Jose didn’t flinch — and refused to touch my peace-offering even as it sat in front of him

I don’t exactly look like the rough-and-tumble bouncer type, which is why some of my patients have asked me about the cap hanging on my coat rack emblazoned with an official “Hospital Security” insignia. Truth is, I still wear that cap I received back as an intern — it keeps my head protected from the Jerusalem elements, and keeps my heart focused on always trying to make a kiddush Hashem.

“Be nice to the nurses,” the older medical students would advise us as we started our clinical rotations. “They’re your best friends or your worst enemies.”

Having been to enough Shabbos tables as a bochur, I knew that the way to a stranger’s heart was via his stomach, and made sure to bring in a dozen donuts on the first day of each rotation to thank the nurses for the privilege of working on their hospital ward.

But it wasn’t long before I realized that a psychiatrist’s real best friends were often the hospital security staff. This was a lesson I first learned after watching an intern get assaulted by a patient late one night and then my colleagues in the blue uniforms come crashing through the emergency room to his defense. After seeing that, those guys were always recipients of my donuts.

The first day of my intern year at Harvard Medical School’s teaching hospital, the box of donuts were warmly received. The next day, I forgot my ID card and was forced to get a replacement in order to enter the locked psychiatric ward.

“That’ll be $5, Doc,” a middle-aged security guard named Jose told me bluntly, sans the pleasant smile I was hoping for.

“No discount for the guy who brought you donuts yesterday?” I joked.

“You tryin’ to bribe a uniformed officer, Doc?” was all I got.

I could feel a chillul Hashem in the making, and so I dug into my wallet for a five-dollar bill. Jose didn’t even blink as he took the money and pressed the button on his computer to print out another ID for me. It wasn’t the most pleasant way to spend $5.

I didn’t make much of the situation, until a few weeks later when I was covering the locked psychiatric ward and the security staff was called at 3 a.m. to help with an aggressive patient. As my beeper went off and woke me from a light snooze I was trying to catch in the call room down the hallway, I ran to the unit to find Jose and his fellow security guards restraining an agitated fellow who was causing quite a ruckus.

Jose didn’t miss a beat as he yelled while locking the patient’s right arm, “Doc! Wipe the sleep out’cha eyes and get the nurses an order to medicate this guy before he bites me again!”

I felt slightly uncomfortable with his tone, but chalked it up to the stress of the situation.

But you can bet Jose wasn’t particularly excited to be called to the medical floors one Sunday afternoon to find me standing across from a six-foot-seven-inch neo-Nazi who was refusing to leave the hospital grounds. Although it wasn’t a fight I’d picked, it sure looked like it to Jose.

I’d been called to evaluate a delirious elderly male who was detoxing from opiates, and his son had decided I was holding Dad against his will. He was threatening to sue the hospital in addition to killing me. I had slowly backed away and managed to get a glass door between us when Jose and two of his fellow security guards arrived.

After Jose used his pepper spray to subdue the nasty fellow, I thanked him as he walked down the hall. But instead of even the slightest nod of acknowledgement, I’m pretty sure I heard him mumble to his fellow guards, “I don’t love having to bail this new Jew out of trouble every other day.”

Stuck in the awkward situation that so many frum Yidden in the workplace find themselves in at one point or another, I decided to let it go. Whether right or wrong, the risk of sounding paranoid and filing a formal complaint with the administration would only fuel Jose’s growing animosity.

Instead, I went with the tried-and-true formula of bringing a pile of donuts and a big pitcher of boutique coffee to the security desk the following morning. Manny, Pete, and Larry all smiled and gave a “Thanks, Doc,” but Jose didn’t flinch — and refused to touch my peace-offering even as it sat in front of him while his colleagues poured cup after cup of French Vanilla.

A month later, while I was covering the psychiatric emergency room one evening, the local police escorted an inebriated man into the last empty room in the ER and sat him down. The duty nurse, who’d seen just about everything in this ward, went in to take the patient’s vitals, while he kept screaming, “Get me a darn turkey sandwich or I’m breaking out!”

I peeked my head out from the office down the hall, but the nurse gave me a thumbs up, indicating all was fine, and that the patient would likely sober up in a few hours.

But we were all surprised when the inebriated fellow came out of the room and yelled repeatedly, “Where is my darn turkey sandwich?!”

The nurse had been doing this for enough decades to know when to call security, and meanwhile sat calmly behind her desk. She waved me off that everything would be fine and encouraged me to finish up writing my notes on the rest of the people we were managing that evening. I was still a bit wary of the situation, but when I saw Jose walking down the hallway, I returned to my office to avoid fueling the fire between us.

Until I heard the “Code Grey” sirens a few moments later, which meant that there was a security emergency.

I turned the corner just in time to see the inebriated patient brandishing a chair as he threatened the nurse to bring him a turkey sandwich. Jose moved to stand between them and took one mighty blow from the chair and began to crumple as the fellow struck him again and again. Without thinking, I charged forward as fast as I could to save my fellow hospital employee from turning into mush, blindsiding the drunk fellow with an epic tackle.

Jose was lying on the ground when reinforcements arrived. Together with three other security guards, we dragged the drunken patient, still yelling for a turkey sandwich, back into his room.

Meanwhile, Jose was being tended to by a nurse as I passed by, and while I didn’t expect it, I received a heartfelt salute along with a half-mumbled, “Thanks, Doc,” as I ran off to look for a turkey sandwich and see what else I could do for this patient I’d tackled moments earlier.

And when the graveyard shift was drawing to a close and I was half asleep across the keyboard in the office of the psychiatric emergency room, I was startled by a knock at the door.

“Doc? You got a moment for me?” Jose asked sheepishly as he poked his head in through the doorway.

“Sure, bud,” I replied as I noticed the stitches on his forehead.

Jose chucked a baseball cap in my direction. “You’re alright, Doc. I mean, thanks for everything. The coffee, the donuts, and that epic hit you laid on that chair-swinging patient who was trying to kill me.”

I looked at the cap that read, “Hospital Security,” and smiled back at my colleague.

“Glad to be a part of the team, Jose,” I said as we exchanged a hearty man hug.

I looked out the window and saw the sun about to rise. I started saying Bircos Hashachar and put on my new hat just in time for the brachah “Oter Yisrael b’sifarah.” Not exactly tefillin, but definitely an honorable mention.

Identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients, their families, and all other parties.

Jacob L. Freedman is a psychiatrist and business consultant based in Israel. When he’s not busy with his patients, Dr. Freedman, whose new book Off the Couch has just been released in collaboration with Menucha Publishers, can be found learning Torah in the Old City or hiking the hills around Jerusalem. Dr. Freedman can be reached most easily through his website www.drjacoblfreedman.com

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 851)