Sunday

People keep moving on in dad's room. "The Arab" (I'll call him Mr. Haj) tells me he's been told he is to have a procedure to unclog heart vessels, his second time. Soon after he has prayed and carefully folded away his prayer rug, a male nurse brings along a wheelchair to take him away. It occurs to me I haven't yet seen any visitors, yet from our conversations I've learned he has 3 daughters, all married off. The other two roommates well, one has died this morning, the other has been sent home. Dad stays. I spoke to the doctors, and they are pleasant but vague. An urologist will come to see him. When? Oh, in a day or two. Meanwhile dad is wasting away. His arms have shriveled to twigs. His breathing is heavy, like following a physical exertion. From time to time he shudders a little. And he barely opens his eyes. No chat either. I hoped the food he had yesterday would perk him up but he seems weaker still. Adi will be bringing mum over very soon, and my brother Benny (who has had a tempestuous relationship with mum and now won't speak to her at all) will be visiting too. Isn't it just dandy.
We ended up being seven visitors around dad's bed. He is too weak to acknowledge us. He can't even suck his drink through a straw! When visiting hours end the nurses crush his tablets and administer them to him with all of us expelled from the room. Before we leave I go over to Mr. Haj to bid him goodnight. Is it my Jewish guilt at play? Be that as it may, he strikes me as a sweet old guy. Why do I see no visitors to his bedside? Where is everybody he toiled all his working life for?