The day began like any other Thursday. The Yamim Tovim were behind us and although it had been a turbulent week the Hebrew Mishpacha was already on the newsstands and I was able to shift into low gear. Toward the end of the day I even set aside some time to prepare my weekly shiur on the parshah delivered faithfully every Shabbos in the in the Chazon David shul (the one that faced evacuation over 30 times and is now outside the gate of Kiryat Arba). And then came the phone call that every parent dreads. Meir our informally adopted son and beloved member of our family since his conversion and lone immigration from Ukraine a decade ago had been severely wounded by a knife-wielding terrorist. The attacker had escaped and no one knew if Meir would survive the next few hours. “We’re doing everything we can to save him to stabilize his condition. We’re on our way to Shaare Zedek.” That was Shlomi Shachar the emergency responder who was transporting Meir to the hospital. After covering countless terror attacks wars and tragedies throughout the world after standing alongside so many people living through unbearably difficult experiences I suddenly didn’t know what to do. Now that it was happening to me I was helplessly confused. I grabbed my car keys jumped into my car and zoomed off to the hospital. How many times had I driven this route to interview families of terror victims? So many times those relatives had tried to verbalize the anxiety they felt en route to the emergency room but I never imagined that I would experience that same inner turmoil. My phone rang again. This time it was my wife. Through her weeping I heard her ask “How’s he doing? What are they saying?” I had no answer.   I parked in the hospital parking lot and raced to the emergency room.  At the door I was stopped by Shoham Ruvio the indefatigable spokeswoman of Shaare Zedek Hospital. “Aharon ” she rebuked me “the victims have just been brought in. Don’t you remember the rules? The press stays outside.” “But one of them is my son ” I stammered. No sooner were the words out than the hospital social worker approached me. “Aharon Granot? Come with me!” she commanded. In the emergency room I was met by Professor Ofer Marin head of the hospital’s trauma unit. At the time I didn’t yet know that Meir had arrived at the hospital fully conscious but in critical condition having held in his intestines with his own hands after realizing his stomach had been sliced open. Upon admittance he was given less than a 10 percent chance of survival due to copious blood loss and internal injuries. Meir Pavlovsky’s biological parents were far away and he was intubated and under sedation. Who could make decisions on behalf of Meir Yitzchak ben Sarah Imeinu? Who could take responsibility? A few strokes of the pen and I became Meir’s legal guardian until he awoke from his induced sleep. But there was another problem: We needed to locate Katya his fianc?e and break the news to her — otherwise she might suffer the shock of hearing the personal tidings on the radio. But she was on her way to a wedding in Bnei Brak and wasn’t answering our calls. Meanwhile the lifesaving surgery progressed and the waiting room filled with close friends and associates. From time to time Professor Marin came out of the operating theater with updates. Outside a group of journalists waited. Under ordinary circumstances I would have been there as well. Some of them recognized me and asked me to give a statement but I couldn’t comply even though they were friends and colleagues. I couldn’t allow Meir’s kallah to learn about his critical wounds from the media. Shoham offered to run interference for me but I knew what it was like to be on the other side — struggling to unearth new details for an anxious public — so I approached the reporters myself explaining my dilemma. They understood and one of them suggested we establish a temporary WhatsApp group so that I could notify them as soon as I was able to speak publicly. Every time a door opens in OR the family’s blood pressure spikes. Professor Marin appeared and I felt my heart palpitating. Was Meir alive? “The surgery went well ” the doctor informed me. “He’s in serious but stable condition. Out of the woods. We stitched up his abdomen and are hoping for the best. Go up to intensive care on the eighth floor he’ll be there in a few minutes.”   The intensive care unit is like a bubble. Here the rules are different and personal troubles that seemed so overwhelming just hours ago become trivial even laughable. The people sitting here don’t know whether their loved ones will leave this ward through the main door the path to life or — chas v’shalom — through the door to the basement on the way to the morgue. The waiting room is small but filled with love and goodwill morphing into a temporary home for the patients’ families. The first family I met was the family of the avreich Aharon Moshe Chaim ben Chaya Chana who had been brought in just an hour earlier after being brutally stabbed by a terrorist near a light rail stop. Sitting together in the small room with its hot water urn coffee tea and mounds of food we could only focus on our shared worries. Here every patient becomes your own family. The sound of wheels rolling along the corridor alerted us that a patient was on his way. The door opened and there was Meir — covered in tubes and bandages still sedated and intubated. A green oxygen mask was on his face while various pieces of equipment produced a discordant symphony of chirping and beeping sounds. The face that always bore a smile was now pale and opaque. His lips drooped with specks of dried blood peeking out here and there. Meir’s dedicated friends stayed at my side. Katya his fianc?e had finally been located and was on her way to the hospital. In the meantime his name could be released to the media and I would soon be facing a swarm of reporters; but we both knew the rules so it would make for an interesting interview.

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