Diplomate, Board Certification of Emergency Medicine
Chairman, Department of Emergency Medicine Ma'ayenei Hayeshua
Hospital
Summer nights in Jerusalem are something special. The mild
breezes that brings welcome relief from the heat, a
relaxation from the day's pressures that seems as much
spiritual as it is physical. There is a holiness that seems
to blend with solace. It was on a similar night that John
O'Brien and I sat on the roof in Har Nof looking out on a
beautiful display of distant lights and stars. We discussed
John's teshuva, his learning, educating his family,
and dealing with the disease that had invaded his liver and
threatened his life. It was an evening I will not forget.
O'Brien is an odd name for a religious Jew. Indeed, John's
father is not Jewish. John lived on Hansen Street, a quiet
street of small homes in Albany, New York. Albany is a
typical small Jewish community. The local Price Shopper sells
a nice array of Kosher foods. There are two shuls, a
mikva located on the premises of the Local Y, and that
is about it. How John did teshuva, I don't know, but I
remember seeing him the first time at Rabbi Rubin's house for
Shabbos. I was impressed by his sensitivity, his honesty, his
ability to care.
John was a physician who worked with me and had treated many
people with the same disease that he now had. He, like many
fortunate physicians, saw his duty to ease suffering as a
shaliach of Hashem. He loved being Jewish and we spent
hours speaking about it. He loved to hear what my rosh
kollel and mashgiach had to say.
Then came the day that I needed John's help. He was there for
me. It was the usual caring -- but it still meant so much.
One quiet morning on Hansen Street, John lost his fight
against colon cancer. He was 35. He left behind his wife, 6
children and one spectacular night in Jerusalem.
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