As life takes us on its unending bumpy ride, there are highs
and lows, stresses then release, beauty and futility. And just like the
relentless pounding of the August sun, in Israel, everything here has intensity.
We celebrated the Pidyon HaBen of our grandson, Neta Shalom.
Just two weeks ago, when he was one month old, the family gathered in Efrat for
the tradition of redeeming the first-born male child. In the days of the Temple,
the first-born male would serve as a priest. In order to redeem him, the baby’s
father would offer five silver coins to a Cohen, a patrilineal descendant of
the priestly family of Aaron.
Shaarya gave the Cohen the coins and we then gathered closely
as the Cohen placed his hands on Neta’s head to give him the Priestly Blessing
or the Dukhanen:
May Hashem bless you and guard you
May Hashem make His face shine unto you and be gracious to
you
May Hashem lift His face unto you, and give to you peace.
It was a moment brimming with abundance. From great grandfather
to grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, we all felt the gratitude of having
the miracle of Neta here, enriching our lives.
We then gathered in Hanna Sara’s beautiful garden, the setting sun golden,
casting warm shadows on our faces. Large clusters of ripe grapes hung from her
vine, her apple trees decked out with a bounty of crisp ripe fruit, the
pomegranates ruby red.
Being gathered together in this setting to celebrate the
miracle of a healthy baby was like a taste of Gan Eden.
We must savor these moments – because the bumpy ride of life
will soon seize us and jerkily tear us away screeching.
Click. I take a sweet photo of Neta with my 85-year-old
father. He sits under the grape vine smiling
with pure joy as he holds his first great grandchild.
Yet four days later, my father lies in a
hospital bed hooked up to oxygen, a catheter, a sodium chloride drip and an anti-viral
drip. His vitals are displayed on the screen outside the nurse’s station. The
machine flashes and beeps, the screen spikes and drops, creating panic in my
gut.
The bumpy ride of life took him down with force. Shaking, his
temperature spiking, he lay barely conscious while specialists were called on.
Blood tests were taken, x-rays and ultrasounds made and a lumbar puncture was
done.
The results came in. West Nile Encephalitis. One mosquito
bite. This virus is most active in Israel from mid-August until October and has
been found in the Mediterranean coastal area and from the Dead Sea to Eilat. Most
dangerous to elderly people, younger people simply feel flu symptoms for a few
days and are then fine.
Last year, 74 cases were reported in Israel, 14 of them
serious. Seems like my father beat the odds, contracting it in his own backyard simply by tending to
the flowers he planted and loved.
My father’s sickness is considered one of those ‘serious’
cases. I sit by his side as he lies in his hospital bed, eyes barely open. A
nurse comes by and as he does his rounds, a cell phone rings. Only then do my
dad’s eyes open wide.
Always fascinated by language and culture, he asks, ‘What
language is he speaking?’ ‘Amharic,’ I answer. ‘He’s from Ethiopia.’
Others nurses and attendants come and go. We hear Hebrew
spoken with a Russian accent, see an Arab nurse address a patient in Arabic, and
then we speak to a doctor who has perfect English.
Israeli hospitals are a melting pot of cultures so if one
wanted to get an insight into our population, this is a good place to start.
Enter a state-of-the-art, spanking clean hospital with no rules.
There is security at the main gate, but once inside, visitors can go anywhere
anytime. This is the Middle East, after all.
I have seen Bedouins in the hospital, wearing long white tunics
topped with a camel wool kufeya. I actually
saw someone in the hospital garden with a long frock and a shepherd’s crook who looked like Kind David. I have no
idea if he parked his sheep in the hospital lot. He then walked past a nah nachman guy
with long peyot, woolen tzitzit flying in the breeze.
The Arab patients seem to have an entourage of their entire family
here at all times. They drag chairs across the floor of the common room so they
can eat their meals together. They bring their small children and their teenagers
and simply hang around, listening to music as if they were at a picnic in the
park.
Israeli families like to pull their chairs into a tight
circle in the middle of the hallway as if they are linebackers strategizing in
a football huddle.
If a stretcher or a patient shuffling on a walker needs to
go by, take a number.
Some of us Ashkenazi Jews put our phones on silent and sneak
into the corridor when we get a call while others keep ring tones high, then yell
into the phone, giving the caller and the entire hospital floor an update on their
relative’s health.
From simcha to sickness. We hold on tight as life takes its
dips and turns, often at a flying speed.
I can still hear the words of the Cohen from the Pidyon
HaBen as my father watched, smiling. And today I pray these words will reach my
dad in his hospital bed.
‘May Hashem make His face shine unto you and be gracious to
you.’
