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“10 Maine Ave – 4th floor – Male 65 Years old – Irregular Heartbeat”

Does something seem peculiar with the aforementioned information?

I didn’t think so either. Except for the irregular heartbeat, the call looked perfectly regular.

(Sorry – I couldn’t help myself.)

All seemed legit – until GPS got on the radio waves.

GPS is the nickname honorably elected to a gentleman called Aaron. I say gentleman, but in fact, he would be better described as a machine; and this particular machine has an affinity to maps, streets, house numbers, and all things boring. He knows, at the tip of his fingers, and I kid you not – every single house in Jerusalem, and soon, the world. If he had the aspiration, and he doesn’t, he’d be out there working for NASA counting stars or something.

“Don’t be silly,” my grandfather would say, “You’re exaggerating.”

“No – I’m not!”

GPS doesn’t respond physically to many emergency calls, but instead monitors the ‘situation’ from his daytime job at a large bakery.

“What good is a medic who prefers baking?” asks my ever pragmatic grandfather.

Actually, a great deal of good and I’ll explain.

He clearly has a photographic memory and knows not only the number of buildings on each street, but also the number of apartments in each building.

Absurd – Yes.

Extremely helpful – Oh Yes.


Case Study #1

DISPATCHER: “Minor Injury at Bus Stop on Park Ave”

GPS: There is no bus stop on Park Ave.

Short and to the point: He needn’t say more. Control now knows with absolute certainty, that someone, somewhere, has made a mistake and that the data needs to be revisited and revised.


Case Study #2

DISPATCHER: “10 Maine Ave – 4th floor – Male 65 Years old – Irregular Heartbeat”

GPS: On Maine Avenue, house #10 is a villa; and there is certainly no apartment on the 4th floor. The correct address must therefore be Main Street, where #10 has 5 floors. Over and out.

The ‘new’ address is in a completely different neck of the woods. My neck of the woods.

“Unit #18 en route.”

I arrive simultaneously with Unit #24. We grab our kits and head to the elevator. Inside, I press number 4, and notice there are 5 floors.

GPS – Spot on.

Elevator doesn’t budge, so we go up manually. Yes, that means we took the stairs.

I knock on the door. No response. I begin to let myself in and am stopped by #24 who, a touch more fastidious than me, would never enter uninvited.

“It’s not correct etiquette!”

I politely disagree.

“This isn’t just an emergency call – it’s an intensive care ALS call. The patient might very well be lying on the floor, unconscious, alone, fading, perishing, expiring, declining, dying, decaying.”

OK, I went too far.

But still, the reality is that someone has called for an ambulance, and is now suspiciously quiet.

“I vote we knock, announce ourselves, and walk straight in.”

“All in favor say Aye!”

#24 is silent, contemplating the validity of my theory.

Or perhaps I had lost him at “decaying” – either way I let myself in, and start searching the small apartment.

I find the gentleman in the lounge on the floor; alive, breathing and conscious, but too weak to get up. I want to say “I told you so,” but fight the urge and focus on the patient.

One minute and several questions later, I learn that he is normally a healthy individual, but had suddenly felt terribly weak and dizzy. So weak in fact, that his legs had buckled under him, and he found himself dialing the emergency services. The rest is history.


His pulse was a touch fast – 120.

His systolic was a touch low – 100.


Actually come to think of it, my pulse was probably also 120. But I had a valid excuse;

4 flights + 184 pounds (me) + 30 pounds (EMT bag) = Cardio Workout.

Whereas he was just lazing about on the floor.

The ALS crew walked in, and I gave over the information that I had gleaned, including his fast pulse.

To be precise I said, “Pulse 120.”

The paramedic nodded at me as if I was being rather silly and juvenile. She asked me to step back, and proceeded to ask the exact same questions as I had moments before.

The patient looked confused, and so was I.

She proceeded to take his pulse and exclaimed aloud in utter disbelief “This man has Sinus Tachycardia!”

