trigger. The words of self-console bring them back even stronger.
Upon return, go to a corner. The walls are a cry buffer.

More Good Cry Spots
Corner rooms. They're out of the way. Even if there's a patient in there, they're probably on morphine. 
Nursing stations. Most of them are on their phones anyways. They won't notice.
​Your car. Issue with the car is you can't drive that into the hospital, unless if you really hate the medical staff.
Elevators. If you can time your cry for eight seconds, the elevator can give you the necessary privacy.
In some hospitals, nobody can find elevators. With all the different colors and letters that don't match up, nobody can find them. In those hospitals, elevator corridors can be a good couple minutes of cry. 
Thinking of it, that's probably why so many people take the stairs. They can't find the elevators.
You have to know your hospital's culture. If you're in a very out of shape hospital, take the stairs. You have to judge your population before picking your spots.
The emergency room. The ER has a lot of curtains, and nobody keeps track of what is going on in that place. Take a curtain, pull it shut, and cry until a nurse thinks you're another crackhead and kicks you out.
The ER is also good, as nobody cares what's happening in there. People are screaming, blood flying out of their torso, nobody cares. You cry, nobody will notice.
Corners. If you can't find a corner room, corners work. You bring the cry to the corner, you have now triangulated your cry, blocking it with two walls and your back. It's also symbolic, like Gd has brought you to the ICU and put you in timeout. 

The Huddle Hug
In lieu of a spot, you can huddle hug in the waiting room. Get the family huddled together, making for a private family crying spot in public. Call the kids. "Everybody in. We need a cry."
The huddle hug takes family understanding and coordination. I don't believe most of these new families in the waiting room have any chance at coordinating a huddle hug. Half of them can't figure out hospital parking.
Only problem with the huddle hug is it looks too much like a family prayer circle. And the huddle hug touch of others will make you cry more. It’s a catch twenty-two. The huddle hug obstructs the tear view of the spectator, yet forces all within the group huddle to profuse their sob.
To note: Group crying is acceptable.​

Conclusion
You need private cry spots. Not a public cry spot. It's not a cry meeting.

Bathrooms are the best cry spots. Locate all bathrooms in the hospital. That includes rooms of patients. You may come off as a bit of a peeper, but at least you will know where the private bathrooms are.
Bathrooms have paper towels, privacy, and they give you a mirror to remind you how you look when you're beaten up by tragedy. Without the bathroom mirror, you wouldn't be able to see what you look like when you have no hope.

Don't think you're better than the cry spot. Anything can set you off. Somebody saying, "We care." It will get you going.
If I can't find a cry spot, I'm listening to Billy Joel. You can't cry when listening to Billy Joel.

Reconnoiter the hospital. First thing, when you show up to the hospital and find out your loved one on a vent, you scout the hospital. You study the unit color schemes and how those can lead you to private bathrooms and elevators. And ask the nurse for crushed ice. Crushed ice is amazing. Truly brings joy to the ICU experience.​

Yes. I cry.  Call me weak. I tend to cry when somebody I love is on a ventilator. I can't tell you when I'm going to cry. But it will happen. And people judge.

You Can't Cry in Front of People
You can cry in front of people. You just can't really cry in front of people. You can't cry and shriek in front of people. There is crying etiquette that is paramount when you're in the SICU worrying about pending death. When your loved one got hit by a car, your focus should be on decorum.
In public, you have to keep your cry at low volume. Low volume with no "Oh L-rd!!!" You can't add a prayer to your tears. And you can't get out a yowl. They'll think a dog got run over and checked itself into the ICU.

It's Not Acceptable in the Hospital
You can’t get out the full cry in the waiting room. You can’t get out the disgusting looking monster full on breakdown cry in front of others. For some reason, other people stay away from loud cries. And cries with excretion. The sinus cry is not acceptable. Snot mucus streams are still not publicly acceptable. 
For some reason, it's not acceptable to bawl in the hallway of a hospital. People are dying. You would think the one spot people wouldn't judge you for crying is the SICU. Everybody in those rooms looks like they're dying or dead. You look at those machines with the squiggly lines and numbers, and you're thinking, "I have to say Tehillim. A few Psalms." And mucus extends from your orifices. 
Psalms is the immediate response to, "I really don't think the doctors have any idea."

