Six months ago, in mid-2023, I suddenly lost much of my hearing. Thanks to the care of my physicians and audiologists, the condition has improved. Still, it has been a life-changing event, which at times has left me anxious and sometimes almost despondent. But then, when I feel sorry for myself, I think back to my mother who endured and defied far greater losses during her lifetime. One particular, easily forgotten event towards the end of my mother’s life stands out as a lesson and a source of comfort.
A few years before my mother passed away, she was hit by a car as she crossed Rockville Pike near her home. She was hospitalized and near death for several weeks. She finally recovered sufficiently to be placed in the rehabilitation unit of the Hebrew Home. Even then, there were major swings in her behavior, at times she was terribly confused and then later remarkably lucid. But she gradually improved both physically and emotionally. It was at about that time that my partner, Joel, and I joined her for a Chanukah celebration in the large dining hall of the Hebrew Home. We were seated at one of the tables surrounding the improvised dance floor and watched patients, some of them profoundly disabled, many in wheelchairs, giving it their all in song and dance to celebrate the holiday.
I looked at my mother, expecting her to be dismissive of the participants’ attempt to make light of their disabilities and be so openly joyful, but to my surprise I detected a faint, half-sad smile on my mother’s face as she then gently nodded as if in approval, and then quietly, reverently, as if in a prayer, whispered in Hebrew, Sameach b’Chelko. Sameach b’Chelko are words from the Talmud, “Ben Zoma said: ‘Who is rich? Sameach b’Chelko, those who are happy with their portion.’”
I had always defined my mother’s character by her unwavering strength and rigid defiance in the face of the loss of a husband and both daughters and of a whole way of life, as a result of the Holocaust. But now, for an instant, I experienced a much gentler, even forgiving mother. Her words in that short moment, Sameach b’Chelko, were yet another lesson for life bequeathed to me by my mother that I have never forgotten.
As I think back to the thousands of patients I cared for during my 50-year medical career, many of whom had to carry oxygen delivery systems on their shoulders to survive, my conveying the hope of Sameach b’Chelko may well have been my major contribution to their care. Today, as I look at some of my friends or walk the streets, I see people who live and carry on Sameach b’Chelko, day in and day out in spite of the burdens that life has dealt them. Is it defiance or Sameach b’Chelko that explains the celebration of Chanukah and Christmas in war-torn countries like Ukraine and Syria? Or is it both? They all serve to reinforce my mother’s quiet lesson, allowing me and encouraging me to see beyond my own limitations and continue to enjoy life to the fullest.
© 2024, Alfred Münzer. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this website are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.