Message From Above: Yom Kippur 1997

Anonymous

The story I am about to tell is true. It began on the eve of Yom Kippur. Never mind who I am. Names aren’t important. The point is that I am Jewish. But not an observant Jew, mind you. Rather I was raised in the “secular” branch of our Jewish nation, those who were fervent Jews, but not because of religion. To put it simply, my parents and their secular brethren believed that by virtue of our nation’s long history replete with unique traditions and a rich culture, special holidays, great writers, philosophers, literature, and folklore, as well as two languages --- Hebrew and Yiddish --- Jews had a distinct ethnic identity with or without its unique religion. Lord knows, the world seem to agree and considers you Jewish simply because you were born to a Jewish mother, or because your name is Jewish, and not because you go to Synagogue or not.

That is not to say that secular Jews do not embrace the traditions and morals that represent the underpinnings of Jewish religion. Just the opposite! For instance, my parents instilled in me the philosophy of the great Jewish author, I.L. Peretz: morality is on an even “higher” plane than religion. Today most Israelis are an extension of my parent’s secular Judaism. They are not especially religious, but they are fiercely nationalistic Jews. In the United States, the distinction between religious and secular Jews has blurred considerably. Today, a multitude of American Jews observe the religious dictates only minimally, yet they consider themselves observant and often attend religious services.

Especially on Yom Kippur, the holiest of all Jewish holidays. On this special day of atonement, the Almighty examines your sins of the past year and hears your pleas for forgiveness. Nothing to trifle with. Most Jews, whether observant or not, attend the Kol Nidre prayer services at the Synagogue on the eve of Yom Kippur. More important, as a symbol of respect and repentance, Jews fast on the day of atonement beginning sundown on the eve of Yom Kippur. So when my good friend, a fellow secular Jew, asked whether my wife and I would join them for dinner on the eve of Yom Kippur, I hesitated. While I usually do not attend the Kol Nidre services nor fast on Yom Kippur, I do not as a rule so openly flaunt my secular beliefs. Rather than blatantly test the Almighty, I normally stay at home. Still, why should I pretend to be what I am not? I am, after all, not a hypocrite; so after a brief pause, I accepted the invitation.

We met that Friday evening at a small Italian restaurant. I ordered mussels. On about the third mussel, I felt an immediate sharp pain as I swallowed. My first thought was that part of the mussel shell went down my throat. I began to gag and ran to the washroom. I could neither get the object up or down. It seemed stuck midway down my esophagus. And there was pain! When I swallowed, which I learned to my dismay is a constant reflex, I encountered an excruciating pain as my saliva traveled down my esophagus. The decision was immediately made to take me to the hospital.

The Northwestern Memorial Hospital emergency department in Chicago on a Friday night is a sight to behold. It is the busiest night of the week, with gun-shot wounds, rape victims, psychos and all the run-of-the-mill injuries that require emergency medical attention. And me! After a considerable wait, I was ushered into the inner sanctum of the emergency center, examined, and sent for radiographs. A few minutes later an emergency physician was examining the x-ray. To my relief, he announced that there was nothing visibly stuck in my esophagus.

“I see nothing,” he said confidently.

“What about the pain?” I inquired.

“Whatever you swallowed must have scratched your esophagus. The scratch is causing your pain whenever you swallow” he proclaimed.

With that, he handed me a bottle of liquid anti-acid to help coat the scratch. In short, nothing serious. I would be feel better in the morning.

“However,” he cautioned, “if things get worse, call the hospital.”

So my wife and I went home. Although I felt better for the verdict, the pain continued and it made me very uneasy. To make matters worse, I was scheduled to depart on a longstanding business trip to Brazil on Sunday. I was very apprehensive about the long flight if the pain continued. In no small measure, I was also aware that this entire happening had all the trappings of an Isaac Bashevis Singer story. “Was I being punished for my unabashed defiance of the Yom Kippur ritual?” It was a very disconcerting thought, even to a secular Jew.

I went to bed and fell into an uneasy sleep still believing the doctor that it would be better in the morning. It wasn’t to be. I awoke at about 2:30 a.m. Saturday morning because the pain had become much worse. Now, in addition to the pain when swallowing, whenever I took a deep breath, there was a sharp pain that went from my chest to my back. Upset, I asked my wife to accompany me to the hospital. For me to want to go to a hospital emergency room in the middle of the night made my wife extremely nervous. For not only am I extremely hospital-averse and reluctant to take medicines, but it is only under very serious conditions will I accept the fact that I need to see a doctor. To make things worse, because this was Yom Kippur morning, I knew there was little chance of finding a Jewish doctor at work. Nor could I call on my regular physician who is Jewish. It isn’t that I don’t trust non-Jewish doctors, but for someone like me who doesn’t have much faith in doctors of any persuasion, a Jewish doctor is greatly preferred.

