A Megillah Miracle on the Upper East Side

One of the greatest privileges of my life over the past two decades has been to live in close proximity to two of New York’s largest hospitals: Sloan-Kettering and Weill Cornell Hospitals. I’m blessed to be able to visit, sing to, and engage with patients regularly, especially on Shabbat afternoons after I conclude leading services at Park East Synagogue. Over the years, I have prioritized visiting the pediatric cancer unit at Sloan on Shabbat afternoons—a time where I have found so many young patients are alone and far from their families, and when volunteers are doing G-d’s work by keeping the children company.

Last Thursday afternoon, as I was preparing for the Purim celebration, I received a call from a person I did not know-it turned out to be a mother of an Orthodox Jewish patient in the hospital. Her request was simple and direct: Would I come to the hospital and read the Megillah to her eleven-year-old child? Her daughter, Ariella, had been diagnosed with a severe form of leukemia and has been in and out of the hospital for many months. The family had just received the devastating news that there was not much more the hospital could do, and the parents were told to prepare for end-of-life. 

Traditionally, Purim is one of the busiest days on my calendar—between multiple events and Megillah readings, it wasn’t part of my plan to visit the hospital that day-but I felt compelled by this urgent request. I told the mom that, one way or another, I would make certain that her child heard the Megillah. Much later that evening, after finishing all my commitments, I made my way to the hospital. The security guards (who I recognized from previous visits) were hesitant at first  to let me up, because it was past 10PM and far beyond visiting hours, but eventually I managed to convince them of the importance of my visit, and get to the pediatric cancer unit.

The pediatric floor was eerily quiet that night. Most patients were already asleep, and other than the nurses station, humming with activity, the floor had retired for the night. I found Ariella in her room, lying on the hospital bed connected to at least half a dozen machines. It was hard to make out the face of the child with all the medical devices attached to her-a really painful sight.  I introduced myself to the mother, and began to read from the Megillah. Ariella was resting with her eyes closed, but as I read, she began to slowly wake. At one point I thought I could see a hint of a smile on her face, and perhaps even a tear welling up.

I have always associated Purim with the most joyful experiences; nothing could have prepared me on this day for the sadness and heartbreak of reading the Megillah under these circumstances for a patient who seemed hours away from the end of her journey. As I was nearing the ninth and tenth chapters—both of which highlight the great celebration and miracle of Purim—I found myself overwhelmed. I was almost unable to continue to read. I felt the ultimate rollercoaster of human emotion: reading a story of transcendent Jewish hope and joy while experiencing the piercing heartbreak of watching a child fighting for her life.

I finished reading, rolled up the Megillah, and exchanged a few pleasantries with Ariella’s mom. By this time, Ariella had fallen asleep again, and I said a prayer, sang a song, and began to make my way out of the hospital. As I reached the elevator, I heard the mother call out, and turned to see she had followed me out of the room. She asked me a question I was, frankly, not prepared for: “Is there any way you could leave the Megillah with us?” 

The Megillah I was reading happened to be a scribe’s masterpiece, written by a scholar of great fame in Jerusalem. I honestly didn't want to let this precious (and expensive) scroll go, but how could I say no to such a request? In a moment my decision was made, and further strengthened when her mother relayed to me what Ariella, fighting the angel of death, told her earlier in the day: “Mom, “ she said. “I know that I’m dying, and might not make it through tomorrow. My wish is to have someone read the Megillah to me on Purim as my last Mitzvah.” 

I don’t know if the doctors are right in their final prediction, but I felt HaShem had just placed a tremendous Mitzvah opportunity in my way-if, G-d forbid, the worst unfolded, I could at least be a conduit to one last, stunningly beautiful Mitzvah for this sick child. I wanted Ariella to be able to hold onto the Megillah when she woke up, and have it give her hope and inspiration, as it did for thousands of our people throughout the millennia- even if only for one more day. I went back to the room, placed the Megillah next to Ariella, and quietly made my way home. 

I cannot tell you that I celebrated Purim with a full heart this year. My mind was constantly going back and forth between the Purim celebrations and thinking about little Ariella. Thank G-d that Ariella, fighting against all odds, is still with us. She remains in critical condition, but she is so brave in her fighting. 

Yesterday evening, I went back to visit Ariella again. As I walked into her room I saw her lying there, eyes wide open, and hugging the Megillah in her arms. I don’t think Rembrandt could have painted a more moving scene. 

For most of us, Purim is long over, and our attention is fixed on Pesach. But little Ariella still needs a Purim miracle- she needs the reversal of this terrible decree now more than ever. May Hashem grant Ariella many more days of good health, and may her love and dedication to Judaism and its traditions serve as an inspiration to us all to cherish every living moment we have. 

If you have a moment today, please say a prayer for Ariella Bat Miriam.