M

arissa changed out of her NICU uniform and left it in the laundry hamper. It had been an intense shift. She rolled her shoulders backward and forward, trying to squeeze out the stress of the last eight hours.

“See you in two days, nachon?” Lali asked from her desk. “Tomorrow you can hit the shops!”

Marissa smiled wryly. “You know me, Lali. I hate shopping.”

“Okay, so tomorrow you can clean your windows. Or fill up your freezer. Or wash the couch pillows. A house, you want it to be tip-top, it always has another job waiting for you.”

Marissa shrugged. Let Lali scrub her own windows. Tomorrow, maybe she would go to the Kosel for a long, leisurely Shacharis.

She grabbed her jacket. “Bye, Lali, good luck with everything.”

Just past the electric doors of the NICU, a woman stood waiting. She was wearing tights and sneakers, a faded cardigan, and a short, synthetic sheitel. Her dark eyes were scanning every passing person with a certain look that Marissa could only describe as hunting. They locked on Marissa and remained there.

The woman stepped forward. “Hi, are you Marissa Markowitz? The famous NICU nurse?”

Marissa stopped walking. This was so strange. “I’m Marissa,” she said cautiously. “And you are?”

“I’m Adina Laufenstein. I volunteer here in the hospital; I help feed geriatric patients. I heard about you from a friend of mine who had a preemie last year, and I really wanted to talk to you. So I figured this is the best way.”

Marissa looked again at the bright brown eyes. This woman had tracked down her name, her schedule, her location…. What was going on?

“I know it looks a little strange, and I hope I’m not being too forward, but I really want to talk to you about this project I’m involved in. I think you might be the perfect person to help me, and I figured we could talk over coffee. You’re probably so tired after your shift. Could you spare five minutes to sit over coffee with me — my treat, of course — and I’ll tell you the whole story?”

Marissa wasn’t sure why or how she allowed this very confident little woman to lead her to the elevators, then across the busy lobby to the hospital coffee shop. But before she knew it, they were seated at a small table against the wall, with coffees and Danishes set before them.

There was quiet as they sipped their coffees, and Marissa took a moment to observe the slow-moving stream of humanity waiting on line. There were two young men in scrubs waiting for their coffees, an excited woman — she looked like a new grandmother — holding A Prince Is Born! balloons while she instructed the server what to add to her salad, a tired father pushing a stroller. “Tali, tell Abba what you want!” he was begging. The toddler inside had both feet in casts and a battered doll in her hand. “Want Ima!” she said petulantly. “Ima!”

Adina took a sip of coffee, then set it down. “Nothing like a hospital. It’s not just the mix of people; it’s the mix of emotions. You don’t see it anywhere else. So why are we here? Let me start at the beginning.”

Adina straightened her shoulders. “I’ve been living in Yerushalayim for the past thirty years or so. I have a small therapy practice, plus my volunteering here at the hospital. The volunteering — to me, it’s part of the fabric of the city. Yerushalayim’s a city of givers, you know what I mean? Everyone here has so much to offer. There are so many people doing such beautiful things, you just have to peel back a layer or two to find it.”

Marissa nodded. She had always loved that about Yerushalayim.

“So like I said, I have this therapy practice. Mostly young English-speaking women. And what I’m seeing is that under all the fun and hype and we-got-this, a lot of the young Anglo girls here, they’re really not getting it. They’re drowning.” Adina’s voice was low and serious now. “I mean, some of the girls are confiding in me — privately, obviously — that they feel so alone, so far from a real support system.”

“I can hear that,” Marissa said. There were so many moments in her own life she’d felt that way. So many young mothers in the NICU who’d broadcast the same sense of aloneness.

“So I’m the type of person, I see a need, I start thinking how to meet it. I decided I need to open up a support group. Well, I guess that’s the official name, but what I’m planning is going to be so much more than that. It’s like — a hug, an embrace, a fusion of a wise big sister and nurturing mommy, when you’re far from home and need some pampering and advice.”