In private, you can scream, pray and snot all over. 
The only acceptable cry in front of other people is a When Harry Met Sally reunite cry. That's acceptable. A family member on a vent who you're hoping isn't dead, you can't let that out in front of other people. That cry is not acceptable.
Point is you need your spot. ​

The Big Cry is Going to Hit That First Week
The new group just came in this weekend. They're crying and they weren't prepared. Now I have to see this.
You've got to prepare for the cry. New people don't know this. They think they're going to show up to the hospital, see their four-year-old nephew missing a limb, on a ventilator, and they're going to head out to a dance party.
There is not one person who has a heart and doesn’t have their big cry. Your loved one is in life threat and you are crying. It happens in SICU, surgery, emergency, the car on the way home. It is going to hit you somewhere. The bigger you are, the more you cry. Those extra pounds on the waist, tears are coming out of that.

The biggest cries are the first week. You are broken. After that, you accept that life sucks. You settle into strokes, heart attacks, aids, cancer, aneurisms, pneumonia, car wrecks, no blood. Loved ones on vents becomes a regular thing. You crack jokes, watch the game, try to figure out your next trip to Disney, start petitioning the congregation about wheelchair access. You become an activist all the sudden. You develop an internal cry in your soul that lasts fifteen years. 
It's almost as bad as breaking up.

New Families are Intruding on Our Space
A lot of new people. It was a dangerous weekend on the streets of Hackensack, New Jersey. I don’t need the news to know what is going on. I see the families funneling in. I know who got hit by a car, and I can verify the shooting.
The new families are here and the new flow of crying is on. It's amazing how the waiting room culture just changed, due to five motorcycle accidents. Nobody tells these people about waiting room etiquette. Stuff they should know. Like the three couches in the room belong to the Kilimnick family.

The Cry Spot Must Be Close
Just had a cry. I wasn't prepared. Rookie mistake. I had a deep inhale cry with a "fufufufufufu." No idea how my exhale came out as a "fufufufufufu." Like somebody turned down the thermostat as emotions hit. And orifice phlegm made it into the "fufufufufufu."
You don't know when the cry will hit. That's why you need many spots. It's not like you have time to get home. It hits you fast. It's not like you can hold it in till you have your own bathroom. 
Carrying a commode with you, so you have a clean place to poo in hospitals, something else you should prepare for. We shall deal with that another time.

No Spot Makes It Weird
It's awkward when you don't have a spot. These new guys don't have their cry spot yet. I feel bad. But what I am going to do? Say "good luck"?
I just saw somebody bawling. Something to do with his daughter falling off her bike and not being able to breath. Just awkward. I don't know if he expected me to hug him. 
I felt bad. It was a painful sight. I had to be the one to tell him, "Get a spot. We all have dying people here. None of us know what to do." I wanted to help. I said, "I can see you're holding in your cry. You've got more in there. There's not one snot ball coming out of your nose. You need a real cry right now. You love your daughter. And we want to love her too. But we don't. You can't get in a good 'Oh L-rd' in front of us. You need to find a spot."
​I have a heart. I care. I want to be here for you. But you cry in the waiting room, you get nothing. You need a spot. Unless if the doctor comes. Anytime a doctor comes out to the waiting room, you have a right to cry. We all get that. No doctor has ever walked into a waiting room to let everybody know how happy they are that they got a hole in one.

Prepare Your Spot
​The problem is they don't have a cry spot yet. They didn't prepare. They didn't scout out the hospital before the accident to figure out where the best place to get out the big cry is.
This is why I suggest scoping out the hospital before family ends up in the ICU. Do it when people are healthy. I'm not suggesting you pray for your family to end up in the SICU, so you can cry together. I'm suggesting you visit a sick friend. Somebody who you don't care that much about. A community member. Visit them. Take notes of the different areas. Find out where the corner rooms are. Corner rooms are potential cry spots. Your family ends up in the ICU, Chas vShalom, you need to cry, you go in there and cry. It's a spot. Don't worry about the recovering guy on a vent who just had their heart sliced open. It's fine. He won't disturb you. He's probably asleep.

