For years I have been making occasional contributions to Hatzalah. Based on my income, my contributions were minimal. As of now, I plan to do better.
I never had to call Hatzalah for help—until last week, during one of my mah-jongg games. Four friends and I were having a lovely afternoon playing our favorite game, when the festivities came to an abrupt halt. For those who are unfamiliar with this game, I will explain that four people play and, on a rotating basis, one player sits out. This person is known as “the bettor” because she decides who she thinks will win the round and then proceeds to bet on that player by writing down the name of that person.
In the Talmud, the rabbis take a dim view on gambling, and, technically, when we play this game we are gambling. I can’t speak for anyone else but I comfort myself that, based on the very limited amount of money involved, it is a bit of a stretch to consider it actual gambling. However, based on what happened during a recent game, I think the rabbis may be right in their disapproval of playing for money, regardless of how little money is involved.
When it was my turn to be the bettor, I observed as my four buddies played. The hostess, in whose home the game is being played, always provides coffee; snacks are not mandatory. But because I was bored I was searching for something to distract myself and decided to put out a bowl of pretzels. That’s when the trouble started. I bent down to reach into a bottom cabinet to take out a bag of pretzels. Somehow, the bag had found its way into the very back of the cabinet, far out of my reach. Not one to be deterred when I set my mind to something, I reached in as far as my arm would go. I never did reach that bag of pretzels because, in my attempt to do so, I lost my balance and landed with a thud on the floor.
My friend Judy jumped from the table where she had been playing, held her palms out, and managed to cradle my head before it made contact with either the floor or a chair. Thanks to her quick reflexes, my head never hit the floor or, even worse, the chair leg, which was a good thing because the chair frames are wrought-iron. But my leg had bent at a painfully odd angle and was under me.
My friends were unable to help me because I couldn’t move my leg, so they called Hatzalah. Within a few minutes three men were on the scene. It took less than a minute for them to get me off the floor. It was not one of my proudest moments when one of these very handsome guys had to lift me up. (When the men heard one of my friends suggest that I should write my column about this incident, they told me to describe them as such…)
One of the men repeatedly asked me if anything hurt, and my response was: “Only my pride.” All three of the men were not only incredibly well-trained and professional but also the nicest of people. They took my blood pressure and repeatedly asked me if I had any pain and if I felt alright. I continued to tell them that I had no pain. I hated fibbing, but no way would I say that my left leg was hurting and my right shoulder was aching. I knew that if they thought there was a problem they would take me to a hospital ER or possibly to urgent care or some medical facility. And I was not about to stop playing mah-jongg.
In the Five Towns, nothing stays private for long. Within five minutes, my daughter called because she heard there was a Hatzalah van in front of my house. I told her that one of the ladies at the game had fallen but that she had been picked up and everything was fine. I decided not to mention that the lady who fell was me. Fortunately, she didn’t ask who it was. Less than a minute later, another call came in. Arlene was one of the players and her husband had also heard about a Hatzalah vehicle at my house, so he called to check. Arlene assured him that everything was fine—someone had fallen but it wasn’t her.
All of our phones continued to ring as people learned that Hatzalah had been at my house. It’s nice to know that so many people are looking out for one another. I’m happy to say that this is just the way it is.
Hannah Berman lives in Woodmere and can be reached at Savtahannah@aol.com or 516-295-4435. Read more of Hannah Berman’s articles on 5TJT.com.