The Short Vort by Rabbi Eisenman

It was Sunday, day seven, just minutes before nightfall, when the phone rang.

Although we anxiously awaited the anticipated phone call, I picked up the receiver in my usual carefree manner.

Only after I heard rapid-fire Yiddish coming loudly through the receiver did I realize this was THE CALL!

 I knew how important this call was, so I handed the receiver to my mother.

My mother conversed with the caller in Yiddish for a few minutes.

She then handed me back the phone; however, instead of the long-anticipated clarity, her facial expression conveyed greater confusion than before.

Those seven days, now concluded, were days of apprehension mixed with hope and tinged with doubt.

Those seven days changed our family's life.

It was just seven days before when my parents made the fifteen-minute drive to 770 Eastern Parkway to seek the advice of the Lubavitcher Rebbe.

My father was facing the most critical decision of his life.

He had been diagnosed with coronary artery disease and could no longer walk even a short distance without experiencing severe and debilitating chest pain.

I recall too vividly how each walk to Shul would require him to stop and take a nitroglycerin tablet.

I would silently say Tehillim with the intensity of Shema Yisroel at Neilah's conclusion as I waited for the pain to subside.

The year was 1977, and Coronary artery bypass surgery was in its early stages.

There was a dispute between my father's doctors as to whether he should opt for the then somewhat experimental surgery.

Some doctors encouraged him to go under the knife as it would bring relief.

While others argued against the new, untested surgery, insisting it would shorten his life.

As my parents could not decide which path to follow, they sought the advice of the Lubavitcher Rebbe.

They had met with Rav Leib Groner, the personal secretary to the Rebbe.

He instructed them to write a letter to the Rebbe, adding that the Rebbe would respond within the next seven days.

My father was scheduled to meet with his primary physician, an Egyptian Christian who graduated from the American University in Cairo, on Monday morning and inform him whether he would proceed with the surgery.

The call arrived less than 24 hours before the scheduled appointment.

The Rebbe's advice, as conveyed by Rabbi Groner and understood by my mother, was to "Follow the advice of a doctor who is a friend."

This seemingly vague and ambiguous answer was the topic of the family conversation that entire Sunday evening and in the car ride the next morning to the doctor's office.

What did the Rebbe mean?

Did he mean a friendly doctor?

Or a doctor who happens to also be a friend?

The possibilities of this seemingly cryptic answer of the Rebbe seemed endless.

Finally, my father entered the doctor's office.

The Egyptian-born doctor looked at my father, the Yerushalmi-born Jewish patient, and asked him what he had decided.

My father hesitated, unsure of his answer.

As the pregnant pause continued, the doctor broke the silence.

"Moshe, I know this is a difficult decision for you. Therefore, let me tell you, and please realize I am speaking to you as a friend and not as your doctor. You must have the surgery; there is no question it will lengthen your life. I am saying this as your friend."

My father had the surgery as his "doctor-friend" recommended.

He would live for over twenty more years, marrying off his children and being privileged to see grandchildren.

The seven-day wait added over seven thousand additional days of living to my father.

Months later, my parents met with the Rebbe to thank him.

"Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light."

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