There are right ways to handle your cry. Crying etiquette, and Kilimnick couch etiquette. I can't reiterate that enough. They need signs, "Please don't disturb others with your love for somebody who might die. And the couches in the waiting room have been claimed by the Kilimnick family."

Conclusion
You need a cry spot for the real cries. The heartfelt tears. If you have no heart, and your cry is a single tear, you don't need a spot.
We have one uncle who doesn't cry. He says he has to be strong for the family. He has no heart.

I don't like the new group. They don't know which couches are ours yet. They're ruining the waiting room dynamic. We are having a sign made for our couches.

I will fight until the snot mucus monster cry is publicly acceptable. We will not have an emotionally sound society until snot mucus is accepted by all.
"fufufufufufu." Until then, I will try to find more cry spots for everybody.

***Thoughts From a Waiting Room are thoughts revisited from 2019-20 in 2026 form. LRefuah Sheleyma LKol HaCholim and shared laughter with their family and friends, bZchut Avi HaRav Yeshaya Ben Yechezkel HaLevi ZT"L vImi HaRabbanit Necha Bat Chayim Zeydel A"H LAliyat Nishmatam.

Music came on. I forgot about that stuff. The TV has been on news. I've been focusing on hearing about how people end up in the ICU.
I heard some music on the way over to the hospital. I started crying, and that was it. I knew it was the right thing for the waiting room. I'm now playing music on my phone. That's the music medium in the ICU. You get to listen to a song, until you get a call from your aunt.
​I've been tasked with setting the crying mood. The sentimental song mood. Let's be honest. Nobody tasked me with it. I tasked myself. I need to feel like I'm doing something in the ICU. Doctors are coming around, ensuring people's limbs are still attached. Nurses are checking to make sure the blood is still there. I'm DJing. We all have our tasks. We all give back in our own way.

Got to Pick the Right Music
I take my jobs seriously.
I'm not DJing a dance party. I realized real quick, the Bee Gees is not proper mood music for the waiting room. Even if it's catchy. Some of those songs aren't meant for people with family on a ventilator.
"Stayin' Alive" is a catchy tune. Not a good waiting room pick. Doesn't set the right background vibe for an invasive procedure. It shouldn't have been in the mix. Youtube did it. It wasn't the uplifter I would've thought it to be.

Songs Make Me Cry
Songs, especially Dveykus songs from Tehillim, will make you cry. King David's Psalm about looking up to a mountain for help to guitar and harmony. It hits the heart. King David didn't have doctors. He had mountains.
A James Taylor song, that will set me off. "You've Got a Friend." I need one now and I’m crying. Anything that is meant to be sung in a circle, I’m crying. It’s the spherical unity.
I've cried to Chicago. Peter Cetera touches the heart. Excellent for the ICU. If somebody got hit by a car while breaking up, that would truly bring the tears. "You're the Inspiration" is in the mix. Thought you should know that. It's in every one of my mixes. Mood, happy, dance, ICU. Break up. I listen to the break up mix a lot. A lot of breaking up.
Billy Joel still doesn't make me cry. Wu-Tang's "Never Again," I'm crying in a strong way. A man cry. Fist to my mouth, athlete cry, to cover up my mouth tears. That rap about the Holocaust hits you.

Billy Joel Doesn't Make Me Cry
I took Billy Joel out of the sentimental medley.
I listen to Billy Joel, I can’t cry. His saddest song is "Uptown Girl."
"We Didn’t Start the Fire," I’m rocking to it. He makes death and murder sound happy. "Only the Good Die You’ung. Only the good die you'ung." It's the “u” continuation. Something about extending "young" makes me want to bop. I hear him and I'm bopping to the good dying. When Billy Joel sings it, I'm kind of fine with people passing before their time. Though, it's very relevant to the parents with the young boy on a vent, it's too upbeat for the ICU. 
And other families are sleeping in the ICU. You've got to keep the music soft.

