“Can you save my brother with some of that medicine that Hashem gives you the seichel to prescribe?"
R
eb Menachem Nochum was not only beloved by me. It was apparently a sentiment shared by many people in the chassidish community where he lived, learned, and was known for his magnanimous smile and open heart.
I’d met rabbanim who praised his learning and noted that his brain was built for Gemara. I’d also treated more than one patient from his community who’d called him their “best friend.”
The first time I met him was soon after my aliyah, when I was completing my licensing at a local hospital. Reb Menachem Nochum, who spoke the Queen’s English, would arrange exit passes for hospitalized patients every Erev Rosh Chodesh, and take them to the nearby Har Hamenuchos to visit kivrei tzaddikim.
When he showed up in my office with Yoelish, a 20-year-old bochur from London who he introduced as his brother, it all made sense. Apparently Reb Menachem Nochum had been living with mental illness in his family for the better part of his life — so I assumed.
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