Instead of returning to Northwestern Memorial Hospital in the city, we went to Rush North Shore Hospital which is located in a suburb close to our home and where my own physician is on staff. The emergency department was empty. The attending emergency physician ordered yet more radiographs which once again showed nothing. But this time the emergency physician wouldn’t release me until he called my own doctor, that is to say, the doctor who was substituting for my regular physician because of the Jewish holiday. It took a while until the doctor returned the call. When he heard the story he advised not to release me until I saw a gastroenterologist. That decision may have saved my life. The specialist was called and he said he would see me at 7:30 a.m. at the hospital.

When I first spied the gastroenterologist, I thought he was a medical student masquerading as a real doctor. He looked about 17, wore jeans, a T-shirt, no stockings, and loafers. Not exactly confidence-inspiring. On top of that, I was certain he wasn’t Jewish. Clearly, a Jewish doctor would have worn a proper shirt and tie. Especially on Yom Kippur.

He listened to me and looked at the x-rays. “I can’t tell anything unless we do a esophagoscopy,“ he pronounced.

“An eso what?” I asked with alarm.

“An esophagoscopy,” he repeated. “It’s a procedure whereby we put a camera down your esophagus, to take a look.”

“You want to put a camera down my esophagus?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so,” I stated, looking at his stocking-less shoes. “Besides,” I brightened, “to tell you the truth, doctor, the pain is getting much better. In fact if it weren’t for the long flight I have to take tomorrow, I wouldn’t even be here.”

“I can’t make you do it,” said young doctor wannabe, “but I wouldn’t want you to fly, unless we at least do an upper GI.”

“That, I’ve had before,” I said with some relief. “Let’s do it.”

An upper GI is a procedure requiring you to drink some awful liquid as you stand in front of a machine which views its passage through your insides. They first made me drink some horrible brown stuff to see if it would produce bubbles around the esophagus. If so, it would mean the esophagus had been perforated. It was a very painful process because I had to drink a lot of this liquid and every swallow was accompanied by an excruciating pain. At the end of the process, the verdict was “no perforation.” Relieved, I now went to the second stage of the procedure. I had to drink a barium solution to see if there was an obstruction. Again the excruciating pain in swallowing.

“Eureka!” the technician shouted all of a sudden.

“What is it?” I asked with apprehension.

“I don’t know,” he responded, “come take a look.”

I came to see and was greeted by a large triangular shaped object, about the size of a half-a-dollar, suspended in what I assumed to be my esophagus. The object’s three corners looked very sharp and the thing was dangling with one of its edges directed at my stomach.

“Isn’t that supposed to be there?” I asked, having never seen what an esophagus looked like. Who knows, I thought, maybe the triangle is part of the makeup of the esophagus wall.

“Not in my life-time,” the technician responded, shattering any normal prognosis I may have hoped for. “What exactly did you swallow?”

Young Dr. Kildare now came unto the scene. He did not hesitate. Upon seeing the lethal object lodged in my esophagus, he grabbed me by the arm, “You are not leaving this hospital with that thing inside,” he said with finality. Moments later nurses were buzzing about me, I was strapped down on a cart, a huge machine was wheeled in, and I was connected to an intravenous line. Soon, my pulse and heart beat were visible to the world on overhead monitors, and I was being prepared for the esophagoscopy, like it or not. Then my hero gastroenterologist came over, a green gown now covering his T-shirt, and a piece of paper and pen in his hand.

“I am going to ask you to sign this because we have to give you demerol and put you out.”

“What am I signing?”

“Well not to worry, none of this is going to happen,” my non-Jewish, stocking-less, green gowned, boy-doctor in jeans assured me, “but you see, the object inside of you looks rather large. If I can’t get it out, you are signing that I have a right to open you up to get it out.”

“A pleasant thought,” I said more to myself than to the doctor.

“Also,” he continued, “it looks rather sharp and dangerous, so if it cuts your esophagus, I will have to open you up to fix it. But again, don’t worry, it won’t happen.”

Who me, worry? “Anything else,” I inquired, remembering that it was Yom Kippur and that I had committed the ultimate indiscretion.

“Well, one more thing. If I accidentally drop it into your stomach, you are agreeing that I can open you up to get it out. We can’t afford to leave it there. But don’t worry, it won’t happen.”

If it won’t happen, why do I have to sign my life away, I pondered silently. Anyway, I had little choice and signed on the dotted line.

In the next instant, some demerol was injected into my intravenous tube and I was out. When I came to, my emergency cubical was filled with doctors and nurses, all of them congratulating the boy specialist and examining with awe the large triangular shaped mussel shell that had been removed from my esophagus and which they were passing from hand to hand, shaking their heads and muttering.

“It’s such a sharp object!” one of the nurses exclaimed.

“How did he ever swallow it,” another asked.

“I don’t know,” one of the doctors answered, but this much I do know, “if he had gotten on that airplane with this triangular weapon inside of him, he would have been a goner.”

Well, the story has a happy ending. I was fine and did go to Brazil as scheduled. Moreover, my faith in non-Jewish doctors was elevated considerably. But if anyone thinks I will ever again eat anything on Yom Kippur, they are sadly mistaken. I may be a secular Jew, but I am no dummy. One message from above is enough to get my attention.

Return to top of page | Return to Index | Home Page