You’ll sure have something to write about for your blog. No doubt about that, Ezra! Earlier that week, he had made a suggestion – no, a request – that until things calmed down, that we move our Shabbat morning kiddush to their place of residence, as he felt uncomfortable leaving Shoshana to shepherd their two teenagers down to their miklat if – better, when – there was a siren. Sure enough, at about 11AM that Shabbat, we heard the strident sound of the alarm, and we all trudged down the two flights to the entrance and the two additional flight to the sub-basement.

Lots of people already there, with more on the way. Remember, this miklat is for three buildings, and if you want to maximize attendance, call for a roll call at 11 o’clock on a Shabbat morning. Nobody is at work; folks are back from shul; and the grandkids have arrived for lunch. There was one middle-aged woman holding what I assume was a baby swaddled in a blanket, a young woman holding her little white dog, an elderly couple who were definitely not having fun yet, and a number of family groups, each in what might have been in their own makom kavua, a self-selected area that they would go to whenever they were forced to head into the miklat. I stood and surveyed the scene, holding my half a cup of coffee in one hand and what remained of my glass of Scotch in the other, because why wouldn’t I take them with me? That’s like leaving a half-eaten sandwich behind on the kitchen table, which I understand people have done. (What, you’re not allowed to bring food into a miklat?)

When we were allowed to return to the warmth and comfort of our hosts’ apartment, Shoshana climbed into her recliner, looking very tired, which is what happens when you are roused from slumber promptly at midnight, 2AM, 4AM, and so forth. Barbara and I have it easy. If there is an actual siren, we can amble over to Barbara’s office, close the door, and, voila, we’re snug in our safe room. We can safely ignore all the warnings on our phones that might or might not be relevant. But if you need to go down four flights of stairs or, worse, head to another building, you have no choice but to get your fanny in gear whenever your phone starts making funny noises – especially if you have teenagers on the premises. Orly apparently has this ability of putting one of her shoes in one part of the apartment and the other somewhere else. Try finding both when your phone is going nuts, with, alerts seemingly going off non-stop. Hard to sleep that way.

But there is good news.

Lest you think that every situation gets ruined by Iran and Hezbollah lobbing stuff our way, I can report that our Purim went by without a hitch, quite a surprise considering that, for us, it wasn’t even supposed to happen. (Something about a medical procedure that got put off.) OK, not completely without a hitch; the quiet Megillah reading we usually go to in the evening got canceled, and Barbara and I wound up doing what we had done during COVID, reading to each other, a chapter at a time in English. But as for the festive meal itself…

My regular readers will know that we normally go all out on Purim, hosting a bunch of people for a really festive seudah, at which I make much of the food and provide generous helpings of liquid refreshments. But months ago I had spread the word about my forthcoming hospitalization. (You’re on your own this year.) Now that my procedure wasn’t so forthcoming, there was nothing else to do but try to mooch a meal with Ron and Esther, who had become the default hosts this year. Yes, we could join them at 3PM Purim day along David and Bernice and another family I did not know, Maria and Dimitri – double expats – whom Ron and Esther had met way back in Seattle. Well then… If I wouldn’t be wearing a hospital gown, then let me put on my apron and get to work mixing cocktails. (I can also bring a few bottles of wine…)

One of the joys of a Purim meal is that you can start anytime you like and finish the meal whenever. And you can drink as much as you care to, which can be problematic – if you are not careful, as does happen from time to time. And we are all allowed to bend the rules, whatever they may be. Imagine, a tableful of Oy Veyers, agreeing by common consent not to discuss medical issues. Maybe it was the change in conversation, or maybe it was a combination of Ron’s barbecue, David’s homemade bread, and my spirits, that allowed all of us to imagine we were twenty years younger and healthier. And maybe it was because we didn’t have to get up in the middle of the meal and sprint over to the neighborhood miklat, three houses away, which would bring us back to reality in a jiffy.

Some sober reflections, meaning written after the fact.

My first reaction, as you know, about Feb. 28 when the war broke out (although you can’t call it a ‘war’ in certain circles, as it’s only an ‘excursion’ – although they probably mean an ‘incursion’) was to bewail my fate. My procedure will be delayed for how long???!!!  But then I thought, supposing Trump had started his whatever on March 1 when I was already in the hospital. And then more recently I read about Sam (must be shortened from Samantha), the friend of Jody and Brian Blum, he of the ‘This Normal Life’ column in JPost. He recently wrote about their experiences on that fateful Shabbat, including the unexpected phone call from their friend. ‘Could someone come and get me?’ She had been hospitalized a few days earlier with ‘debilitating migraines.’ And now, they were kicking her out. As Brian described it, ‘Not only had they not gotten to the bottom of her headaches yet, but she was as high as a kite from all the ketamine they were pumping into her body.’

Imagine if you were forced to use public transportation in Jerusalem on Shabbat. (Hint: it doesn’t exist.) Jody doesn’t use the phone or drive on Shabbat, but when you’re in a war… (excuse, me, an excursion or an incursion, or whatever) They brought their friend home and tucked her into a spare bedroom with the lights off and the shades down. Which caused me to do some quick calculations. Since Trump started his whatever on Shabbat, I never got to the hospital. If he had started it on Sun., I certainly would have been sent home pre-surgery. But if he had started it on Mon., when I was hooked up to all kinds of tubes…? The hospital had disconnected Sam from her IV and sent her home full of drugs; would they have kept me there to finish my recovery and make sure I was good-to-go or sent me on my merry way? I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.

The ’good news’ is that I was able to spend Purim with friends, not with random folks in purple, green, or blue attire, walking past my hospital bed. Since I’m not in recovery mode, Barbara and I got a head start on our Pesach cleaning. Barbara insisted that we do something to celebrate my 85^th birthday, and so we went with Ron and Esther to Oshi Oshi in the mall.

When will they reschedule my procedure? Barbara called the hospital and got the answer we expected. Nothing would be happening until the whatever was over and done with. With all the bombs bursting through air, Natania, Gil, et. al., were no longer planning to join us for Pesach at the Aaron’s seder. Nor would The Levines be coming for chol hamoed. So things may well be quiet around here – except for our trips to the safe room. Come to think of it, some peace and quiet, even boring, might not be a bad thing. Well, there’s that…