R
av Meir was a huge talmid chacham, yarei Shamayim, and a tremendous Torah inspiration for his community in the south of Israel. Decades ago, his parents had left the Atlas Mountains of Morocco on foot and traveled to Casablanca in order to make it to Eretz Yisrael. And while their initial landing was a challenge, they’d raised a Torah-observant family in a sea of coerced assimilation before moving to Netivot to be with their rebbi, the Baba Sali ztz”l.

Rav Meir’s family had been dedicated to combating secularism in the Moroccan community, and while he was still a bochur, he gladly joined the fight.

The Rabbanit, sitting across from me, told me about her husband. “You have to understand — he used to walk into the secular schools and literally pull his cousins out by their shirts. He became a legend for rescuing these neshamot, and that’s why I married him. He remembered every single bochur he brought to yeshivah, danced at their weddings, sat as the sandek when their sons were born. Each and every one of them was a son to him.”

Rav Meir never let a fellow Jew forget his beautiful heritage. He dedicated his life to set up yeshivos and learning programs in and around Beer Sheva. His inspirational speeches always attracted a crowd — it was a fire that couldn’t be extinguished.

“The Baba Sali was very proud of my husband’s work in the community,” the Rabbanit said.

And while he never intended to slow down, something strange had happened a few years ago as he began to lose a step during his standing-room-only speeches. While the Thursday night shiur in Beer Sheva had been a masterful class in which he’d quote dozens of sources by heart, suddenly Rav Meir needed to bring along seforim in order to properly cite those sources.

And then came the trouble with remembering names. At first it was mistaking a “Yosef” for a “Yosef Chaim,” but by the end of the year, it was clear that Rav Meir’s memory was going.

A visit to the family doctor resulted in a broad diagnosis: dementia. A further consultation with a neurologist had confirmed the diagnosis with an MRI.

“I asked the neurologist if there is anything to stop the process, but he told me no. And now I think my husband is depressed,” the Rabbanit told me.

“What makes you say that?” I asked as I looked over the medical records I’d been given at the start of our visit.

“The Rav doesn’t have the same fire he used to have. He doesn’t want to do anything and even stopped giving his legendary Thursday night shiur.”

“Does he still smile?”

“Of course he does — the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen,” she answered.

“And does he say that he’s depressed, sad, or unhappy?” I asked.

“Of course not,” she responded emphatically. “My husband would never let it be known how depressed he must be.”

We brought Rav Meir into the room to sit down with us. While his MRI showed significant progression of Alzheimer’s dementia, the Rav was as pleasant as could be and had lost none of his hadras panim.

“So nice to meet you, Rabbi,” he said with a luminous smile as he shook my hand.

“It’s an honor to meet you as well, Kevod HaRav,” I answered.

Rav Meir sat down and began to look around my office.

“I would have expected your study to have more seforim,” he said somewhat bluntly, albeit with the same beautiful smile on his face.

I looked around my room and noted that I only had a single shelf filled with a few seforim I’d been given by my patients, the Gemara I was learning, and a few relevant halachah seforim — certainly more than most psychiatrists I knew, but much fewer than the rabbi he thought he was meeting with.

I was about to explain when the Rabbanit turned to her husband. “Meir, this is not a rabbi we’re visiting. Remember? This is a doctor we’re meeting with.”

“Oh yes, of course.” He smiled pleasantly. “Well, I certainly wish you hatzlachah in your work as a doctor as well as with your Torah learning. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a very important meeting today with a doctor and must get to Yerushalayim.”

I made sure not to take any of this personally, laugh, or respond in an otherwise inappropriate manner. Instead, I took Rav Meir’s hand and told him that I was hoping to ask him a few more questions before he left.

We spent the next 20 minutes testing his cognitive abilities, which showed very specific deficits that were consistent with the neurologist’s diagnosis. But while Rav Meir showed significant memory impairment, there were no signs of depression. In fact, Rav Meir was as even-keeled as could be. And yet it was pretty clear that some level of depression was heavy in the room — as his wife cried silently throughout our interview.

“It’s been an honor to meet you, Rabbi,” Rav Meir said as he stood up. “But we really have to go if we want to be on time for our doctor’s appointment.”

“I know, HaRav,” I responded, returning his smile. “But would it be okay if I spoke to the Rabbanit for just one more moment?”

Rav Meir nodded and went to sit outside with a Sefer Tehillim from my shelf. I turned to the Rebbetzin and handed her the name of an excellent therapist in Beer Sheva.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the name of a therapist, a professional for you to speak with to help you through this challenging process,” I answered.

“Wait — there’s nothing you can do for my husband?”

“I don’t believe there’s any psychiatric problem,” I responded. “Baruch Hashem, he’s not depressed. That being said, he does have significant dementia and will need ongoing follow-up with your neurologist to ensure that he receives good treatment as well as the necessary services to keep him safe in the house.”

The Rabbanit understood but was visibly hurt. “Really, there’s nothing you can do for him? No pills, nothing?”

“I’m so sorry, Rabbanit. I don’t think I have anything else to offer you.”

“My husband was a tzaddik!” she cried. “He was a talmid of the Baba Sali! And now he has no brain left? Just dementia in its place?”

“Chas v’shalom,” I answered resolutely. “He’s still a talmid of the Baba Sali, and he’s still a tzaddik. Yes, he’s got dementia, and it’s getting worse, but that doesn’t take away from who he really is… You know what, you need to go to the Baba Sali’s grandson, Rav David Chai Abuchatzeira, in Naharia.”

“To get a brachah? My husband has dementia, and there is no cure, so what’s the point?”

I continued unfazed, “You need to go and ask him for a petek to put on your wall. Something good and inspirational.”

The Rabbanit was confused. “How will that help? You and I both know that he’ll forget it a moment after he reads it.”

“It’s not for the Rav,” I said. “It’s for you.”

“Oh,” she said quietly. “I understand. I guess that makes sense then.”

“Look, you’re already almost halfway to Naharia,” I said. “Maybe it’s better to keep going north now instead of shlepping all the way from Beer Sheva another day?”

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

Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 754. Jacob L. Freedman is a psychiatrist and business consultant based in Israel. When he’s not busy with his patients, Dr. Freedman can be found learning Torah in The Old City or hiking the hills outside of Jerusalem. Dr. Freedman can be reached most easily through his website www.drjacoblfreedman.com