I recently listened to a daily “wort” entitled 10@9 given by our very dear friend Rabbi Michael Whitman, rav of Congregation Adath Israel of Montreal. Michael and his wife, Marci, have become esteemed members of our family, well loved and respected by each of our children.

I devoured each word said and realized how everything that Rabbi Whitman mentioned was exactly the experience I have had each time we spent time in a hospital family waiting room, be it outside of the ICU, CCU, surgery theater, palliative care unit, etc.

It is certain that each person sitting in those rooms is facing a similar scenario with great trepidation. No matter how minor a surgery might be one never knows the outcome until the physician comes out and declares that “all went well.” That experience continues as agonizing hours often become days as families are awaiting more and more news of the condition of their family member. Suddenly skin color, sexual orientation and religious affiliation become totally unimportant. Crisis of a sickness and possible severe outcomes bring all of the awaiting family members into a camaraderie of being in the same boat.

“I’m going for a coffee, what would you like?” is the question shared with others sitting next to you that you may never have met before this encounter. Tears shed by a stranger’s family member sitting across the room from you after receiving difficult news forces you to want to comfort them as best you can. Laughter at something that no one would generally find funny fills the room when something silly might happen to anyone. All of the trivia we fill our lives with no longer matters. Why are we not able to bring this sense of communal understanding out of this room into other life situations?

I remember sitting in such a room during our daughter Naama’s several visits to the ICU at the Jewish General Hospital in Montreal. To this day we are in touch with some of the families that we met in “that room.” We had the same experience during the six week period in which we took Naama for radiation therapy each day. There was a specific group of about six to eight people who would sit there (some with family members) waiting their turn to be called in for their radiation treatment. Again, we became the “Naama” therapy group since those who really never had any interaction with anyone like Naama suddenly were made aware that she was a person just like everyone else. She sensitized them all to the fact that although she was severely physically handicapped she could laugh and partake in her own way in various discussions of the group.

The bond made during that period of time was strong. Many kept in touch. Some sadly passed away and I grieved together with their families for their loss. How can we move this sense of bonding out of a hospital setting?

My experience was that we as a family received much more support from our friends than did the average person also sitting and waiting. Remember, many were sleeping on chairs with little to comfort them. It reminded me of the following story:

One of my daughters was visiting a child in Sloan Kettering, spending the day there in order to give her mother a break. During the day, many volunteers from Chai Lifeline came in to play with this young girl. Volunteers arrived offering my daughter sandwiches, salads, whatever she would like, also from Chai Lifeline. In the next bed to the little Jewish girl was another child who was recommended for treatment from Iowa. My daughter was “embarrassed” that so many visitors entered their room offering help both to her and the child and watched as the other mother sat there by herself.

It should be noted that the Chai Lifeline volunteers also played with the other child at different times in order not to have her feeling left out. During the later hours of the day, this woman, in speaking to my daughter, spoke of the number of volunteers that had passed by during the day to visit, feed and play. My daughter immediately replied that it has to be very difficult to be so far from home without friends and family close by. The response was instant. “You are Jewish. You take care of each other. We are (I don’t remember); we do not care for each other the same way. I would be alone there as well.”

We need to find a way to encourage these encounters to continue outside of hospital walls. If anyone has developed a kesher (connection) with a total stranger through experiencing a common tragedy let that link continue on. Why must it end as soon as the hospital stay comes to a close, be it either a good or tragic one? How wonderful it would be if we could return home after such an experience and foster a friendship that might bring totally different cultures to be more understanding of each other.

Does everyone have to be Jewish to be included in your family address book? Do not allow a significant critical medical crisis to be the only thing to teach you that we are all humans, suffering and crying as well as celebrating our recoveries with gratitude. Reach out and maybe we will be able to turn our experience into a life-changing friendship.