It's just an eye

We just got back from visiting injured soldiers at Bellinson Hospital in Petach Tikva. As usual, when my husband suggested it, I was nervous to go. I am not good with the unknown. What would I say to them? Did they want to talk to a total stranger -- particularly one who's Hebrew leaves more than a little to be desired.

Now that I am back, I can honestly say that I have never been so moved in years -- maybe not in my whole life. Nothing sticks out in my mind as being as important and memorable as the last two hours.

There were parents and friends everywhere, with the patients and milling around in small groups outside the soldiers rooms. At first glimpse it was more like the Food Court in the mall on Friday afternoon than a hospital. There were wall-to-wall people all holding food. There were friends bringing in pizzas and burgers. There were mothers with home-baked goodies. There were abandoned salads sitting on ledges.

It struck me, not for the first time, that Jews really do not know how to cope -- good or bad -- without food.

The first patient we visited happened to be our neighbour. We didn't know he was injured but I must say it made for a softer landing  into the labyrinth they call a hospital. Not to digress but Voldemort would never have found Harry Potter in the maze that is Bellinson. Okay, back on point, our neighbour is going to be fine.

Next we ventured out into the hallways, popping by rooms to visit other soldiers -- the non-English speakers. Every one of them greeted us with a smile and happily engaged, to the best of his ability, in conversation. Their parents and friends couldn't thank us enough for coming, but in truth, it is us who were (and should be) thanking them. When you say that -- particularly to their parents -- they hug you. It means so much to them that you truly understand what their child has given to keep you safe.

And then there was the guy who lost his left eye. He was surrounded by friends while his parents and sister were outside the room. His head is shaved on one side and you could see a very long scar that now traverses a significant section of his skull. The doctor who saved his life is a friend of mine. He told us that the difference between life and death in many of these cases is less than a half a centimeter. I almost fainted right then and there, but all I could think was "who am I to be falling apart on you?"

"It's just an eye," I said to my doctor friend, after we left the room. No, I would never say that to the kid who lost his eye -- he didn't look like he was feeling that way at all. His parents did. His sister did. His girlfriend did. But that observation really summed up our visit.

I wasn't being flippant. I was being a parent. A pragmatic parent.

It isn't that his eye doesn't matter -- it does. But, as any adult can tell you, life can go on pretty fully without an eye. You can still read the words on your ketuba. You can still have children and watch them grow up. You can still read to your children and to yourself. You can still admire your partner.

As my own son gets closer and closer to his induction date in March, I find myself having these crazy thoughts. "Well, you don't really need two (fill in any body part that comes in a pair)," I rationalize this sort of logic in the middle of the night. What the hell has happened to me? When did I start thinking like this?

I brought my children into the world with all their parts -- all working. I ran to the doctor countless times when they were small just to make sure that all their parts continued to work. And here I am looking at other mothers' sons so relieved that they have some working parts. "At least they are alive," I hear my subconscious whisper and I really mean it.

So there's the truth: I am just thankful that these boys are still alive. In Israel people understand these things. Girlfriends don't leave you because a little physical piece is now missing. Yes, it is just an eye, or just a leg, and just an arm. They are not the most important things that comprise a person.

These regular, yet remarkable boys, have served their country with great bravery. May they all go on to live very full lives knowing that their countrymen are safer because of what they sacrificed. I am honoured to have met them.

It could only get better after the Burma Road

The rest of the Passover holiday was better. After the Burma Road fiasco, it really couldn't get a lot worse. Next year we are going to have to totally rethink this Passover vacation thing. As I mentioned previously I don't like to go away period and I definitely don't like to go away when everyone else goes away. However, yet again, I may have to eat crow.

My friends who went away spent hours sitting poolside at various hotel pools while their husbands entertained their children on various hikes and mini-mountain climbing expeditions. I don't think there is much work in figuring out who was smarter: me or them.

Once again my friend Beth reported that the hotel pools were a little over the top, but of course, she could say that because she didn't spend the day on the Burma Road and she didn't pay the stupid traffic fine (of course, neither have we at this point).

Day two we went to Zichron Yacov, which is a very trendy and happening place to spend a day. Unfortunately a lot of people thought the exact same thing and decided to join us there. The main street was shut off to traffic and there was a street festival. The good news is that I bought a table runner (yes, this is what my life has come to) for my dining room buffet. It's great and I love it. The bad news was that we were traveling with a handful of other people who had their own ideas about what to do -- and my husband elected me trip monitor without ever telling me that until I lost the first straggler.

Of course it's my fault when his 76-year-old mother wanders off to look at something, accompanied by his 50-odd-year-old cousin who is smart enough to be a doctor at Bellinson Hospital. I mean, really, what could have happened to them? They both speak hebrew and at least one of them had a credit card. I dream about moments like that when I lose everyone and they all go home without me but I don't care because I have a credit card and I know how to use it.

We also went to the First Aliyah Museum in Zichron because the town was one of pre-modern state Israel's original settlements. The museum is excellent and it was doubly excellent that day because it was free! The museum tells the story of one family that leaves Russia as a result of the pogroms there and moves to pre-state Israel in the late 1880s.

For anyone who thinks I have suffered from my move to Israel, this is a museum worth seeing. Those people came to nothing but trouble -- angry neighbours, disease, inability to make a living, etc... On the other hand I moved to a town in Israel with a big enough mall, satellite television, sugar-free fresh yogurt and tennis courts. We still have the angry neighbours both on our street and beyond our borders, but other than that, my move to Israel was a breeze in comparison.