These Are The Names…

The power of a name in a radiation ward

It’s been a month since my last newsletter. During that time, I completed my 40 post-surgical sessions of radiation for prostate cancer. I am still processing the experience. This post is an initial attempt at expressing some of what I learned.

When I first arrived at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Radiation Oncology waiting area, I was struck by how each person who worked there addressed me with an honorific: You can start drinking, Mr. Rosenberg. You can change now, Mr. Rosenberg. Having been accustomed elsewhere to Would you roll up your sleeve for me, Moh-shee? I absolutely preened to be called Mister. The smidgeon of respect went a long way towards alleviating a situation that, on its own, could have been totally dehumanizing. When you have to bare your most personal parts to an assortment of strangers, just knowing that they are caring professionals and that you are seen as an individual makes all the difference. 

I decided to take this message further, and use names as a way to forge connections and make people feel seen. First, when therapists or other MSK employees used my name, I asked for theirs, and often that alone was enough to get a conversation going. I met people with names originating in numerous countries, with so many beautiful meanings. Did you know that one therapist’s name, in her native language, means “Sun,” while another’s means “Night”? That one gentleman behind the reception desk is named “Loving,” and another’s nickname is “Rav,” which in Hebrew happens to mean “Rabbi”?

The respect shown by the therapists did not stop at my name. They made sure to cover certain parts of my body every second that it was possible, warned me when the mold they placed over me was cold, and offered me my choice of music to listen to. And they became willing co-conspirators in my shtick. With one, I compared favorite TV shows; with another I pretended that the round plastic donut I held to steady my hands was a different flavor donut each day. I felt human.

But the real sparks flew when I used my own name with other patients. Although I’m a Rabbi by profession, rubbing elbows has never been my strength. But I pushed myself to walk over to sick people I’d never met before and say to each, “Hi, my name is Moshe.” That was all. Some people did not respond, and I did not pursue further. People have a right to their own space and to be left alone in their vulnerable moments. Some people were so responsive that we had many pleasurable conversations over the course of days and weeks. Other people fell between the extremes — they would nod, or supply their own name.

Occasionally, I would explain my name by saying, “That’s the Hebrew version of Moses.” And suddenly Jewish people were supplying their own Hebrew names. Once, as I explained my name, I remarked to a Jewish friend I had made, “You’re the only one who already understands that.” Then a woman in the corner piped up, “No he’s not!” and supplied her Hebrew name. And once a man responded to my overture by saying, “Bernard.” But the next day, before I said a word, he proudly said, “Boruch Dovid!”

Once contact is made, it’s possible to find something to say every day. A blind woman who came with an aide, and had a good deal of pain, cheered up visibly to hear, “Now you behave yourself, Diane*!” or “Your whole fan club is here!” And these were people with whom I had only fleeting contact.

But I was also blessed to find people who became family, and who, having been thrown together under the most awkward of circumstances, opened up to each other, shared pain and progress, victories and setbacks. It didn’t matter if you were Jewish or Italian or Indian — your humanity earned you entry. At times the discussion got so personal that I accused them of having us compare stretch marks. But I was privileged as a man to be spoken to by women and to share in return, in the most natural way. In the movie The Doctor, with William Hurt, an insensitive surgeon becomes a cancer patient and learns about the other side of the medical encounter, as he builds relationships with the patients around him. I hope that I wasn’t insensitive before, but I know that I was gifted with this experience, as he was.

And there are so many opportunities to help and be helped by each other in the most elemental ways. A new patient may be so thunderstruck that he doesn’t quite absorb the instructions for how to change and where to go next. Having a veteran in the changing area is such blessed relief. My moment of need was the one time when after I thought I had drunk enough water to make my bladder eminently photogenic, I was told by the therapists, “Your colon is too full and your bladder is not full enough.” I had also been experiencing diarrhea as a side effect, and my colon was not quite the obedient organ it once had been. I was told to empty my colon and then refill my bladder. The words took me back to kindergarten, when the teacher did not see my hand soon enough, and I had an accident in my pants. I sat in the changing room, in my robe, not knowing whether to get all dressed again before restarting the drinking process. And then a man, whom I’d never met before, burst into the room and introduced himself proudly as William Bald. He was so upbeat that I couldn’t ignore him. When I spread before him my tale of woe, he said, “Well, f--- that! You have cancer. I’d go out there buck naked if it would help my treatment.” I didn’t go quite that far, but he’ll probably never know what his words — and his name — meant to me. All I can do is pay it forward.

The biblical book of Exodus opens with the children of Israel descending to Egypt and being listed by name. But when the Egyptians enslave the Hebrews, the individual names disappear. The powerless Hebrews become the “huddled masses” of whom Emma Lazarus, a Jewish girl of Portuguese extraction, wrote in a poem enshrined on the base of the Statue of Liberty. The first names that begin to shine a light in the Egyptian darkness are those of the midwives, the medical professionals of their day, who refused to do Pharaoh’s evil bidding and kept the Hebrew baby boys alive. Their names were Shifra and Puah. The great commentator Rashi insists that we understand the basis of those names. One midwife, he explains, used to sing to the babies, and the other used to clean and beautify them. These may sound like such small gestures compared to giving the children life. But they are what took a squalling, disoriented infant and made it a part of the human race. Such small gestures by the midwives of MSK’s Radiation Oncology Department set the tone that can be followed by the patients themselves and ensure that vulnerable, fearful people remain within the family of humanity even in their most trying moments.

It is only fitting to thank these people by name, while knowing that I have inevitably left some out:

Radiation Therapists

Andy
Ryan
Megan
Rich
Farhana
Sarah
Iny 
Freddie 
Kristin 
Layal
Dominique
Alexandra
Rav(inra)
Rachel
Kaneesha
Berenice
Steve
Christopher
Dorette
Natalya

Receptionists

Amanda 
Loving
Sinishin
Frieda
Ashley
Danielle
Zahara

Calling to drink and change

Elliot
Marcus

*Patients

Names omitted or changed to preserve privacy.

At a time when it is more important than ever to break down the barriers between people, a name is a good place to start. My name’s Moshe — what’s yours?

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