Each Friday night at Beth Yeshurun we offer a prayer for the sick. "Mi sheberach
avoteinu," "O may He Who blessed our ancestors, bless our loved ones and
friends." On Saturday morning, we go further and actually read the names of
those for whom prayers are on our lips.
For the last two years, Susan Baram's name was on that list. Starting this week,
it is no more.Susan came to Houston some two years ago, the last stop on a
journey from one great medical center to another, to find a way to add years to
her life. An American who made aliyah to Israel many years earlier, Susan
suffered a massive heart attack at the young age of 51. By the time we met her
here in Houston, her heart was only beating at 14 percent of its capacity; she
had precious little energy and her doctors cautioned her against exerting
herself. That didn't stop Susan, though. Week after week, she pushed herself to
leave her apartment and to come to her adopted synagogue, Beth Yeshurun.
Susan was a delightful woman to know and a portrait of courage to all who knew
her.She needed all of that courage and more to endure what awaited her for the
two years she was here.She needed a heart transplant; nothing else would do. And
yet, month after month of treatments were unable to lower her body's antibodies
to a level that would allow a new heart to have a fighting chance in her body.
Each time a new protocol was developed, Susan volunteered if there was even a
chance the experimental treatments might enable her body to accept a new heart.
But none of the treatments worked. In fact, she once told me that, after one
particularly tough go-round, her antibodies were still at their pre-treatment
levels!
Yet she remained confident, almost defiant. "I'm going to lick this, and I'm not
leaving Houston without a new heart." And she always added, "When the day comes
that I die, it will be in Israel from old age, not here. I'm going to get well
and I'm going home."
But two years is an awfully long time. And it took its toll even on someone with
Susan's exuberance and enthusiasm. And so, not many weeks ago, she came to see
me, in tears. Her doctors had given her their prognosis: Her chances of being a
candidate for a heart transplant were only remote, and there was little more
that could be done for her here in Houston. Perhaps, her doctors suggested, she
should make her peace with her situation and enjoy the days, months or years
left to her.
There were no new protocols she could try, except perhaps going to a different
transplant center, but with no guarantees of a transplant here or anywhere else.
And so she came to me, torn, crying.
I urged her not to give up, to grasp at any hand stretched out to her; that if
she was going to die, then die after having exhausted every possibility. And she
left my office feeling, I think, somewhat encouraged and more like the defiant
Susan we had come to know and love.
Then a miracle happened.
Only a few days later, she received a call. A heart was available! An amazing
match just right for a person like Susan with a high antibody count. But she had
to come to the hospital right then, immediately. Her odds of surviving remained
guarded. Though only in her 50s, she was frail and her heart was growing
increasingly weaker. She might not survive the surgery itself; the recovery
would not be easy; and her body might yet reject the new organ.
She, a woman who professed little faith, called me, her rabbi, to please come to
the hospital to be with her. I raced to the operating suite and found her ready
to be sedated. She clutched my hand and pleaded with me to say a prayer, lots of
prayers, and to not let go of her hand until I had to. We said one "Misheberach"
after another- for her well-being, for her soul and her spirit, and for the lev
hadash, the new heart, that was waiting to be placed in her body.
Her two children gathered around her, and together we embraced one another. And
knowing the odds that she was up against, Susan said to her children, "I don't
know what is going to happen to me, but if this is our last time together, then
I want you to have my blessing." And like Jacob, when he gathered his children
and grandchildren around him at the end of his life, Susan proceeded to bless
her children, and to tell them her prayers and wishes for them, and her hopes
for them. She thanked them for all the nachas and love they had given her and
for all that had happened in the last two years that had brought them so close
together.
Then, with tears in everyone's eyes, Susan released my hand and the hands of her
children, and was taken from us, into the operating suite. And now she is gone.
Not from life, but from Houston, for today, this very day, she boarded a plane
to begin that journey home to Haifa, to Eretz Yisrael, to Israel with a strong,
healthy heart, a lev hadash, and with the prayerful wishes of everyone she met
and touched here in Houston. Yes, she survived the surgery. She survived the
recovery. She survived the weeks of recuperation and strength- building. And now
she is whole again, strong again, and bursting with enthusiasm and a thirst to
live again.
What did I learn from Susan?
I learned, first, about courage, and about how much courage we can find in
ourselves when we are so sorely tested and pushed and challenged. We think we're
frail, we think we're not strong enough to take one more step, but then we
discover something inside us - is it God? - that pushes us and challenges us to
go on. That same kind of courage I saw in Susan. I learned about friendship and
selflessness, from the people who watched over her and brought her into their
hearts and into their lives-people who never knew Susan until she came here two
years ago, and people who may not see her again.
I learned about the capacity for giving and loving from the people who loved and
cared about Susan. I learned about the power of that great gift of donating
one's organs so that others might live. Susan's new heart came from a young man
whose own life was tragically cut short, but in his passing, he gave life to
Susan and at least six other people! So doing, he fulfilled one of the great
mitzvot of Judaism, pikuach nefesh, the overriding commandment to save another
human being's life.
What is the old saying? There are no atheists in a foxhole. I love the Hassidic
teaching that the flame of faith burns inside us all; sometimes it becomes so
small, we don't feel it and we think it's gone. But then something happens that
causes that flame to grow, and we are filled with it and we feel its warmth and
energy. And so to Susan, I say: Go in peace. On the wings of a great jet, return
to your land, to your home, to your life. As we prayed so many times, may we
pray yet again: May the Lord who blessed Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Sarah,
Rebeccah, Rachel and Leah, bless and heal you. May He watch over you and grant
you a complete healing of body, soul and spirit. And may He bring you Peace.
Amen.
Rabbi David Rosen copyright 2002
rosen@bethyeshurun.org
The above is from a recent sermon given by Rabbi David Rosen. Rabbi Rosen is the
senior Rabbi at Beth Yeshurun in Texas, working with Rabbi Jack Segal, our own
Michael Segal's father! Rabbi Rosen is married to the former Marcie Leva, and is
the father of two children, Alysa and Dov.
The Illustrator: This daily newsletter is dedicated to encouraging
everyone to look towards Jesus as the source of all the solutions to our
problems. It contains a daily inspirational story, a Bible verse and encouraging
messages. HTML and plain text versions available.
The Nugget: Published three times a week, this newsletter features inspirational devotionals and mini-sermons dedicated to drawing mankind closer to each other and to Christ.