Her crew looked shocked and taken aback at this unforeseen twist.

(For the uninitiated, a pulse of 120 is by definition Tachycardia, except the latter is a more important word.)

I thought it an opportune time to leave, before I regurgitated all over her and her ego. This time #24 agreed, and we headed back down the four flights.


I’d vote for unpretentious GPS over conceited ALS any day – wouldn’t you?

Humanitarians not Sadists

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I avoid politics like the plague, and would never normally comment on current events.

But I would like to say the following, as it directly concerns myself, and the organizations I belong to.

The undeniable, indisputable truth, that by some absurd twist of reality, is openly confirmed, even by the ‘other side’ is that;

Whilst some “sanctify” G-d’s name by murdering innocent civilians;

We Sanctify G-d’s name by helping, treating and saving people without regard to race, color, religion, creed, gender or nationality.

And we do so:

  1. Without Discrimination
  2. Without Prejudice
  3. Without Anticipation of Remuneration


We – refers to the EMS organizations in Israel, including MDA, Team and United.

We – refers to all Emergency Medical personnel and institutions including hospitals and their staff.

End Quote.


But that’s not what this story is about.


It was late evening, and I was just about to retire when the radio crackled to life.

“Police requesting our assistance in their search for a male teenager missing since this afternoon. He has black hair, blue eyes and is wearing a white shirt and black pants.”

“He answers to the name Jacob.”


I have never understood quite what that means.

Is it that – “He answers to the name Jacob – but his real name is David???”

Is he schizophrenic ?

If you call out David, will he respond?

Or does he only react when called by his imaginary name?

Odd, isn’t it.


But that’s not what this story is about.


Then a Call came in as, “Elderly Male – Fell in Street – Minor Injury.”

By the time I got there, his family had picked him up off the floor and I found him sitting on a plastic chair in the entrance way of his apartment building.

One look at his bloodied face, and I recognized him immediately. He was a popular neighborhood Rabbi, the head of a Rabbinical College actually.

He was a Very Important Person; and you know what that means…

VIP patient = same exact treatment as every other human being, except more limelight.

I ask the regular questions, but first and foremost I want to know;

“Did he faint perhaps, or was it just an unfortunate slip?”

The difference, while imaginably insignificant to the uninitiated, is actually enormously important. If he tripped or slipped and therefore fell, I need to treat the consequences thereof. Bumps, cuts, bruises, perhaps the odd fracture.

If the patient fainted, however, I need to do all of the above plus investigate the syncope.

Victims of ‘simple falls’ will often deny transport or further treatment, whereas I will make an extra effort to convince elderly post-syncopes to get themselves properly checked out in a hospital. It might be a simple vasovagal event, or it may be something more sinister.


But that’s not what this story is about.


The patient insists he had simply tripped on an uneven sidewalk, and just wanted me to have a look at his cuts; of which there were several – on his face, hands and knees. There was a small trickle of blood coming from his nose and so I fiddled with it to ensure it wasn’t broken.

Close your eyes, and imagine this scene.

OK, open them. I guess you can’t read this if your eyes are closed.

Maybe I ought to do an audio book version – food for thought.


Anyways, imagine this:

Stroke of Midnight

Elderly important Rabbinical personality

Wife in PJ’s

In the public domain

Blood everywhere

And I’m fiddling with his nose


Boy, I love this job.


Ok, so his nose isn’t broken, but his booboos need attention. So I put on some gloves, get out my equipment, and ready myself for the operation.

(If my medical supervisor is reading this, I actually put on the gloves as soon as I arrived on the scene.)

(“Yes Sir – I know – Safety First”)

Out come the gauze pads, tape, Band-Aids and sterile wash; although not just any sterile wash:

I was brandishing a brand new, anti-septic, anti-bacterial, anti-Semitic spray.

