This is a story about riding a bus from Yeroham to Beersheva. Sounds simple, right? Well it's not. It's also about riding an inner city bus to Beit Cholim Soroka. In Hebrew that means 'house of sick people'.
My heart hated those so-called hospitals ever since a doctor at Booth Memorial lured me with ice cream into getting my tonsils cut out.
Beit Cholim Soroka is spread over a big plot of land, and if you're in a hurry it's a safe bet you will not get to your building on time. Anyway, we made the mistake of entering the complex through a long, covered walkway not far from the bus stop. We remembered from last time an information desk manned by a person who knew exactly where to find your family member. So we didn't mind walking across a long hall to a circular corridor that led to a cafeteria, which led to a hallway, which led to an art gallery, which led to the blessed information desk.
But this time nobody was there.
We wandered around and finally found a small office marked 'Intake'; and an old man speaking on the phone, and after a long while a woman appeared and directed us outside to a building in the distance. Once inside, we didn't see anyone. We wandered from corridor to corridor until at last we found a woman in an office. She was speaking on the phone. Time passed. At last one of us interrupted her. She snapped back that we should walk through the metal doors, turn left and left again, and take the elevator to the second floor.
We tried; we really tried, but besides getting lost the first three times and returning to the office for the same instructions, when we finally got into an elevator and pressed the button for the second floor, the elevator took us to the third floor. We tried every elevator we could find, and the situation only got crazier.
So we hated to do this, but we returned to the office and found it locked.
We marched off to wander the building, and almost considered getting out of that house of sick people.
And then we saw the lady inside the office, still speaking on the phone.
After she insisted that her directions were good and we said no, her directions were bad, a message entered my brain: don't talk any more! Dance! You know, like the Tzaddik Rav Eliezer shlita.
So my feet, arms, hips, and shoulders danced. And the beat banged out its message: Hey, Lady, you know where. Take a walk and bring us there!
The lady froze; nobody did this. Leave the desk? No, no. The phones will ring. Zeh lo b'seder! It's not okay!
The song kept going: Yes it IS okay! Nothing bad will happen!
Well, the woman disappeared somewhere in the office, and we left. But hey, just as we returned to the crazy elevators the lady reappeared and somehow brought us directly to my daughter, who was in the process of giving birth, an activity which, like everything else we do, is impossible unless you make a leap into knowing we are absolutely helpless.