“Al Ha Nissim”

The entire downtown business district would pour into the streets around 5:30 P. M. clogging the already congested traffic lanes of Chicago’s bustling “Loop”. Blaring horns of Checker taxicabs and city buses made it hard to hear one’s voice, but my father’s voice … I always heard.

As a kid, I fondly recall his homiletic teachings that he’d say “were not worth a hill of beans” if unaccompanied by good deeds. “Words alone are cheap son. Actions speak louder. Remember that!”

I recall one bitterly cold afternoon in particular. A dusting of powdery snow made everything look so pure. My father and I were on our way home from his office when a shivering, bedraggled man approached us. The butt of a cigarette hung from his cracked lips. His thin, dirty jacket reeked of tobacco and alcohol.

“Here, my man. Take this,” my father reassuringly said while removing his long coat and draping it around the trembling shoulders of this fellow. “Be well,” he added with a faint smile. He took me by the hand and headed to the underground garage where he had parked his car.

“Daddy, aren’t you cold?”

“A bit son, but I would have frozen had we walked past that man without responding. Giving is more blessed than receiving, sonny boy.”

A Generation Later

“That’s it!” I declared after stumbling upon a hamantashen recipe “for dummies” in the Purimshpil edition of my shul’s newsletter.

“Hey Ben … you ‘wanna’ help me with this?” I asked my first born.
“Well … okay,” he agreed, “but can we keep some for us too?”
“Sure! We’ll make an extra dozen.”

Sure. I could have gone to the kosher bakery, but that was not the lesson I wanted Ben to learn. Besides, I had already signed us up to deliver matanot l’evyonim for a Jewish social service agency. By late afternoon, Ben and I had helped twelve Jewish families to enjoy a chag Purim sameach.

Six Years Later

Ben offered to help me with Purim deliveries but on one condition-that we not bake hamantashen again. He asserted that at eighteen years of age, he was way too old for “that kid stuff”.

We had had a great morning and were heading back to The Ark when an alarming pause interrupted our conversation. Not having answered my previous question, I turned to Ben and saw something I had never seen before. He had seized and began jerking spasmodically like a steam pump grinding to a halt for lack of oil. Trapped in his own body, Ben turned to me in desperation, bewildered yet hopeful as if to say: “Dad, I surehope you know how to deal with this!” Truth be told, I didn’t. I had to be on alert at all times with Ben. Diagnosed with juvenile diabetes when ten and a half years old, he often suffered from hypoglycemia unexpectedly in the course of conversation. You could be chatting with him one moment and, in the next, he might be writhing in the throes of low blood sugar. That’s how frightfully unpredictable it is, but what I saw that morning was unlike any of his previous hypoglycemic episodes. I had seen enough of them to know.

Terrorized by this unfamiliar demon, 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 and forced his mouth open. He began to suck on the straw. I feared it wasn’t doing him any good because he had eaten lunch an hour before the attack, but it was the only thing I knew to do. If nothing else, the cola would spike his blood sugar. The nightmare ended after five minutes. We drove home exhausted, bewildered and scared. The attacks kept on recurring. I lost count after a while. Whenever it started up, I’d restrain Ben with a gentle bear hug to protect him from himself. I whispered in his ear quite a lot that terrible day.

Ben’s mom and I agonized for several interminable hours. “What was happening to him?” we asked each other while awaiting a referral call from Ben’s doctor. It never came. Afraid for our son, our patience exhausted, we left for the emergency room. We’d deal with the insurance company later.

As for Ben, not one complaint! He never became despondent or depressed. On the contrary, Ben embodied the virtues of self-reliance and courage-the sort of person to remount his bicycle quickly if he fell off, always ready for the next patch of rough road. Yet, as strong as he was, I am sure the tireless presence of chronic illness wore him out at times.

After waiting six hours for the results of a battery of tests, the doctors diagnosed Ben with Epilepsy. Epilepsy! We were devastated. His seizures continued inexorably for several days during which Ben’s doctors sought the right combination of medications with which to treat him.

In the spirit of Purim, I’ve searched for the miracle of that day when Ben experienced his first epileptic seizure. It may seem paradoxical, but both epilepsy and diabetes strengthened his resolve to live life as best he could. In the too few years that we shared, Ben’s refusal to despair of a life of hope taught us to recognize the paradigm of spiritual strength within ourselves.

Alan D. Busch

1/14/09

Glossary

“Al Ha Nissim”- For the Miracles

hamantashen-traditional Purim cookies

Purimshpil-traditional Purim farce

matanot l’evyonim-giving of gifts to the poor

chag Purim sameach-Happy Purim

The Ark - Chicago Jewish social service agency

Purim-Jewish holiday based on Book of Esther

Alan D. Busch

1/13/09