My eldest grandson, Dvir, was born at Schneider Hospital exactly 20 years ago.
It was Thursday morning. My daughter was urgently sent to the hospital, after the attending physician diagnosed “preeclampsia.” Five minutes after the end of Shabbat, Liat entered my daughter into the delivery room (week 26!) for fear of liver damage. And so we had a premature baby born by cesarean section, weighing 769 grams.
The family had difficult days, especially for the young parents, who had their firstborn son. In the early days, they “wanted” to be in the hospital. The doctor’s answers, of course, did not ease the seriousness of their concerns. “As of this moment, he is fine,” said the doctor, and continued, “What will happen in an hour, I cannot say.”
Life went on from hour to hour and day to day. Every passing day he added a few more grams. Every passing week added to the strength of the tiny little body. After 3-4 weeks the tension began to decrease. Visits were divided between the parents, grandparents and great-grandparents.
One day I walk down the hallway leading to the nursery and see my daughter. “Liat,” I asked, “where are you going?” “To feed him,” she replies. “To feed him”? I asked myself. I followed her. She put on a gown and entered the nursery. I can’t see clearly what she’s doing or what the nurse is doing next to her. She comes out and I ask, “How did you feed him?” “Under the nurse’s guidance, I connected one thin tube to another,” she says, a slight smile of happiness on her face, “and that’s how I fed him.”

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