By Harold Rafson, March 4, 2016 — Many years ago my old uncle, from the old country, was in a hospital, being treated for a urinary infection. Some of us of the family visited. At a quiet moment, when the other visitors were engaged otherwise, uncle signaled to me to come by his bedside. He raised the cover to show me a catheter and the tube leading off the bed to a bedpan on the floor, to collect urine. He said to me, in his usual Yiddish, with awe in his voice and a wave of his hand, “America.” I can’t help but smile. Because what he was saying was that, even when you cannot piss for yourself, this wondrous country will find a way to help you.
