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Little Nasser
at
HADASSAH HOSPITAL
by ROSE CARLIN
The first time I saw little Nas
ser Chasan at the Hadassah Hos
pital, he was lying on his stomach
in his crib, crying weakly. An
enormous growth, red and infect
ed, rose from just above his but
tocks, at the bottom of his spine.
Nurse Mizrachi, a tall, dark, young
woman with strong, capable hands,
hovered over him tenderly, trying
to make him more comfortable.
But there was very little she could
do. She could not turn him on his
back, nor pick him up in her arms,
nor take away his pain. He was
due for an operation in a few
days.
He was a beautiful little boy,
just over a year old, with reddish-
blond hair, eyes piercing black,
now clouded over with pain, and
his face so pale, almost white. I
stood at his crib looking down at
him helplessly.
I am a member of YA’AL—Yad
Auzer L’Cholim (Helping Hand of
the Sick) and like other YA’AL
members, all volunteers, I help out
where I can be of some use. I
have chosen to work in the Chil
dren’s Department on the fifth
floor which had been established
by the New York Chapter of Ha
dassah in honor of Rose L Hal-
prin.
It is very gratifying to work
with these children because they
are so responsive. Often an infant
will be crying his heart out for
want of a little affection. Take him
up in your arms, hold him on your
lap, play with him and he is
happy. For the time being you are
his mother. The tragedy comes
later, when you have to put him
down again.
But to get back to little Nasser.
When I next saw him he was a
tiny, feverish bundle on a cot in
the post-operative department on
the sixth floor. It was three days
after his operation. Both his par
ents had come from Nazareth to be
with him. The father, a tall, dark
mustached man in Arab dress, was
pacing the six-cot ward impatient
ly.
The mother, a pleasant, com
fortable looking woman of about
forty, in a long black Arab dress
with a white hospital smock over
it, and a black kerchief on her
dark hair, sat on a chair close to
the child’s cot, gazing at him sol
icitously. She gave me a warm,
friendly smile, revaling her fine
strong teeth.
As neither of them knew any
Hebrew, we spoke through an in
terpreter, Nurse’s Aid Ziona, a na
tive-born Israeli whose father had
come from Yemen.
Little Nasser had been ailing
since birth, the father said, but
had grown much worse of late and
the English doctor in Nazereth who
had been attending him, recom
mended him to Hadassah.
"How do you feel about Hadas
sah?’’ I asked the father.
"So, so,” he replied, with a
deprecating shrug. He had been
waiting for the doctor a whole
hour and he had not come yet, he
said.
I took it upon myself to men
tion this to the Head-Nurse on my
way out and she explained that
this was not the time for the doc
tor’s visit. He had been there once
in the morning and was not due
again until later in the afternoon.
I went down to the fifth flo >r
to see “my c h i 1 d,” year-oid
Shimon, who was recovering from
a severe case of pneumonia He
was standing up in his crib whim
pering pitifully. His parents lived
in Petach Tikvah and very seldom
came to see him. There were five
or six other children at home and
his mother had no time or inclina
tion to hold him in her arms. He
had never learned to smile. He
recognized me as soon as he saw
me and stretched his arms out
longingly.
Two days later I came back
again to visit little Nasser. He was
asleep. Out in the corridor his
mother was looking out of the
window and smoking a cigarette.
She smiled her warm smile and
emitted a flow of words. Ziona
was not around so I found another
interpreter, Mrs. Tufik, a young
mother, who had come here from
Iraq ten years ago. Her little girl,
Osnat, not quite two, had fallen
on her head a few days earlier and
was at Hadassah for tests and
observations.
“We think much better of Ha-
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