I went to sleep in March and woke up in August. As a walking miracle, why was I on the run?

IT

was Sunday night, a week after Purim in 2024. We weren’t quite up to the pre-Pesach marathon yet, so I went to sleep in preparation for another ordinary Monday morning.

“Ordinary,” though, was a rather relative term during these difficult months of the Gaza War. As a longtime limudei chol (English, history, science) teacher in the dati-leumi (National Religious) school system, many of my former students were risking their lives fighting the terrorists in Gaza, and at least one had already lost his life in the war zone. It was a shattering time for the Yidden of Eretz Yisrael. When we recited Unesaneh Tokef a few months previously during the Yamim Noraim of 5784, little did we dream just how prescient and tangible the words “mi yichyeh u’mi yamus” would be for many of us in the coming year.

And little did I know when I went to sleep that night that I, too, would be one of those whose gezeirah was sealed in Tishrei, that my life was about to be changed forever.

The first thing I remember upon waking up was finding myself in a spacious, multi-bed room and lying in what looked very much like a hospital bed, even though there didn’t appear to be any of the machinery generally associated with a hospital ward. As I shook myself out of my sleepy state, I noticed a number of things indicating that something was very wrong.

One, my body was loosely tied down to the mattress, and there were guardrails around the edges of the bed. Two, I realized that although my legs weren’t bandaged and I could bend my knees and wiggle my toes, I somehow knew I couldn’t walk. Three, I definitely felt like a chunk of time had passed since I had gone to bed that Sunday night on 22 Adar. I felt like I’d been asleep for maybe as long as a week.

I had vague memories swirling around my head of recent conversations with various people, but the last clear thing I remembered was of the Purim seudah that my family and I had enjoyed at a friend’s house a week before that night.

My wife was nearby, looking at me. Our conversation (and my thoughts) went something like this:

Me: Where am I?

My wife: You’re in Raanana, in a rehabilitation center called Beit Levenstein. (I later found out that this was considered the best rehabilitation center in Israel.)

Wait a minute — rehabilitation center?? Don’t people go there after being in a hospital? But when had I been in a hospital? I looked at my wife uncomprehendingly.

My wife: You had a brain hemorrhage.

Me: Wait, is that something like a stroke? And wait a minute —is it Pesach yet? (Last I remembered, it was around three weeks before Pesach.)

Me: Was it already Pesach?

My wife: Yes — a while ago.

Huh?? Passover had, uh, passed over?

Actually, I felt a little relieved about that piece of information. Making sure that the kitchen was cleaned of chametz always made me nervous. Well, it looked like I wouldn’t have that particular concern for another year.

But wait a minute — what day was it now? I had a vague memory of speaking to somebody about Tishah B’Av.

Me: Was it already Tishah B’Av?

My wife: Yes — around two weeks ago.

The realization suddenly dawned on me. I’d gone to sleep toward the end of Adar, and now it was at least the middle of Av. Nissan, Iyar, Sivan, Tammuz, at least half of Av. Plus eight days of Adar. That’s almost five months. I’d apparently slept from March to August.