Spelling Religion

Jack Friedman and the rabbis

Big damn thanks to all of you for your concern about my father’s stay at the unapologetically Catholic Saint Francis Hospital. FYI: The crosses on the walls in the patients’ room are tougher to take down than you might imagine.

(I kid of course — a screwdriver is all you need.)

This is his second trip in a week. There’s falling, there’s a lung thing, a heart thing, a probable infection, dementia. His overall condition: he’s 96. He’s not dying — well, we’re all dying — but there’s a cliff out there that’s getting closer.

“Would you like the Father to stop by?” the nurse asked, as she was typing his information into the monitor in his 8th floor room that overlooks the ball field at LaFortune Park and downtown Tulsa.

“You mean a priest? No, I don’t think that would go well.”

“Religion?”

“Jewish.”

“Place of worship?”

I could see she was having trouble typing B'nai Emunah into the screen.

“What is it — B . . . what?” she asked.

“B’nai — that’s all right. It’s close enough. Nobody will get it confused with the other Jewish synagogue in Tulsa with the similar name.”

“No, it’s very important I get this right. I don’t like misspelling houses of worship.”

Sweet. Odd, but sweet.

“Have a blessed day,” she said.

“You . . . too.”

My father rested most of the day — not comfortably but rested. He had some moments of bellowing and flirtation (as only Jack Friedman can bellow and flirt) with moments of “Barry, what’s wrong with me? . . . Ach, I give up . . . Hungry? Yeah, no, I don’t know. I could eat.”

Around 9 p.m., walking in to the hospital for my last visit of the day, I saw Rabbi Fitzerman of the aforementioned Congregation B'nai Emunah walking out, and because he’s a good and decent man, he insisted on walking back in to the building with me to see my father and brother.

Introductions were made. Wayne and the rabbi had met, and even though the rabbi and my father had, as well, my father has to be reintroduced to his daughter, Sutton, most days.

“Dad, this is Rabbi Fitzerman; Rabbi Fitzerman, Jack Friedman.”

The rabbi said some beautiful words about Wayne and me and Susan and family and health and then interrupted himself.

“I think I’ll just stop,” he said, laughing, “because I think your Dad’s no longer paying attention.”

“Rabbi, he stopped paying attention after ‘Dad, this is Rabbi Fitzerman.’”

I then walked the rabbi to the nurse’s station. A quick hug. I watched him go down the hall. Marc Boone Fitzerman has a joyful gait.

I was standing at the nurse’s station when Rabbi Kaiman came up.

“I heard your Dad was here.”

Jesus, I thought — you should pardon the expression — Both rabbis.

I walked him back to the room and introduced him to my brother and father.

We talked of Jews and hospitals and acceptance and then a wonderful thing happened — not that both of them showing up wasn’t wonderful enough. Rabbi Kaiman asked if he could sing Mi Shebeirach, a Hebrew song for the sick — take that, Catholics! He did it in English because Jack Friedman is as secular a Jew as there is.

Holding the rabbi’s hand, my father was also asleep by song’s end.

Prayer. Boy, I don’t know.