Difficult nights at the hospital
Photo: Gil Yohanan
Nights at the hospital: Hopes and fears
Days at Hadassah's corridors characterized by commotion, but when night descends, stillness overwhelms those around ailing prime minister; Sharon's sons Gilan and Omri attempt to encourage those present – not always successfully
Nights by Prime Minister Ariel Sharon's bed are very different than the days.
Thoughts about Sharon, who teased them, mocked them, but always showed interest in them, their families, and their most personal difficulties.
While during daytime the neurological department on Hadassah Ein Kerem's seventh floor is teeming with people, overnight stillness takes over. That's when Sharon's relatives and close associates gather and are overwhelmed by thoughts of the loss and the "day after."
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The scent of medicine at the neurological department is the first to hit the senses when coming out of the elevator and turning into the department, where a screen has been placed at the entrance to prevent curious onlookers from sneaking a peek. Security guards are deployed near the screen and block the entry of anyone who is not a relative or close associate.
The scent of medicine leads one through a narrow corridor, and at the end of it, in the intensive care room, lies Ariel Sharon, sedated after three complex brain surgeries to stop cerebral hemorrhages.
That corridor can be viewed in two ways, one optimistic and one pessimistic, one Sharon associate says.
"When I'm there during the day, I see the road leading Sharon the father, the grandfather, as he returns to his Sycamore Ranch after he recovers," he said.
Yet at night, the possibility of Sharon departing looms larger. Everyone who has been there at the hospital during the night, the relatives, advisors, and many friends, attests to the same reality: At night it is difficult to avoid thoughts of the "old man's" life reaching its end.
Sons shun media
Sharon's sons, Omri and Gilad, sit at one of the corridor's corners overnight and attempt to convey strength to those around them, not resorting to emotional gestures. In many cases, when pain surfaces during conversations, the sons come up with an encouraging word, a comforting sentence. Sharon's sons do not speak much, but are attentive to those around them, repressing their own pain, and conveying cautious optimism that makes it easier for the others.
Overall, Omri and Gilad are not at ease with the commotion around them and their father, who is clinging to life, one close associate says. They enter and exit the hospital quickly and refrain from stopping by the hundreds of reporters and photographers gathered at the hospital – they stay away from the media.
Both would be happy if they could remove the cameras and microphones digging into their souls away from the hospital.
A group of Omri Sharon's close friends was sitting at the hospital's lobby last night, a group that goes out for jeep treks over the weekend and detains illegal hunters along the Negev desert.
"People you wouldn't want to run into on a dark night," one of Omri's friends says. All of them are veterans of elite army units, all somewhat balding, all wearing jeans, and all there to support a friend in distress.
Near the television, a group of Hassidic Jews gathered for a prayer for Sharon's health. They hum, engage in prayer, and listen to words of wisdom uttered by their elderly rabbi, who bothered himself all the way from Jerusalem by foot as not to desecrate the Shabbat.
They, just like Omri's friends, the journalists in the lobby, and the dozens of Israelis who arrived at the hospital, do not dare go up to where Sharon is hospitalized. Yet all of them insist on being there, being close to that corridor that leads to life, or to death, where Ariel Sharon is lying sedated this Saturday.
