As I write this, I lie in bed for the third day with the flu. Or maybe it’s just a bug of some sort. I’ve never quite understood the difference. Growing up, flu was just a synonym for a bad cold. Is the distinction biological or epistemological?
The illness itself isn’t a big thing — a few days of fever and some minor misery and I seem to be on a gentle upswing. I only had to cancel a few commitments, and it was a useful reminder of how replaceable I am. Everyone did just fine without me.
I am lucky to have my husband around, who has managed to keep a safe distance while also making sure I was fed and hydrated and appropriately medicated. If he had been out of town, I would still have managed to eat and drink and take the Tylenol, but each of those tasks would have been much more daunting. The fever put me in a slightly altered state in which I could think obsessively and at length about sipping the water that’s right next to me without actually mustering the resources to reach for it.
Clearly, being sick is best managed with the caring presence of other human beings. Our Jewish tradition knows this well. The mitzvah of bikkur cholim (visiting the sick) is highly honored — and highly regulated. Traditional sources place limits on when you can visit (not first or last thing, so you don’t burden a sick person during their best or worst part of the day); for how long (not long); and even where a visitor should sit in the sickroom (not on the bed, please). I always advise people to keep visits to 20 minutes unless, when you stand up to leave, the sick person cries out, “Oh, don’t go yet!” When you are sick, time creeps slowly and a visit of more than 20 minutes can feel like a lifetime.
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The presence of others helps draw us out of the undertow of sickness, if only slightly. In the Talmud (Nedarim 39b), Rav Aha bar Hanina says that one who visits a sick person lifts from them one-sixtieth of their suffering. One-sixtieth, in the Talmud, is the proportion that defines the edge between something and nothing. This principle, known as batel b’shishim, teaches that an element is nullified when it is diluted by a ratio of 60 to one. So if you accidentally drop milk into a meat soup, but it constitutes less than one-sixtieth of the volume, the soup is still kosher. It is as if the milk is non-existent. Saying that a visit relieves one-sixtieth of a sick person’s suffering captures that sense that even if the benefit is barely perceptible, it is still there — a minute blessing to be sure, but a worthy one.
There’s something else about the need for other people in the ecosystem of sickness. Tractate Berakhot (5b) gives us a tale about Rabbi Yohanan, who goes to visit his student, Hiyya bar Abba, who is sick. He asks him, “Is your suffering dear to you?” Hiyya responds, “Neither it nor its rewards.” Rabbi Yohanan then raises his student up out of the bed, presumably restoring him to health. A short time later, Rabbi Yohanan himself is sick. His teacher, Rabbi Hanina, visits and similarly asks, “Is your suffering dear to you?” Yohanan responds, “Neither it nor its rewards.” Rabbi Hanina stands Yohanan up out of the bed, presumably restoring him to health.
The Talmud then asks the obvious question: If Yohanan was able to raise Hiyya up out of his sickness and suffering, why did he need Hanina to raise him up out of his own? The Talmud answers: Eyn chavush matir atzmo mibeyt ha’asurim. A prisoner cannot free themselves from their own shackles.
We do get caught in the eddy of our own suffering; I do for sure. Not just around sickness, but around all the ills that draw my attention and arouse my sense of dread and doom. Sometimes that suffering does feel dear to me — as if I owe it to the world for having let it down. But staying trapped in my suffering doesn’t help me or the wounded world around me. So if the gentle touch of a companion can bring me back from the bleakness, maybe I will be free to muster more nimbleness or creativity or courage to respond to the challenges ahead.
At this discouraging moment in the world, this is something we can all do for each other — release each other from the shackles, offer care and witnessing, even if it only lifts one-sixtieth of another’s burdens. The impact might be nearly imperceptible, but not meaningless.
For the moment, I remain in this sickbed, with wild hair and wrinkled pajamas, empty plates and toast crumbs on the bedspread. My lungs are exhausted, but they are getting better. Soon, with God’s help, this particular illness will barely be a memory. They say that in the sickroom, the shekhinah, the feminine aspect of God, stands at the head of the bed. If so, she is looking over my shoulder right now as I type. I relax into her arms like a sick child into a mother’s embrace, close my laptop, and rest.
This article initially appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Shabbat newsletter Recharge on February 1, 2025. To sign up to receive Recharge each week in your inbox, click here.