The spray had just been added to my kit and was the most advanced of its kind. I was just about to let it loose on the bloodied limbs when the pajama clad wife said to me, oh so gently,

“My child – are you sure it doesn’t burn?”

I wasn’t sure actually, but instead of admitting my unfamiliarity with the product, I said,

“Of course it doesn’t burn! – We’re humanitarians, not sadists.”

I showed her the bottle for good measure. Thankfully, I was right. It said in large green, ever so innocent letters:

“New Formula – Does Not Burn!”

So I felt absolutely comfortable doing a 10 spray, quick succession assault, on his open wounds.


Did you get a premonition,

That he would scream,



THAT my friends – is what this story was about.

Stop Thief!

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“My mistake – I’m Sorry,” I shouted into the cellphone, which was precariously wedged between my ear and the helmet.

“You should be,” came the unsympathetic response from my colleague in the UNITED headquarters.

“We nearly had the Blues on your tail,” he added for good measure.

“I apologize – it won’t happen again,” I replied, this time less meek, more ‘gimme a break’.

“And next time answer your radios or phones.”

“Is there anything else darlin’?”

“No, that’s all – drive safe.”

“Thank you, have a pleasant shift.”


So let’s start with why my phone was wedged into my helmet:

Question: “Don’t you cowboys have Bluetooth helmets?”

Answer:  Yes, the new guys do, but I’m still trying to stick to old school traditions. Nowadays, the helmets are high tech and come ready fitted with earpieces that connect, through Bluetooth, with our communication devices. There is a small button on the handlebar, next to your thumb, that you press to talk, and you get to hear the response directly into your brain.

Gnarly, dude.

Yeah, whatever. I prefer the old way. I like it better when the uncomfortably warm, radiation emitting, speakerphone crackling, “can you hear me now” producing, oops slipping cellphone is jammed uncomfortably close to my skull. But the organization won’t tolerate it much longer. Unsafe they say.

Question: What was that guy screaming at you about?

Answer: I forgot to tell Control I was out driving after 23:00. I’ll explain.

Advances in technology, coupled with snoopy control guys, have enabled ‘big brother’ to spy on the Ambucycles 24/7. My bike went through a serious nail-biting three hour surgery, in the course of which it was implanted with a GPS tracking device. But this ain’t your regular GPS gizmo. No, no, the tech guys went all out with this one. Control gets fed masses of information onto their huge screens. Data such as, my location, my speed, my favorite color, and what I ate for breakfast get relayed to the powers that be. Furthermore, every time I switch on my lights and sirens, the bosses are informed.

No more zipping to buy Pizza with sirens blazing.

Not that I ever did that. Ahem.

The positive repercussion of all this though, is that the bikes are harder, if not impossible, to steal. If some unlucky thief does somehow manage to nick a bike, he’ll have the long arm of the law knocking on his door within the hour. And they won’t be delivering pizza.

Bottom Line: Don’t steal my bike!

Question: Why was I apologizing to control?

Answer: Every ignition between the hours of 23:00 and 07:00 needs to be reported. The thinking behind this is that most robberies happen at night; so if the volunteer needs to go somewhere on the bike during the aforementioned hours, his duty is to call, identify himself, and inform control of his approximate flight plan & how long he’ll be out for.

Simple enough, but I always forget. And when you forget, they try to get hold of you on your cell or radio. If something’s not right, they call the police, triangulate and relay the bike’s location. Then it’s only a matter of minutes…

Question: Is there anything else you can do to ensure your bike isn’t stolen?


“You’re not a thief, are you; trying to get the inside scoop?’

“No, I’m just an innocent curious civilian reading your blog!”

Oh Ok.


Answer = There are several;

  1. Lock your bike to an immovable object.

According to the strict letter of the law (United regulations), you need to lock your bike every time you park. Sounds great on paper, but is imminently impractical.


“Why aren’t you running to save the trapped and injured passengers of the overturned vehicle?”

