Life is sort of like a box of chocolates--but not really very much like one. But the sharp edges on the box may come to mind. On Christmas Eve Joan and I were lyfted into New York City to celebrate Christmas with our daughter's family. By late in the afternoon I was feeling rather lousy. I had to struggle through an excellent dinner, went to bed early, fell into a brief sleep from which I soon awoke violently ill expelling disgusting materials from major orifices of intake and expulsion and generally convincing myself and the whole household that my last hour had come. Before midnight I had been transported in dramatic fashion to NYU Langone Hospital. Santa himself had not yet arrived, though hundreds of nurses dressed in reindeer getups appeared to be eagerly awaiting him as they busily went about their varied tasks. Whatever the category two notches beyond the surreal is, this was it. The hero of the event was my son-in-law Zvi, whose only couch of repose was the hard floor.
What a hospital! Everything works like clockwork, even if it is sometimes a cuckoo. Midnight on Christmas Eve with the animation of Grand Central Station at 5 pm. It took most of the night, but expert technicians dealing in sordid matter eventually found that it was the dread sapo-virus--a diagnosis that brings with it an embarrassing mandatory exhortation to improve one's personal hygiene and practice much hand-washing. Meanwhile expert, cheerful and high performing nurses spending their Christmas Eve taking care of the likes of me. Between these professionals and a loving family, the most memorable Christmas gift of my life. I hope to be sprung as early as this evening. Not much of a blog essay, but considering the circumsances, a small miracle. Gratias Deo and best wishes to all readers.
