When I contracted my second urinary tract infection in a month (infections are probably the most common side effect of the CAR-T treatment for blood cancers that I received and have been writing about over the past several months), I needed some antibiotics in a hurry. The simple act of peeing had become torturously painful – and urgent.
It was Friday midday. The hematology daycare at Hadassah was closed and my doctor was presumably preparing for Shabbat at home.
Fortunately, she responded to my text and wrote up a prescription for Macrodantin, an antibiotic intended specifically for UTIs.
Unfortunately, when my son, Aviv, schlepped to the nearest SuperPharm to pick it up, he discovered that Macrodantin is out of stock across the country.
“Next time, check online in advance to see if a particular branch has what you need,” the pharmacist chided Aviv.
Meanwhile, my pain was getting worse.
I texted my doctor again.
“Let me check if they have a few pills at the hospital,” she wrote back.
Two hours later the answer came in: negative. She prescribed an alternative – an antibiotic with a mechanism unlike any I’ve ever seen: a tasteless powder which you empty into a glass of water and drink down before bed. It’s specifically indicated for UTIs.
The problem now was that it was getting close to Shabbat, and I was still too weak post-hospital release to safely drive on my own.
That’s where The Village took over.
When my cancer went from being slow-growing to imminently threatening, my wife, Jody – now gravely concerned I wasn’t going to make it – was approached in synagogue by a friend, Ilana, who knew a bit about our story and could see on Jody’s face things had taken a turn.
Jody immediately burst into tears.
“What do you need?” Ilana asked simply.
“I don’t know what I need,” Jody half-sobbed.
Ilana quickly put together an in-person meeting of Jody’s closest friends from the synagogue, which evolved into two private WhatsApp groups – “Jody’s Core Help Team” and “The Village,” the latter intended to provide backup and to help Jody from getting overwhelmed. It eventually swelled to comprise some 80 volunteers.
In what turned out to be a crucial tweak for Jody’s mental health, she was not included in the Village list. If she needed something, she’d tell someone in her eight-person core circle, and they’d put it out to the larger Village group.
There was no lack of work for the Village. Jody was already sleeping over at Hadassah most nights, then staying until noon, leaving little time for keeping the house in order.
We had to “outsource” our 14-year-old ailing dog, Monty, first to a bevy of teenage dog walkers and later to friends who had their own aging dog. When it all became too difficult, we had no choice but to put Monty down.
There were meals to be made that Jody simply didn’t have the time or energy to prepare (Hadassah’s soggy schnitzel for lunch then cottage cheese and boiled potatoes for dinner get old very fast). The meal train continued when I was released and began recovery at home.
One Village member installed a lockbox outside our front door so people could get in to drop off food or medicine or whatever we needed if no one was home.
The Village arranged shifts for members to sit with me in the hospital during the day when I needed accompaniment or when Jody or our children weren’t available. That allowed my wife to balance her new unasked-for role as carer to an almost-dying husband with the few things that still gave her joy (Israeli dancing, playing with the grandchildren).
The Village was filled with people Jody knew, but there were many others who, in a heartwarming display of community, clambered to join, unbidden.
During the six weeks I was hospitalized – and the months before and after – I needed Jody. And Jody needed the Village.
The African proverb “It takes a village” usually ends with “to raise a child,” indicating that child-rearing is not the sole responsibility of the parents but rather a collective effort involving friends, neighbors, teachers and the overall community.
In Western culture, the concept has expanded to mean “It takes teamwork.” In addition to health and recovery which is what our Village has been all about, examples include creative and community projects (making a film, renovating a park), scientific discovery, climate action and workplace collaboration (where the village might encompass sales, marketing and customer support functions).
The epitome of the Village’s help came during the search for antibiotics.
Ilana, the Village’s first member and chief organizer, offered to pick up the meds. In Jerusalem, when nearly all stores are closed on Shabbat, there is a list of rotating pharmacies that are open that particular weekend. There was one near the Pat intersection that was operating and, yes, they had the antibiotic powder we needed.
We sent Ilana the prescription by WhatsApp and she high-tailed it to the pharmacy.
“Sorry,” the pharmacist said plainly. “I need the physical copy of the prescription.” Had it been written by my family doctor, it would have been in our HMO’s app, but this was a hand-written page from a doctor at Hadassah sent via an instant messenger program.
Reluctantly, we called my doctor who went above and beyond what I’ve seen any doctor do and gave us her home address – on the other side of town, no less! Ilana drove there and my doctor walked down to the curb and handed her the prescription. Ilana then returned to the pharmacy, acquired the medicine and delivered it to my house, all before Shabbat began.
So, the next time you hear “It takes a village,” keep in mind this is no cliché. You really do – and ours deserves all the praise we can bestow upon it along with personal gratitude.
I first wrote about The Village in The Jerusalem Post.
Photo of antibiotics by Mark Fletcher-Brown on Unsplash
Photo of village by Olivier Collet on Unsplash
