In a Haredi Jerusalem neighborhood, doctors’ visits are free, but the wait may cost you

Last December, my mother and I flew to Israel to help my brother and his wife who were welcoming their fifth child. The apartment we stayed in was tiny, filled by two twin-size beds and a mini fridge. We liked it because it was free — one of many guest units common in my brother’s Haredi Jerusalem neighborhood.

Where he lives, every apartment comes with a storage unit. If the unit is on the main floor and has enough windows, owners will sometimes convert them into a guest apartment. They’re available mostly through word of mouth. The apartments are used for rental income. They’re also used as housing for visiting parents, or — in the case of the one we stayed in — offered to people doing Bikur Cholim (visiting the sick, and a new mom counts!).

As I unpacked that evening, I realized I had left my medicine for the trip on the plane. No big deal, I thought, I knew exactly where I left it. I would just call El Al, and head back to Ben Gurion Airport to pick it up in the morning.

My sister-in-law just laughed when she heard my plan, telling me there was “no way” I was getting it back. Over the years, she said, she’s seen multiple families outside El Al’s lost-and-found office desperately trying — and failing — to retrieve their lost items. “Trust me,” she promised, “go see a private doctor instead.”

Israeli citizens have universal healthcare, but as a tourist, I’d need to see a private doctor and pay out of pocket. Still, what I needed wasn’t a controlled substance or anything complex. I figured it would be straightforward.

Just to make sure we wouldn’t have any issues, I tried calling the doctor’s office. Dr. Stein’s office is local, and open late, but there was no answer. My sister-in-law shrugged and said, “they rarely answer the phone.”

My brother offered to drive me, and after 15 minutes of him swerving in and out of oncoming traffic, we arrived at an apartment building made of Jerusalem stone. The only indication that this was a medical office were the laminated signs taped up in the lobby — “Please whisper after 11 pm.” It was only 8, so whispering wasn’t required – yet.

My brother pointed me to the office door, and took a seat in the stairwell. He would learn some Torah while he waited for me.

I took a peek into the waiting room. It was small with a tall secretary desk. Five chairs were lined up against the wall, and the room was packed with Yeshiva boys standing and waiting. The white walls were covered with sepia-toned pictures of rabbis walking down the streets of (what looked like) Europe. In the corner there was a water dispenser with a slightly grimy spigot. There was also a bookshelf full of Jewish texts.

Sitting in the chairs along the wall were a young father with a curly-haired boy on his lap, a smiling, middle aged couple, and two young mothers with babies. For such a crowded room, it was pretty quiet — only the secretary was talking.

The last of the yeshiva guys was waiting in the hallway. He was tall and thin, a bit older than the other guys, and reading a pocket-sized book of Jewish law. I pulled up a stray metal chair in the hallway, ready to comfortably wait behind him.

The second time a guy walked right past me to cut the line in front of us, I realized I would be better off standing. Jerusalem’s ultra-Orthodox world isn’t my world, and I wasn’t sure what etiquette required. I looked to the quiet man in front of me hoping he would do something, but all he did was look up from his book and pause. At that moment, my 10 years of living in New York City rose to the surface. “Excuse me sir, the line ends back here,” I said.

The line-jumper apologized, and asked how long the wait would be. 90 minutes, someone said. He and one other person immediately left.

An hour passed, and I finally made it into the office waiting room. To my left, I overheard the two mothers talking, “I was here right when they opened, but the secretary asked if I would let some yeshiva guys go ahead of me…” She trailed off, resigned. As a staunch feminist, I grew concerned on her behalf. “You should say something!” I exclaimed, maybe a little too loud for a room that size.

The woman looked at me oddly, but didn’t say anything. A few minutes later she stood up. When the secretary noticed, she promised the woman that she would be next. I was quite proud of myself.

Not long after, the office door opened and Dr. Stein stepped into the doorway to give instructions to the secretary. He was at least 80. He stood six feet tall, wore black velvet slippers, and had thick, straight white peyos — they were long enough to reach his chin, but instead they sprang outward, jutting in front of his ears.

He spent a generous amount of time with each patient, but it was clear that most of the diagnosing was actually done by the secretary who, it turned out, was his daughter. She efficiently dispensed prescriptions and lab requests based on a series of standard questions, freeing the doctor to take his time with trickier patients. It would have been a streamlined system except for the incessantly ringing phones.

To the right of the secretary, five phones sat in a row. She ignored them — except the cordless one on her desk. Whoever had that number must have been important because whenever it rang, which was often, we all waited while she helped whoever was on the line.

When I was nearing the front of the line, I overheard her advising the young man at the front to get labs done. “I think you should get checked out, viral meningitis has been going around,” she said.

At that moment it dawned on me – I had stepped into that office perfectly healthy, only needing a basic prescription, but now I might have viral meningitis. How could I go home and share a tiny apartment with my mother when I might have contracted a virus?

Suddenly I felt someone pushing me aggressively from behind. It was an elderly man with a long white beard, and I knew that Israeli culture demanded I let him cut to the front. I wasn’t having it though. My mother’s health was on the line now. I gritted my teeth, set my feet, and didn’t let him pass.

A few minutes later, a second secretary entered — reinforcements, maybe a granddaughter. As she stepped through the line and behind the desk, the elderly patient saw his chance to cut in front. There was no stopping him. He pushed right past me, and handed his paperwork to the new secretary.

I seized the moment too. Barely breathing, trying not to catch viral meningitis or whatever those red-faced babies had, I told the secretary my story. I left my medicine on the plane, I explained — would the doctor be able to prescribe me a refill? She wrote down an email address where I could send my American prescription.

I stepped out of the line and into the hallway triumphant, feeling momentarily as assertive as any determined rabbi.

From there I called my doctor’s office. They emailed my prescription immediately, so I confidently returned to the waiting room, and tried cutting the line again. That time, my brother followed me in and shattered my plan. “Weren’t you behind this guy?” he asked, pointing to the quiet, studious man.

By the time I reached the secretary, over three hours had passed since I’d first arrived. The line had thinned out, my phone was dead, and I was exhausted. The older secretary frowned at my emailed prescription. “Your doctor is a D.O., not an M.D.? I’ve never heard of it,” she said.

I told her that a D.O. (Doctor of Osteopathic Medicine) is fully licensed like an M.D., but with a slightly different medical philosophy and training. She smiled apologetically, refusing to fill the prescription.

“Why would anyone come here?” I wondered as I was heading out the door.

On the car ride home, my brother explained that Dr. Stein doesn’t charge for his services. The entire operation is run as a Chesed, a good deed, to serve people after hours. “There aren’t convenient urgent cares in this neighborhood,” he said, “and it could take three days to get an antibiotics prescription through your doctor in the public healthcare system.” So instead, people line up to sit on the twin bed in Dr. Stein’s guest apartment and describe their symptoms.

The next day I met a friend for breakfast and shared what happened. When she heard the medication I needed, she reached into her backpack, and gave me enough to last the trip.

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