“Nice.” Marissa took a long sip of coffee and felt the warmth seep through her tired bones.

“Isn’t it? Actually, I really like that phrase I just said — what was it? The fusion of a wise big sister and nurturing mommy. Let me just get that down, it will help with the PR.”

Marissa waited dutifully while the woman pulled a pen and notepad out of her battered pocketbook. What was she all about? And why did she need Marissa?

“So where was I? Right, I’m going to be offering my ladies a whole self-care center — aromatherapy, massage — you know, it can help so much with shalom bayis. It’s like they say, fill your cup so you have what to share with others. Meet your own needs so you won’t be needy.”

The little girl in the stroller was wailing inconsolably now. “Ima! Ima! I want Ima!” Her father unbuckled her and hoisted her out. He sank into a chair and patted her back. “Tali, motek, we will see Ima later. Now eat this nice cookie. Look, it has sprinkles!”

Marissa turned back to Adina and listened as this strangely compelling woman kept talking.

“So that’s the newlyweds. But there’s this whole other demographic that I’m noticing: the new mommies who are so tired, so overwhelmed, so lost. Their moms come that first week or two after they give birth and teach them the basics, but then they fly back to America and these girls are left struggling. Completely and totally struggling.

“So you know me — well, you don’t know me yet. But trust me, when I see a need, I start thinking how to meet it. And what we need to do for these struggling new mommies is we need to connect them with someone experienced, and warm, and professional, to be able to answer their questions about infant care.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Marissa conceded. She still remembered those first few months with baby Tamar, after Mom and Dad had flown back to the US and Yaakov had slipped right back into routine, leaving her with a screaming human being whose needs she could not begin to fathom. She had never felt so helpless before or after — having a perpetually needy baby draining her of every physical and emotional resource literally around the clock had been the most humbling experience of her life.

“Isn’t it?” Adina laughed. Her brown eyes looked so pretty when she laughed — little flecks of light sparkled and danced in them — and her stiff sheitel appeared less severe. “I have amazing ideas, it’s true. But the trick is to actually turn them into reality. That’s my superpower.

“Anyway,” Adina went on brightly, “so like I mentioned before, one of my friends actually had a preemie last year and she said you were the nurse who made her feel like a person again, who built her up and empowered her to take care of her very fragile baby. And I knew I had to track you down. Imagine what this could do for these mommies, if I could connect them with a real NICU nurse. A frum woman who gets them. Someone calm, reassuring, easygoing, who actually has scientific knowledge about what they should be doing with their newborns. It’s ideal, isn’t it?”

Adina Laufenstein was not a subtle flatterer, but Marissa had to admit, it still felt nice. “It sounds like a good idea,” she said cautiously. “How would it work? I work… a lot of hours. And I have a family.”

“Look, I understand that you might not have much experience volunteering,” Adina said smoothly. “Once you become part of this circle of givers, though, it really changes everything. You thought you had no time, no energy, but then you find new resources you never knew about. You cannot imagine how energizing, how invigorating, it feels to be on the giving end.”

Marissa nodded. There was something so inspirational about the portrait of Marissa Markowitz that Adina was painting.

“Like, imagine a new mommy is worried about a baby crying, or a weird rash, or some strange symptom. Imagine if I connected her with you, and you are that substitute mother figure who guides her through it. It’s such a need, I’m telling you.”

“Ummm… okay. So what happens now?”

“You give me your number, I’m going to start working on getting the word out, and then I assume within a week or two, the calls are going to start. It’s going to be life-changing — for the worried young mommies and, trust me, for you too.”

Marissa nodded. That circle of givers sounded really enticing. Holy, almost. “It’s a good idea. I can definitely give it a try.”

“Perfect. I knew you were the right person,” Adina said. “I can’t wait to see what we do together for the mommies of Yerushalayim!”

To be continued….

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1044)