“Al Ha Nissim”

For better or worse, Ben, my first-born son, had always been very much like

his father. The month was Adar when we are bidden to be joyful. With Purim

just around the corner, what better opportunity might there be, I wondered, for

us to learn the mitzvah of “matanot l’evyonim” than to help needy Jewish

families enjoy a “chag sameach”?

I  cut out an easy hamantschen recipe I had found in the Purim edition of

the JUF news magazine. Ben and I mixed and kneaded enough dough for five

dozen hamantaschen, each filled with a half teaspoon of jam.

Though I could have easily bought them at the grocery store, choosing the

easier path was not the lesson I wanted Ben to learn. Besides, isn’t homemade

always better? 

We divided up the hamentaschen into twelve plastic bags, tied them off with

those wire “twisty” ties you get with the trash bags and set out for The Ark, a

Jewish social service agency in Chicago, that had organized the delivery of

holiday food baskets to the Jewish needy. By the early afternoon, Ben and I had

brightened the prospects of a chag Purim sameach for twelve families.

Six Years Later

That year I volunteered once again to deliver Purim food baskets. Ben agreed to

accompany me on one condition- that we not bake hamantaschen as we had

done six years before. He asserted that at eighteen years of age, he was way too

old for that “kid stuff”. We had a great morning albeit without homemade

hamentaschen and were on our way back to The Ark when an alarming pause

abruptly ended our conversation. Not having answered my previous question, I

turned to Ben and saw something unlike anything I had ever seen before. Ben’s

body had stiffened and begun jerking spasmodically like a steam pump grinding

to a halt for lack of oil. Looking bewildered and trapped in a body from which

he could not escape, he turned to me in desperation, bewildered yet hopeful as

if to say: “Dad, I sure hope you know how to deal with this!” Truth be told, I

was at a total loss.

I was always on guard with Ben, a diabetic since he was ten years old, because he

often suffered from hypoglycemic shock unexpectedly in the course of

conversation. Look away for a moment and he might be writhing in the chaotic

consequences of low blood sugar. That’s how frightfully unpredictable it was,

but what I saw happening that day was entirely different. How could it be

related to his diabetes since he had eaten lunch not more than an hour before

the attack began?  Besides, it did not resemble any hypoglycemic episode of

Ben’s I had ever witnessed. I had seen enough of them to know.


They say the first time is the worst.

Terrorized by this unfamiliar demon, I responded to it in the only way I knew. I

rushed to a nearby restaurant panic-stricken. “I need a regular cola now,” I

shouted to the counter person. “Please hurry. It’s an emergency!” I ran back to

Ben. Forcing the straw in between his lips, I hoped, probably unrealistically,

that if it were diabetes related, the cola would at least spike his blood sugar. He

instinctively began to suck on the straw although, I feared, it might not

do him any good. The nightmare ended after five minutes. We drove home

exhausted, bewildered and scared. It kept on recurring that same day so often

that I lost count. Whenever it started up, I’d grasp Ben with a light bear hug to

restrain his arms that he not hurt himself and let him know I was there. I

whispered in his ear quite a lot that terrible day. What was happening to

him? We agonized for several interminable hours awaiting the one call from

Ben’s doctor that would have authorized a referral to the hospital. It

never came. When we had nearly exhausted our patience, we left for the

emergency room. We’d deal with the referral later certain we’d have an issue

with the insurance company.

As for Ben, not one complaint! He never became despondent or depressed

though, as strong as he was, I am sure the tireless presence of chronic illness

wore him out at times. Ben lived without self-pity. Embodying the virtues of

self-reliance and courage, he was the sort of person to remount his bicycle

quickly after he had fallen, always ready for the next patch of rough road that

lay ahead. After some six hours in the treatment room while Ben, his mother

and I awaited the results of a battery of tests, the doctors diagnosed him with

Epilepsy. Epilepsy! As if Ben were not burdened enough by diabetes. We were,

naturally, devastated. The seizures continued inexorably for several days. Not

until after a series of trial and error, did Ben’s neurologist, an arrogant man

whom I disliked, find the right dosage to treat Ben’s seizures.

In the spirit of the joy and miracles of Purim, I’ve looked for the silver lining of

that day twelve years ago when Ben experienced his first epileptic seizure. It may

seem paradoxical to some, but what I do know is that Ben’s epilepsy

strengthened his spirit even more than the juvenile diabetes with which

he had been diagnosed when ten and a half years old. He was a young

man who showed us how to endure chronic illness with dignity and grace in the

too few years that were ours to be with him. Perhaps there was some hidden

significance that his mom and I had named him “Benjamin”. Like Mordechai

Ha Yehudi, of the tribe of Benjamin, my son taught us to recognize that, in

his refusal to bow down to false gods, whether chronic illness or Haman Ha

Rasha, therein lies the paradigm of our spiritual strength.

Adar-Hebrew month of Purim

Purim-Jewish holiday based on biblical Book of Esther

chag sameach-happy holiday

chag Purim sameach-happy Purim

matanot l'evyonim-gifts to the poor

hamantaschen-traditional Purim cookies

Mordechai Ha Yehudi-Morcdechai the Jew, hero of the story of Purim

Haman Ha Rasha-Haman the Evil One, who sought to destroy the Jews of Persia.