You know that I haven’t been feeling well for a while, right? During the past summer, the cellulitis I’ve been suffering from returned with a vengeance. I had to take a lot of antibiotics, and the situation was pretty serious. But I started feeling a little better, and I was able to go away with my family on vacation like we do every year.

Normally we rent a tzimmer up north, but with the security situation, we decided to rent a place in Arad — a city in the south, not far from the Dead Sea. It’s a quiet and peaceful kind of place, and there’s an established community of Gerrer chassidim there, so there are shuls and stores that sell food with good hechsheirim.

We arrived at the rental and settled in. We were surrounded by the desert’s desolate beauty. It was a far cry from frenetic Yerushalayim or Bnei Brak — the perfect place to unwind and catch one’s breath.

That Friday night I davened with my son-in-law in the nearby Gerrer shtibel. It was packed and the davening was leibedig. Afterward I started home with my son-in-law when one of the chassidim approached me and introduced himself. He was heading in the same direction we were.

His name was Shkol, and he lived in the Gerrer community in Chatzor, a city up north. He had come to Arad to stay near his parents until things calmed down in the north.

I asked him if his parents lived nearby.

“No, they live in another neighborhood not far from here.”

“You probably come here often,” I surmised.

“Not really,” said Shkol. “We normally stay home in Chatzor. This is the first time we’re here for an extended period of time. And this is the first time we’re staying in this particular neighborhood.”

I asked him his occupation. He explained that he was in the same business as Reb Elimelech Firer — he was a medical expert who gave referrals to people in need of particular kinds of care.

By the way he spoke, I could tell that he was a very professional kind of person who knew his job and did it well.

By now we had reached the street where our rental was.

“Where are you staying?” I asked him.

He pointed at the house he had rented, two doors down from mine.

We wished each other a good Shabbos and went our separate ways.

Friday night passed uneventfully. But the next morning, I started feeling very ill. Without warning, I felt a chill come over me, like the onset of the flu. While my symptoms would probably not have been a big deal for someone in good health, I was still not back to myself after my recent spate of illness.

Knowing I needed to protect myself immediately, I took a pill called Optalgin, used for pain relief and lowering fever. I had taken Optalgin many times in the past. But that Shabbos morning, I experienced side effects unlike anything I had ever felt in the past.

Maybe it was due to the antibiotics I was already taking, but shortly after swallowing the pill, I had what seemed like a terribly adverse allergic reaction. My body began swelling up all over and a wave of pain washed over me from head to toe. My throat began constricting and I couldn’t breathe.

I could barely make a sound, but I somehow managed to convey to my son-in-law that my body was shutting down. Normally we’d call MDA or Hatzalah, but an idea popped into my head. I desperately tried telling him.

“Sh… Shk—”

“What?” He wasn’t getting it.

Barely breathing, I somehow managed to get out the name of the man we’d met the previous night: “Shkol.”

I saw he realized what I was saying and he was already running out of the house.

Shkol came over immediately. He quickly figured out that I was suffering from some sort of allergic reaction to the medication I had taken. He quickly ran back to his house, returning a moment later with the antidote I needed. Soon after I took it, I started feeling like blood was flowing again. My throat eased up and I was able to talk.

“This has been a very interesting Shabbos,” Rabbi Shkol said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I was actually not even home this morning. We ate the seudah at my parents’ home in the other neighborhood. I just happened to come home early. I wanted a little peace and quiet before everyone else came home. I arrived just before your son-in-law came by.”

I was digesting what he had said when he continued.

“Another thing. After we arrived this week, I found the time to set up all the medications I had brought with me from Chatzor. Since everything was already in its proper place, I was able to grab the exact thing you needed without a moment lost.

“And of course, we can’t forget the fact that this is the first time that either of us had come to this part of Arad,” I pointed out, “and that you chose a house just two doors down from where I’m staying.”

Rav Grossman wrapped up the story, and told me that he was feeling much better, baruch Hashem. I told him that this was exactly the kind of story that needed to be written up, and I was going home to do just that. Which is why you’re reading it now.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1040)