“I’ll never get done. I’ll never, ever get done,” her mind repeated. “We’re gonna eat tuna on Yom Tov, because I’ll never be ready!”
With two children under the age of four running around the small apartment with reckless abandon, playing “you catch me and I’ll pretend you didn’t and then I’ll run to Mommy screaming and crying,” the house sounded like a zoo at feeding time and all Rina could think, while trying to decipher a recipe written on the back of a cereal box, was, “I’ll never get done…”
As she walked to her pantry to hunt down a can of mushrooms, it occurred to her that it had become exceedingly quiet, very suddenly. Either her younger daughter Shira was becoming a better loser, or something was up—the latter looking much more probable. Rina paused to listen, absently drying her hands on a dishtowel.
A bloodcurdling “Mommy!” shattered whatever illusions she may have harbored of peace and tranquility. Her pulse quickened as terror clutched at her heart. With unbelievable speed and grace, she raced over scattered toys and blocked doorways, to the sound of the scream. The screamer was her oldest daughter Miri. Objective number one was probably to make sure she was okay. She seemed fine, if outside appearances were anything to go by. It was little Shira she was pointing to, terror sparkling in her little blue eyes, her face bleached white. The sight of little Shira, lying on her back, her tiny arms and legs flailing in the air, made Rina’s blood run cold. Her mind was racing. Why was Shira not making any noise?
“She’s choking!” Miri screamed. “She’s choking!”
The realization jolted her into action. She grabbed Shira to her and swept a hooked finger into her mouth. Nothing. Still, no sound. “Oh Hashem, oh, please, help me,” she cried out to the emptiness around her. Miri watched in horror as her mother dashed for the phone, cradling a very still little girl in the crook of one arm.
Rina fumbled with the phone for a second before securing a grip. “Number, number…” she whispered frantically, willing her protesting mind to remember the number of Hatzolah, the volunteer ambulance service in her community. “Pick up…
pick up…” she prayed, even before she actually finished dialing.
They answered on the first ring. “Help me. My baby’s choking!” she cried.
“Give me your name and address.” The voice was clear and reassuring, a point totally lost on Rina.
“Rina Stern, 1213 Ocean Street, Please, hurry!” Her voice broke as terror stole her voice. Her baby was choking and she felt totally helpless.
The person on the other end asked her to verify her phone number. “How do you know the baby’s choking?” she asked.
“Just send someone, please! Hurry!” she begged.
“I just did. They’re on their way. Please let me help you. How do you know she’s choking?”
“She’s not breathing, she’s turning blue!” By now Rina was crying out in sheer terror.
“If she’s not breathing, you need to help her. Okay?”
“Okay. How?”
A block away, four units of the Hatzolah, sirens blaring, raced through the Erev Yom Tov traffic.
They were fully aware that the life of a little girl was hanging precariously by a thin thread, and every tiny millisecond counted.
A volunteer in a black SUV got there first. He raced up Rina’s block in a record 63 seconds, intent on saving the precious life of a little girl he had never before laid eyes on.
“1213, 1213 where are you…” he mumbled, searching for the numbers on the house in desperation. “Please, Hashem, help me find this house.”
He found what he thought was 1213, raced up the steps, rang all the bells and tried the door, only to be greeted 12 seconds later by a bewildered housewife who thought he was collecting money.
By now, other members of Hatzolah had reached the block and screeched to a halt near his idle car, joining him.
“This isn’t 1213,” he shouted to them. He yelled into his hand-held radio, “Dispatch, I don’t know which house she’s in! There are no visible numbers.”
The dispatcher was still on the phone with Rina—two and a half minutes had passed since the call had been made to Hatzolah.
The baby was not breathing, and did not have much more time left before the precious little oxygen that nourished her brain would finally not be enough. Very important seconds were disappearing because of a technicality. Seconds that would never be returned.
“Mrs. Stern, what does your house look like?” the dispatcher prodded.
“The white house, with the red trim.”
“Got it,” screamed a volunteer who received the message.
Within 10 seconds, they were in her house, and working feverishly to resuscitate little Shira.
Miri, who was watching the scene in horror, stepped up to one volunteer and uttered the four words that ultimately saved her sister’s life. “She swallowed her balloon.”
The man eyed Miri with amazement, then updated his fellow EMTs. Very gently, the life-saving team of Hatzolah members, using skill, knowledge and years of experience, managed to extricate a deflated green balloon from a very blue Shira. They immediately proceeded with CPR. They were angels sent from heaven.
Rina was crouched on the floor with her head between her knees, swaying back and forth rapidly. She absolutely refused to watch. The grim reality was that her baby still hadn’t made a sound and her mind refused to accept what was almost the inevitable. All she was left with was prayer, and if she had to tear the heavens open with her bare hands, that was exactly what she was prepared to do.
“Please, Hashem, please, I’ll do anything! I promise. Please help her. I’m sorry for complaining about cooking—please help my baby— she’s only two! Please help her!”
A weak coughing spasm followed by a little cry of fear broke through the invisible barricade of horror surrounding Rina. She froze and held her breath.
“Got a heartbeat,” a young man screamed. The men let out an audible gasp of relief. Quickly, the baby was passed to different hands, as her airway was re-established and an oxygen mask was set securely on her tiny face. The baby was okay. It was a miracle. Rina burst into tears of gratitude, stumbled to Shira and hugged her as best as she was able to.
She thanked the EMTs over and over and over agian, because there really was nothing else to say. Her mind was totally blank. The pots in the kitchen filled with Yom Tov food continued cooking quietly, oblivious to the fuss. An ordinary day for them, but for Rina and Shira, the day was anything but ordinary. It was a day that Rina would never forget—a day Rina knew could have ended quite abruptly for a beautiful little girl named Shira.
“May I make a suggestion?” a member of the Hatzolah team asked Rina quietly, on his way out.
“Anything,” she replied.
“Go to any hardware store, and buy numbers for your house as soon as possible. Then hang them up where they’ll be very visible. We lost at least a minute looking for the house, and believe me, that’s a very long time to a choking victim.”
“I promise, they’ll be up before Yom Tov. Come and check.”
“I believe you,” he said with a smile.
The numbers were up within an hour. As were the numbers of three of her neighbors’ houses at Rina’s expense, and insistence.
This story was relayed to impart the absolute importance of having visible numbers on your house or apartment.
Hatzolah and The Torah Safety Commission want you to know that your life may one day depend on it. A few dollars and a hammer could make the difference between life and death.
Be proud that you are a part of an elite group that benefits from Hatzolah’s heroism daily, a group called “Klal Yisrael. Mi K’amcha Yisrael!”
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Chumie Srulowitz is a freelance writer and friend to Hatzolah and The Torah Safety Commission. She and her family reside in Brooklyn.