Jewish Songs
Uncle Moishy singing "Ain't Going to Work on Saturday" is not going to get the tears rolling. Nonetheless, it's a strong message. And sometimes you want to spread the message of Shabbat to the people in the waiting room.
Avraham Fried's "No Jew Will Be Left Behind." That will get you crying. Might have the other people in the waiting room wondering what kind of lyrics these are. And why they haven't heard that song on the Top Forty charts.
Any Jewish song that has Tehillim in it, I'm crying. I say Psalms all the time now. Signing them. That's a new level of wetness. That next level of Dveykus singalong, you start singing, you're swaying, pulling out a candle, sharing stories about family weekends and crying. And the other people in the waiting room are trying to figure out why you pulled out a guitar while their family is trying to have a conversation. Wondering if you have anybody in the hospital, and why you're not singing in English.
Basically, any Frum Hebrew song, I am crying. Unless if Billy Joel is singing it. I'm not crying if Billy Joel is singing about looking up at the mountains to find a girl. Somewhere on Eighty-Sixth Street.

It Takes a Lot to DJ the Room Right
We’re constantly figuring out what to play in mom's room. There's the waiting room, where you want to claim the space with your music and chase other families away from the couch. And then there's mom's room.
Post surgery can be a tough time to listen to music. So, you want to keep it soft. Soft rock 101.3 is generally good. The problem is you wake up, Delilah starts talking, and you're questioning if your spouse left you.
You want the cry songs in the room. It's just picking the right ones. 
We figured a few out for the room. Basically, anything you can play in the waiting room without offsetting somebody hearing about a family member dying, is fine.
We've taken to the Jewish music, especially Dveykus. Their songs were made for tragedy. It's the gift of tragedy in harmony form. Note: Do not play the Bee Gee's "Tragedy." Make sure that's not in the mix.
We also have Jeff Braverman in there. Something about his voice is very soothing. It's not an Israeli accent, but it kind of is. It's like a soft Israeli accent if an Israeli was from Montreal and never lived in Israel.
The Carpenters. Great. "Close to You." Has there ever been a better song to elicit recovery? The answer is NO. You hear that song and you heal. And then you think about birds. 
Creed. Another amazing Christian rock band for Jews. They truly make death spiritual.

Not Every Song Works
You've got to keep control. Not everybody's music is ICU friendly. My brother-in-law wants to play Metallica and Papa Roach. "Last Resort." Again. Not a good song. Not proper. "Cut my life into pieces. This is my last resort. Suffocation. No breathing." Again. Not proper. Even if it is relatable. 
This is why I've taken control of the DJing. 
You need a vast music library for different medical situations. I will say this one last time, "Death metal is not proper in the surgical intensive care unit." 
And I have made the decision to leave out the rap about the Holocaust. Thought that might be a bit of an intense mood song while on morphine.
And Snoop Dogg singing about sipping his gin and juice is not the proper mood music of choice. The ICU in Hackensack doesn't support smokin in the waiting room.

​Conclusion
Any song that reminds you of camp is good for the ICU. Thank Gd I didn’t have to sleep on a bunkbed in the waiting room. I played my music, chased out the other families, put two couches together and got some good sleep.
 
Billy Joel is too happy for the waiting room. I have taken him out of my intensive care mix. And that's what I call it. And I've given the mix to some friends that I don't like.

Picking the right songs is not easy. You would think Clapton's "Tears in Heaven" would work. That's not the right song for the ICU waiting room. You want to stay away from songs about death, even if they touch the heart. "Dust in The Wind" isn't a waiting room song. It's more of a euthanasia mood song. And there's no ward for that. 
Reminder: Hold off on "Only the Good Die Young." It’s a waiting room mood killer.
If I was writing a Jewish musical, a boy looking for a girl from a good well to do family would be singing "Uptown Girl."

Though the right music is important, I don't bring my phone around to random families in the intensive care, letting them know I have songs that might help. You have to DJ your own tragedy. You can't DJ other people's pain, as enjoyable as it might be to be sitting there, staring at them, playing the song that you feels fits their tears. 
I thought The Carpenters was a perfect pick, when they first got into the waiting room. I looked up at them to provoke some reassurance. A little support. All they gave me was a “why are you looking at us like that.”

It seems that not everybody in the waiting room has my taste in music. Once you go over the river from Teaneck to Hackensack you run into some nonJews who don’t connect with Dveykus and Safam. They didn’t get a good Hebrew school education.
I'm going to invest is some waiting room earbuds. Some people get real mad about James Taylor. They don't like his music, and that is where evil people come from. 

