At Rambam Hospital

CLAUDIA GOLDMAN

"Would it be OK to come and visit today?" I ask.

"Yes, it's time for you to see how we deal with these things," answers Yuval.

As I drive north up the coastal highway of Israel, I'm nervous. I'm not exactly sure where I'm going, what I'm going to see, or how I'm going to react to it.

Driving into Haifa, I see the signs for Rambam Hospital. Keeping an eye on the drivers spinning around me, I search for the sign that will tell me where to turn. Nothing, nothing, nothing ... signs for Akko? I've driven right through Haifa, where the hell is the hospital? Thank God for cellphones.

I pull over and call for directions. "OK," I mumble, "I'm sure it's obvious, but somehow I missed it."

Finally, I find the visitors parking lot.

"No," I answer, as the security guard searches my purse, "I don't have a weapon."

The entrance to the hospital is impressive, with immensely high ceilings. Everywhere I look there is shining marble. Yuval, my cousin's husband, is waiting for me.

We enter the intensive care waiting room. I feel helpless because the language is so hard to catch. Conversation seems to be casual and relaxed, from everyday topics like studying for final exams, to attending a secular funeral on a kibbutz.

Our side of the waiting room is full of family and friends. Across the room is the other side of the equation; an Arab family sits quietly together.

A doctor comes out and suddenly there is silence. Something's very wrong. I piece together the bits I understand. Tamar's not stabilizing. She's on the edge. The family should go in now. Panic and vomit builds in my throat.

More visitors join us. Each person brings a container of food for the families. Who can eat?

Mira, my cousin, walks into the waiting room. Her clothes and hair are disheveled. I've never seen her not together. There is an aura around her though. I want to touch her. She is the gravity holding everyone down.

She beckons to me and I follow her into the hallway.

"Avi's burns are bad," she says. "His fever won't come down. He's struggling, but he'll be OK."

She opens a little plastic bag and hands me a piece of metal. It's grey and melted looking. It's heavy in my hand.

"It came from his hip. We're going to have it analyzed for poison."

Mira's son, Avi, is 21 and so is his girlfriend, Tamar. They went to the mall to do some shopping. While waiting to have their bags checked by security, at the entrance to the mall, a suicide bomber came up from behind and detonated the explosives wrapped round his waist. Tamar fell backwards onto the burning pavement. Her polyester sundress melted onto her body. Both her legs were broken. Avi's hips and one of his knees were shattered by the explosion. Their bodies are littered with bits of metal shrapnel. Now they're behind those doors at the end of the hallway, fighting for their lives.

Mira and I go back into the waiting room. I look across at the other family, the people who aren't us. They mutter quietly among themselves. No one pays attention to them. I wonder what they're thinking?

After a while, I can't fight the urge to pee any longer. The bathroom stinks and there's garbage everywhere. Where's the marble and shine I saw when I came in?

I return to the room. Yuval, who is a doctor, is talking intently to Tamar's father. Her family has no faith in the surgeon. Fear spills into the room.

Yuval takes me out. We go down to the shiny, new, commercial fast food area. He tries to chat. Israelis are hopeless with small talk. Make it count or don't waste your breath. A disembodied voice sends orders over the public address system. It's too fast for me and again my frustration rises.

"We need to go," says Yuval.

"Why?" I ask.

"Unidentified package left in the food area."

"Shit."

A spark of anger burns in my head. Doesn't the other side ever give up?

I walk back to my car. The sunset is beautiful as I drive down the coast. Rays of light flow down through the wisps of cloud.

Born and raised in Vancouver, Claudia Goldman has been a "people watcher" all her life. Numerous trips to Israel and to Jewish communities around the world have provided her with the opportunity to observe and write on the topic of cultural nuances, through the eyes of a Canadian Jew. When not writing, Goldman can found meditating on the golf course, studying Hebrew and caring for her husband, two daughters and son-in-law.

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