That’s not a siren I’m hearing. It can’t be. I must be imagining. Why would there be a siren out of nowhere at 8AM on a Shabbat morning? And then I heard my wife’s dulcet tones from the other room. ‘Fred, get your ass into the mamad; we just heard a siren.’ Well, that settled that. As I explained to her through the bathroom door, ‘I can’t come right now; I’m working on a project in the small room; it’ll have to wait.’

I did finally join her, and together we tried to figure out what was going on. By this time, Barbara had turned on her phone, and at least we understood that we were now in the middle of a war, and the sirens meant we were being attacked.

And then our land line started ringing. If someone is calling us now on this phone right after there’s been a siren, it must be important, and we’d better answer. Sure enough, it was Hadassah hospital. My procedure, scheduled for the next day, had been cancelled, as well as everything else not deemed absolute emergency. Patients were being discharged, if at all possible. Don’t worry, you’re on the top of the list. We’ll call you to reschedule.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not at all. In addition to all the accounts in the media that negotiations between Trump and the Ayatollah’s men were continuing, I had been told by a usually reliable informant that the top IDF brass had been gallivanting around earlier in the week, seemingly unconcerned, leaving a young woman basically in charge of the office. This information, admittedly third hand, seemed ‘authoritative.’ But I should have paid heed to what Ron and Esther had reminded us about the night before. They had long ago detected a pattern. We had shown up at their home for lunch on Oct. 7, 2023, when they had assumed that we would cancel, because who in their right mind would go anywhere? We were with them the Fri. evening of the recent Iranian missile barrage, having no choice but to zip up the 80 steps to our apartment to get to our safe room. There seemed to be a theme emerging, which I’m sure you can detect if you put your mind to it. Would we ignore it at our peril? I guess we would.  

By the time Ezra arrived a while later that morning for kiddush, we had a fuller understanding of what was going on, that somehow all this had been planned weeks ago, blah, blah, blah. Most of you know the rest – assuming you’re paying attention. But let me reduce things to the microcosm. I needed to chill, and so did Ezra. (I know you want to get back to your family, but you’re here. Sit down. I’ll make us some Rusty Nails [Scotch and Drambui); I have some cold brew left over from last Shabbat, and we have some herring. We’re seconds away from our safe room. If we get another siren, Shosh can get your kids down to the miklat – even if you’re not there.)

It had been an exhausting week for me. We had spent a good part of Monday at Ein Kerem, providing them with enough medical information to fill a green binder. One thing was clear when we left. I was expendable. If any ‘trouble’ started in the next few days, my procedure would be put on ice – although nobody seemed particularly concerned.

I would have been happy to spend the day on Tues. doing something – anything – that was not health related, but that was not to be. Our appointments with our chiropractor – OK, that’s not at all stressful. But then, we were off to Shaarei Tzedek, so I could have an MRI, which my gastro guy wanted done before I had the procedure on Sun.

Now I can hear someone out there interjecting, ‘Come on Fred; an MRI isn’t all that stressful. You just lie there for half an hour and you’re done.’ True, that, but it’s not a walk in the park either, and it’s the cumulative effect of spending too much time in hospitals that’s the killer.’ Especially since we were due back at Ein Kerem on Thurs. for the ishpuz, which I assume has something to do with being welcomed.

I had no complaints about Monday’s pre-op. The anesthesiologist sat with me, and we figured out that I would be better off with a partial anesthesia instead of the full deal. The urologist gave me a prescription for antibiotics to counter a urinary infection. So I got my money’s worth. But Thursday was a complete waste of time. We spent at least ten minutes wandering around the first floor of the old building looking for the urology admission office. We might still be there searching in vain for an unmarked office, if we hadn’t by chance met the only person around who could guide us to the right place. We were asked to repeat the same information that had been put in Monday’s green folder so they could fill up a blue folder, which we took up to the fifth floor of the new building, where we spoke to another woman to no particular purpose. Understand that if you were to leave Ma’ale Adumim at 8 or 9AM and get back sometime around 3PM, you would have basically killed the day. Time for a nap, mincha, and then work on dinner, by which time I’d be too weary to work on my article.

I’ve run out of Drambui, Ezra, so we’ll just have some Scotch. And we don’t have to finish the herring because I’ll be here to finish it during the week. I began to contemplate the change in my schedule. At least I’ll be sleeping tonight in my own bed, and it’s ten seconds to Barbara’s office/our mamad. I won’t be stuck in a shelter, and I won’t be stranded in an airport waiting for a flight that might never take off. If Trump had started his war a day later, I would have been at the hospital, primed and ready for my procedure, only to have it aborted on the way to the O.R. and sent home. Wouldn’t that have been fun?

All the while Ezra and I were fressing and chatting, Liel was having her bat mitzvah Shabbat, including a fairly elaborate kiddush, in the shelter of their shul. An ambulance was called because the older man reading the Torah thought he was having a heart attack. Turns out it was only a panic attack, but who can blame him for his malaise? (Liel will never forget this day!)

So we’ll see. Maybe the hospital will call me in time for our birthday on March 16. Or else, right before Pesach. If they couldn’t erase my Purim, who knows what else they can screw up? Meanwhile, I’ve turned in my hospital gown and am putting on my mixologist apron. We’re invited to a seudah at the Aarons, and I intend to be properly prepared. Cocktails, anyone?