***Thoughts From a Waiting Room are thoughts revisited from 2019-20 in 2026 form. LRefuah Sheleyma LKol HaCholim and shared laughter with their family and friends, bZchut Avi HaRav Yeshaya Ben Yechezkel HaLevi ZT"L vImi HaRabbanit Necha Bat Chayim Zeydel A"H LAliyat Nishmatam.

The family is here today. It must be a Sunday.
It's not a Tuesday. People do not come on Tuesdays. Law and Order is on Tuesdays. And they don't come Wednesdays or Thursdays. Law and Order is on.
Chas vShalom, Gd forbid, they should take off of work for a loved one who almost died. But I wouldn't want them to feel any guilt.
It's been three days and nobody has been here. Just the nurse. The nurse is not related to me, which is why he comes. He gave me a sponge bath. Which isn't really even a bath. He thinks he's cleaning a dish. I was like a very heavy piece of porcelain. He sponged me till he saw suds, then he shined my forehead. He even looked at my foot to see if it sparkled. He did a breath on it, then rubbed it with a towel.
I'm guessing the bath would be more enjoyable if it was not given to me by Bob. Even so, I do feel clean. Kind of like fine china.

Maybe it was the trach that got me down. Just got that put in yesterday. I hope the family was praying. I like when people pray for me. Focusing on me in their relationship to Gd. 
Maybe they didn't see me because they were sitting in the waiting room together, praying. Or doing what our family does and waiting in the waiting room. We wait. That's what we do. We like to sit there and wait, and worry. We worry while not looking at each other and focusing on our phones. As long as we're worrying in the waiting room and texting, we feel like we're doing the right thing. Family member gets out of surgery and we leave. We did our thing, we waited. We leave. That's what Engelmans do.
We are very good at leaving. We do not wait around after we've waited. My mom left my dad at a wedding with no ride. She waited five minutes and left. She looked around, noticed it wasn't a waiting room, nobody was in surgery, she asked why she was waiting, she left. Dad was stuck in the Five Towns, trying to find a way back to Hackensack.

So now, I'm kind of feeling good today. I'm still out if it, but people are here. And that makes me feel good.
They're talking about me again. It feels good to have people around focusing on me. They're not praying. When they're here, I would rather them talk. I like prayer, but it's not good for discussion. I can't hear what they're saying to Gd. It's not a good conversation when they're mumbling incoherent Hebrew sentences to me.
They're just focused on me. But not praying. Thinking about, right now I can use some prayers. There's a huge tube coming out of my neck. I need the prayers right now. When you see a tube coming out of an orifice that was not created at birth, that's a good time to pray.

It's good to have the focus on me. I don't think I've got a birthday call for over a decade. At least the stroke got people thinking about Phillip.
I feel like I'm doing a Mitzvah, taking their focus off their daily grind. I'm bringing family together. That's what my stroke is. A family unifier. Our family comes together for sickness. Nobody shows up for Bar Mitzvahs. They show up for strokes and cancer. We unite for sickness. Our family connects with illness.
We love ailment. We need invitations for this stuff. "Thelma had another heart attack. Please come. We have pizza, lox and good schmeer in the waiting room. Please come and sit with us as we worry and text as a Mishpuchi."

And they're being decent and kind. Even my brother-in-law hasn't said anything stupid yet. Wait. He just mentioned the trach. It would take this fool to get everybody thinking about the trach. I thought nobody noticed. I was trying to be discreet about it. I tried telling the doctor the tube is too big. I knew people would notice the plastic coming out of my neck.
Now they're all talking about the trach. My cousin can't stand the trach. She just left. Can somebody tell her I'm disgusted by her too. Still using gel like it's the '80s.
And they are still not praying. Can't they tell I need prayers? Tefillah? Isn't a huge tube and human dissection a sign that they should start praying? What does my family need to start Davening to H'? Do they need to see the actual blood squirting at that moment? That is the one moment they would pray and not help. They would let the blood go and ask Gd to somehow stop it with a tourniquet. The Engelmans are a useless people. I would probably also stand there and start praying that somebody useful would come and take care of it.
And they are still talking about the trach and how I look like I have another limb coming out of my throat. Looking like a mouthclops. It was cute that my nephew came up with me looking like a dinosaur that he created. How about Tehillim?!

