Visiting the Sick – This Patient’s Input

I recently wrote a blog post elsewhere about visiting the sick from a Jewish perspective. In this article I want to go narrower and more personal – to write about what visiting the sick actually means when I am the patient, and when the illness is PSP. Others may feel the same, others may disagree and as with everything on this blog, this is just my personal view.

I hope you find this useful. It is a topic that matters to so many people, on both sides of the sickbed. And it is not easy – some people are natural at this but most of us really struggle and now I struggle on the other side as well. So hopefully this will help some people.

Across many cultures and faiths, there is a practice of visiting the sick – of offering presence, strengthening, and solidarity. It is, across the board, considered one of the most fundamental acts of human compassion. And the research backs this up. A substantial body of evidence has identified positive outcomes linked to visiting: faster recovery, reduced anxiety, and improved morale, particularly in serious illness settings. For patients facing terminal or progressive illness specifically, emotional support from others is associated with better quality of life and reduced anxiety and depression. The science is clear. The visit matters.

But this is the entire point of this article – how you visit matters just as much.

Until I became the patient, I never truly understood that there was any issue regarding visiting the sick. I had always thought of it as clearly a very positive thing to do – altruistic, largely selfless, an act of going to see those who are in need of strengthening. Simply a good thing to do.

Then I got sick. A very specific type of sick. PSP.

Why is there an issue?

All sources, from psychologists to theologians, address this, but I looked at the Laws of Jewish Practice as just one of many sources and noticed something very interesting regarding PSP. Just follow me for a second while I take you through two lines of text written a short time ago – in the 16th century. They are fascinating, as I believe you will see.

The law starts quite obviously:

LAWS OF VISITING THE SICK; HEALING; THE APPROACH OF DEATH AND ONE IN A DYING CONDITION.

It is a religious duty to visit the sick. Relatives and friends may enter at once and strangers after three days. If the sickness overtakes him suddenly, both may enter forthwith.

But then, in Law 8, it says something far more nuanced – and far more relevant to my situation:

One should not visit those suffering from intestinal illness, nor eye ailments, nor head ailments. Similarly, any patient for whom speech is difficult and exertion is harmful – one should not visit in the patient’s presence but rather enter the outer room and enquire whether the surroundings need to be swept and sprinkled before him, and similar matters; one listens to his suffering and prays for mercy on his behalf.

I don’t have an intestinal illness. But I have the other two – my eyes are impacted by PSP – and it chimed with me at least to an extent.

The truth is that I don’t want visitors all the time. I want to rest and be with my family and my closest friends, and sometimes I want to be by myself. Dignity is hugely important to me. I don’t want visitors showing up when I am not dressed properly or am feeling off.

This instinct – that the visit must be calibrated to the patient’s condition – is not unique to Jewish law. From some basic research I can see that Islam, Christianity and Hinduism take a similar approach: the visit is for the patient, not the visitors.

The problem I actually face

The most important thing I don’t want is what I call Toxic Positivity: “It will be OK” or “There will be a miracle.”

I live in an area where many of my friends and family are religious, and I get a great deal of this. So let me be clear about my position. It is not that I don’t want a miracle – of course I do – but we are taught not to rely on them. More so, I believe G-d has put me in this situation for a reason, and I have a genuine sense of purpose – perhaps to write articles like this one – and I have to make the best of it, not beg for a “Get Out of Jail Free” card. My whole life has been one of blessing. I have a healthy and wonderful family, and I don’t want to make this about demanding a Hail Mary from G-d. There are far more deserving people than I.

The research is unambiguous on this point. How patients perceive themselves to be seen by those around them profoundly influences their overall sense of dignity. Dignity is not abstract – it is damaged every time someone arrives and projects their own discomfort onto the patient in the form of false reassurance. There are also visitors who insist on statements such as “Person X has it worse,” “We all die sometime,” or “You just need to stay positive.” It doesn’t help. It adds to the burden rather than lifting it.

So what does good actually look like – from this patient’s perspective?

The thousands of years old Jewish Talmud gives us the answer – and it is not what you might expect.

Rabbi Yochanan visits his sick student, Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba. He asks him: “Are your sufferings welcome to you?” The student replies honestly: “Neither they nor their reward.” Rabbi Yochanan does not challenge him. He does not offer theology, or promises of recovery, or remind him to stay positive. He simply says: “Give me your hand.” The student gives him his hand – and is healed.

No sermon. No miracle promises. No toxic positivity. Just presence. Just a hand extended in genuine human connection.

The Talmud is telling us something profound: the most powerful act is not what you say – it is that you show up, you see the person, and you meet them exactly where they are. Islam and Christianity say the same thing in their own ways – that being genuinely present with the suffering is itself a sacred act. That presence can also take the form of a phone call, a voice message (as one friend does particularly well), or a WhatsApp – as long as you don’t get annoyed when I don’t respond.

Three examples from my own life

A rabbi came to visit me and we had a genuinely useful discussion about end-of-life planning – a topic carefully woven into conversation that I deeply needed to discuss with someone qualified and compassionate. He didn’t shy away from the reality of my situation. He met me where I was. That visit was a gift.

Then there are the close friends who come to play chess with me. They don’t lecture me. They don’t offer unsolicited theology. They bring light conversation and genuine warmth, and they focus on something I can actually enjoy in the moment. They leave me feeling better than when they arrived – and they are willing to cancel at the last minute if I am not in the mood. I am grateful for that flexibility more than they probably know.

Third is a friend – representative of a wider group, some abroad – who checks in regularly without expecting a response. They ask how I am, they involve me in small tasks that take my mind off things for a few minutes, and they hold no expectation that I will engage at that moment. That understanding, freely offered, is itself a form of care. Research on palliative support confirms what these friends do intuitively: that meaningful social contact, without pressure or agenda, allows patients to move towards acceptance of their situation – and measurably improves their quality of life.

Lastly – know when to say goodbye

This is just my personal advice for one of the most practical issues that comes up in visiting the sick: knowing when it is time to leave. Often there is a moment of silence, which is the right moment to end the conversation, because the patient – and I mean this personally – is often exhausted after a visit and needs to rest but finds it difficult to say so. That moment is frequently missed. Further conversation is sought, however laboured. I would encourage visitors, from my personal perspective, to end on a high note a little earlier rather than eeking out the conversation until it peters out.

A closing thought

I can safely say that visiting the sick is a very important act – whether as a religious obligation or simply as the right thing to do. The science confirms what the traditions have always known: the absence of meaningful human contact can worsen outcomes for seriously ill patients, while genuine support – offered on the patient’s terms – makes a measurable difference.

But the person you are visiting has to want you to come. And the very worst thing you can do is upset and stress them – especially with a condition like PSP.

It is not a science. It is an art. It requires EQ – emotional intelligence – and some people have more of it than others.

I am not writing this to turn people away. I am writing it to remind people that the mitzvah – the commandment, in whatever tradition you observe it – is to uplift the sick person. Not to offer unsolicited theology, false comfort, or lessons in gratitude to someone living with a progressive terminal illness that has no treatment and no cure.

The patient and the caregiver are at the heart of this. The visit is not an act performed for the visitor’s benefit. It is an act of service – to the person in the bed.