“I’m just scanning the highway for an immovable object…”


“Help! My Baby’s choking!”

“Is there a telephone pole in the vicinity of your house, Ma’am?” You get the picture.


  1. Don’t tell anyone, but there is a secret kill-switch under my seat. Whenever the bike is parked, we are supposed to turn the switch to the OFF position. This somehow cuts power internally to the engine, so that it can’t be switched on or even hotwired.

This is a great mechanism and I use it all the time. It’s simple to do and very effective. Problem is I sometimes run to save a life, only to find that the bike doesn’t start. It normally takes about 5 seconds of head scratching for me to remember that the switch needs to be moved to ON.

“I’m forgetful – so what!?”


  1. We are instructed to move the “Lights and Sirens” to the ON position. This is so that if somebody does succeed in breaking the lock (rare) and defeats the kill switch (implausible), once he starts the engine he, and the people within earshot, are in for a pleasant surprise. The hope is that he gets the shock of his life and runs (not rides) away.

And for the avoidance of doubt – Yes, I constantly and consistently forget to return the Sirens to OFF, and get the shock of my life at ignition. I have however learned NOT to run away, so all is not lost.



Thieves everywhere beware – we know where you live!

And even if we don’t, you’re sure to lead us there, should you make the injudicious mistake of stealing an Ambucycle.


(Just a quick apology to my neighbors for the chaotic noises when I start my bike – It’s a minor technical fault. It’ll be fixed just as soon as I get a Bluetooth helmet.)

Woman of Valor

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“You’d best go home, Sarah.”

“You have several days, a week at the most – I’m so sorry.”

He was wrong.

Although they couldn’t have known that, as they staggered, husband and wife, towards the parking lot of Hadassah Hospital.


The sun was setting and the Jerusalem sky was ablaze with a multitude of colors.

Her sun was setting and yet it was too early. Her life-clock read noon; there must be a mistake.


A woman of valor, who can find? Far beyond pearls is her value

Her husband’s heart trusts in her and he shall lack no fortune


How would they tell the kids; it had all happened so quickly. “They’ll want to fly in as soon as they find out,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition. She nodded.

They drove in complete silence – there was nothing to say.

Maybe there was too much to say.

By the time they got home, it was already dark outside and neither had any appetite. She because of the meds and he because of the fear. Indescribable fear.

It was Wednesday night. Tomorrow was Thursday and on Friday the kids would come for the weekend.

She fell asleep.

He lay awake thinking. Dreading.



What would you do, if you awoke to a life measured in minutes instead of decades?

What would you do, if you awoke to indescribable pain, sorrow and uncertainty?

What would you do, if you awoke, but were unsure if you were actually awake?


Friends, let me tell you what she did.


She rises while it is still nighttime, and gives food to her household and a ration to her maids

She girds her loins with might and strengthens her arms


She said,

Actually she sang:


King of Kings, Thank You for Life,

For abundance, for tears, for laughter,

Even amidst difficulty, even then my Creator,

You are never distant.


Would you lounge around, undressed, unkempt, confused, angry, sad?

Not her.

She got dressed and put on makeup. She wanted to look beautiful. She wanted her family to remember her as she had always been.

Young, vibrant – alive.


Give her the fruit of her hands, and she will be praised at the gates by her very own deeds



In Belgium, her kids, all three of them, had already booked tickets and were packing. Their father had called them the night before to break the news.

They too were shell shocked; they too had had a sleepless night.

They too felt as though their world was falling apart. It was falling apart.


It couldn’t be true. She was the sweetest and kindest person in the world. She was their Mother.

Suitcases ready, the trio sat together to talk, to reminisce. They had been a handful growing up, of that there was no doubt. But she always had patience, everlasting patience. And always with a smile, the warmest smile in the world.