Why is nobody talking about Pesach? When is Pesach. What are we going to do? Who is cleaning the house?!
Shoot I just pooped. I hope they didn't notice. They're leaving the room. They know.

Now I’m alone again. I was doing good till they all started focusing on the trach. They all saw the trach. The thing coming out of me. It's embarrassing. If they were saying how cool it looked, I would've been good with it.
I know they're all talking about it on their way home. How do you see a trach and not talk about it. It's not like I dyed my hair and now they can't see the greys. It's an orifice that is now closed with a digital monitor.
Is the nurse coming? If they know I pooped, why are they not getting the nurse. Nurses don't come for poops. It's not like my poop shows up on the screen next to my oxygen level.

What is wrong with my nephews?!
The waiting room is not the right place to play Spit. Spit generates too much excitement for those waiting to hear if their family member is alive.
If you're not nervous enough about having to be in the waiting room, hearing a loved one might die, watching a game of kids play Spit will push you over the edge. That is why kids should not be visiting the hospital and sitting around people. Kids should just not be around people.
My nephews are smacking the table, yelling "Oh no." Everybody was worried something happened. Every single person in the waiting room ran to the ICU unit crying, checking on their loved one.

Loss Can Be Devastating
Guy to my left is bawling. It’s his first day in SICU. Everybody cries the first day. After the first day, the family can care less. They've already let out their emotions. What will be will be. From that point on they leave it in Gd's hands. Prayers are less emphatic.
I can care less who stabbed your brother or who put out the hit. You are crying. I felt bad for the guy. He’s shedding tears. I look to my right, my nephew is cheering, "Spit! Got you!"
My other nephew starts crying to his dad, because he lost. That is not the right kind of crying for the waiting room; unless if it brings back flashbacks to times he lost at War. Maybe he was thinking about Uno. Loss can be devastating.

You Need Games
I think we're the only family who turned the ICU waiting area into a game room. One of my nieces asked if they had a PlayStation.
After the first week of crying, you start to need the games, to soften the intensity. Though you shouldn’t be pulling out fun ICU games that are too energetic, like hockey or Spit. You shouldn’t be playing tag in ICU.
The waiting room is more for games like Chess and Gin Rummy. Games that don’t make noise, where you look meditative, which also looks sad. Solitaire. Play solitaire.
The quiet game can also work. That's my favorite game to play with my nephews.

Just Don't Play
No. You don’t play Uno. No game with screaming. No Bingo in ICU. Yelling “Bingo” doesn't hit the right feeling of intensive care.
You play Bingo when you make it out of ICU and end up at the nursing home rehab.

Think About Who's Around
You don’t know when there will be a first dayer. I feel like I want to coach the waiting room rookies.
There's the right place for things. And it's usually Never. Dad is crying and next to him, a cousin is listening to a funny Mother’s Day video of little kids crying. It's not always the right place for Spit.
The greatest memory from sickness is when a cousin is shooting all of us their pictures from the family vacation in Hawaii. My father ZT"L responds, "I have cancer."
When the proctor croaked our regents, I asked a buddy if he wanted to play ping pong. I thought that was the right time for ping pong. When is the wrong time for ping pong? According to my buddy, "Somebody passing out and possibly dying is not the right time."
I pray the guy’s brother is going to be OK. Kind of hard to think about that though, when you're in the middle of a competitive game of Spit.
"Want to play Spit?" "My brother just got ran over and stabbed."

Meditation does look sad. Next time my nephews play Spit, I'll make sure they look meditative.

I am here. In the hospital. It's probably day 35. I'm working with day 3. Things move slower when they throw a trach in you.

I know it's Chanukah. People are celebrating Christmas.
Some lady came around with a Santa hat. That was the holiday. Nothing for Chanukah. When you're sick and you can't talk, you're Christian.
The chaplain came around. That was nice. He gave me a blessing and an ornament. He just hung the ornament on me. He figured, "The guy can't move. That's good enough." Then he started caroling.
I think it has to do with Engelman. They think it's Engelhardt and they start giving me sacraments. Right now, I'm worried whenever they bathe me. I don't know if they're trying to clean me or convert me. If I had more of a name like Goldberg, Irving Goldberg, people would know.
Maybe if my family was around and put up something in my room, other than a card from my boss, who is Christian, they might know I'm Jewish.

No Chanukah gifts. I got a Chanukah card that said "Get Well Soon." When you're in the hospital, all cards are the same.
It was a "Get Well Soon" card. The card didn't say, "We hope to see you at home soon." I don't think anybody wants to see me at home. You don't usually see the cripple at shul. They don't like seeing wheelchairs at synagogue. People see a guy in a wheelchair, with a trach and an oxygen tank, and they start to think Gd doesn't answer prayers.

Last days, people have stopped coming. They figure, they don’t want to me to
expect it. I might complain. I can’t talk!!!
They must be mad I missed the softball game. They were depending on me. Your team has got to be real bad to be hoping the guy in the wheelchair loaded on morphine can take over the game. Maybe they were hoping I would get walked. Or pushed.

Family stopped by for a minute. That was nice. They popped in to tell me they were going to a Chanukah party. They thought I would appreciate knowing they are not going to be with me.
There is this concept that you can't be happy in hospital. Then what do you expect from me. Stuck to a bed. Staring at a screen that has squiggly lines all over it, and numbers that nurses don't seem to like.
My whole family is convinced you can't celebrate in the hospital. The hospital is not the place for holidays. And it's not a place to visit your dad.
Forget about a party. They didn't even acknowledge the holiday in my room. Do I not deserve the right to get a Chanukiah. I would like the holiday candelabrum. I guess they think it’s dangerous to light when you have an oxygen machine. The priest is at least trying. He keeps asking the nurses when he'll be able to put a cracker in my mouth.

Where the hell is my family? I don't care it's a holiday. It's not like they have ever enjoyed the community parties. They complain about it all the time.
I guess it has something to do with ICU. Maybe the ICU is a downer. We'll see what happens when I'm out of here.
Wait. There's a waiting room here. My parents are loving the hospital. The waiting room is a family reunion. Everybody loves it. Friends pop over to those things. Nothing is more enjoyable for a family than surgery. Everybody gets together.
They should be celebrating a Chanukah party in the waiting room. Maybe that sounds off. Big parties in the waiting room and other families are coming in trying to figure out if the doctor is right and they should pull the plug. "You want some Chanukah Gelt? It's chocolate in silver foil."
I say celebrate it all. Every moment. I’m alive. Celebrate the stroke. And cry. People should cry a little. I want to know people are crying.
You can enjoy the holiday in the hospital. Put up streamers. That's all I want are streamers.

I've started thinking positive and appreciating the small things. That sounds cliche. But when your way of celebrating Chanukah is by seeing nurses in Santa hats, you appreciate it all. So let's count the Chanukah miracles. I coughed today and I didn't get a cramp in my stomach. That made me not want to die. The doctor didn't call me a vegetable or a Chanukiah today. The chaplain thought I was an ornament holder. Did I get any Chanukah gifts? Got a blood transfusion. I guess that was a gift. My butt got wiped today. That was appreciated. Nobody pulled a plug. Thank Gd. My TV is on. They haven't changed the channel from Weather in eight days. But at least no plugs were pulled on me. Maybe my family loves me.
People are caroling. That’s nice. I guess I’ll take those as Jewish songs.

If my kids came around, that would be a miracle.
"Can somebody hear me?! I want streamers!!!! I guess I am not saying anything. Can somebody hear my thoughts?! Steamers!!! It's a holiday. Steamers!!! I need streamers in my room. Stop looking at the machine. Put streamers on it."
We have to celebrate each moment on this earth by doing good. Even when we have it real bad, we need streamers. Maybe that's the morphine talking.
My prayers will be answered if people still appreciate me, and somebody gets streamers. Streamers!!! It's a holiday!!!!

I want my family to go to the shul Chanukah party. But I also want them to come here and tell me how messed up it was. I want them to celebrate with me too.
What I'm trying to say is holidays are about joy. Celebrating is about joy. Not Latkes that turn out to be soggy Tater Tots. That's how Mrs. Pinkowitz makes them. We all know it's Tater Tots. They're tiny round Latkes. The chaplain gets that. My family doesn't get that. And I need streamers!!! Streamers!!!