Perhaps they should have called more often. Perhaps they should have visited more often. Perhaps they should have said thank you more often. Perhaps they should have hugged more often. Perhaps if they had been more grateful…


She opens her mouth with Wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue

Her children rise and celebrate her; and her husband, he praises her: “Many daughters have attained valor, but you have surpassed them all”



Her husband also awoke early and had gone to a nearby park to think, to clear his mind. 30 years flashed before him in an instant. They married young, but had waited years for the triplets. Money was tight in the early days and their marriage, well, had survived ups and downs. Decades later, money was no longer a problem, but his job was demanding, too demanding, and he was almost never home.

Perhaps he should have been home more. Perhaps he should have paid more attention. Perhaps he should have bought her that pendant. Perhaps he should have taken her on that trip. Perhaps he should have apologized. Perhaps he should have appreciated.


She repays his good, but never his harm, all the days of her life

She spreads out her palm to the poor and extends her hands to the destitute



She felt weak suddenly. It wasn’t novel; most days were like this. So she sat down on the edge of the bed.

She smiled, remembering the days when her kids would come into her bed in the early morning and jump around. She would get aggravated, “Its 6am, go back to sleep!” she would say.

Not now. Now she would tell them to jump forever. Tomorrow, when they would come, she would apologize for not being more patient, and maybe they would jump again…


Strength and splendor are her clothing, and smilingly she awaits her last day

False is grace, and vain is beauty; a G-d-fearing woman, she should be praised


She felt dizzy suddenly. It happened all the time; it was a side effect of the medicine. So she put her feet up and leaned on the backboard.

She looked around the room. They had moved in almost 20 years ago, and every piece of furniture was handpicked and had special meaning.

On the walls, pictures of her grandchildren. Each special, each beautiful, each with their own unique character and disposition. She had hoped so much to be able to be there for school celebrations and graduations.

On the night table, a Prayer book from her youngest daughter’s wedding. What a beautiful wedding it had been; they had danced and danced till the wee hours of the morning. Everything had been so special, so perfect, so full of life.

She felt tired suddenly. Her eyelids felt heavy.


“Just going to close my eyes for a second.”


The kids were coming in tomorrow for the ‘last weekend’. They would tell their Mother, how much they loved her. They would tell her how sorry they were for not being better children. They would tell her how much she meant to them. They would tell her how the world would have no meaning without her. They would tell her tomorrow.

He started heading home and was formulating the sentences in his mind as he walked. Sorry for the anger. Sorry for the austerity, the strictness, the pedantry. Sorry I was never there. Sorry I didn’t buy you that necklace, or take you on that trip. Sorry I didn’t appreciate you. He would tell her tomorrow.



Was too late.


He came home and called her name, but no one answered.

I ran across the street when the beeper came in. I knew the apartment well; I had been there before. The door was open and I raced inside, not stopping to knock, or announce myself.

He was standing in the doorway of the room.

She looked like she was asleep. But she wasn’t.


She had returned her soul to its Maker; singing His praises in heaven, as she had done on earth.


I looked back at him, unable to find the right words.

He spoke first. “Is it the end?” he asked, sobbing already, because he knew the answer.


“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s the end.”




If there’s something you’ve wanted to say to your spouse for the longest time, but were too busy – say it now.

If there’s something you’ve wanted to say to your parents for the longest time, but were too uncomfortable – say it now.

If there’s something you’ve wanted to say to your child for the longest time, but hadn’t found the right words – say it now.

If there’s something you’ve wanted to say to your grandfather for the longest time, but were too lazy – say it now.

And Friends

If there’s something you’ve wanted to say to G-d for the longest time, but didn’t know He was listening – say it now.


Don’t wait for tomorrow.

For tomorrow might never come.


May her memory be a blessing, and “May the Almighty comfort her loving family amongst the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.”



Dedicated to the Women of Valor in my life; ES, MS, MW, OS, and SF. May you live long, healthy, happy and prosperous years, and have much gratification from your beautiful families.