Chapter 12

“Nnnnggggg...”

I was a fish on a line, the trache tube hooked deep into me. Now it was being drawn out, slowly. Yael squeezed my hand tight as the nurse pulled another few inches free.

And then it was completely withdrawn. I wanted gasp with relief and vomit at the same time, but all I could manage was shallow, fast pants. My chest felt like it was bound in a cage of iron that squeezed every breath down to tiny, desperate sips of air. Laying my head back on the cool of the pillow in relief, I closed my eyes as the nurse wiped my mouth.

“Good. Drink.”

Yael guided a straw to my parched lips. I took the smallest sip of ice water, feeling it slide down my throat. It was heavenly.

“Thank. You.” My voice was a whisper. Every word hurt my chest. The resonance point in my throat was so far out of reach it may as well have been on the moon.

Yael’s lips brushed my cheek, stroked my hair.

“Lunch soon,” the nurse said. “But first we’re going to get you to that chair.”

I turned my head to the left. The nurse was pointing at a guest chair beside the bed. I moved my eyes back, looking distrustfully at the hoses still connected to me.

“They have plenty of give; they’ll move with you. Half an hour.”

It took me three minutes to move less than a meter.

My legs worked fine. I knew I could walk. But the smallest motion felt like it would tear me apart inside, forcing me to limit progress to careful, tiny increments, each made with conscious, determined effort.

The nurse was under one shoulder; Yael carefully held my right side. My bare feet shuffled on the cold hospital floor, inches at a time, leads and hoses swaying with every movement.

I turned by degrees. Was lowered by fractions, until I felt the firm security of the chair underneath me. By then I was covered in sweat, panting like a dog on a hot day.

“Good,” the nurse said. “Lunch is coming.” She turned to Yael. “You must let him feed himself. It will be hard, embarrassing.”

Yael nodded, face determined.

The scrambled eggs took forever to eat, but I was starving. After lunch, another slow, torturous journey back to the bed.

“Say hello to your new best friend,” the physical therapist said. At the end of the bed was a joined series of clear plastic pipes attached to a hose. “It’s going to help you recover.”

She picked up the hose and guided the end to my mouth. “Here. Blow. As long and hard as you can.”

I blew until my vision blurred, my entire chest aching with the effort. A small pink plastic ball in the bottom of the first tube trembled slightly. The others remained firmly in place.

“Full lung function will take all three balls to the top of the tubes and hold them there easily. You need to practice. Six repetitions, at least three times a day.”

“He will,” Yael said, sitting beside me.

“Good. In six weeks we’ll look at starting therapy for your shoulder. For now, concentrate on lung function and walking.”

After an afternoon nap the next day I woke up to a dark wizened face next to my shoulder. It took me a moment to recognize it.

“Dr. Hawas?”

“Yes, Joshua.” The old man grinned.

“How – how did you get here?”

“They let me through, Joshua. This is my first time outside Gaza in – “ he cocked his head, back rising. “Thirty years. My grandson, Fasil.” He nodded towards a young, diffident man at the door. “He drove me.”

“Thank you so much. For coming.” I tried to rise in the bed and grimaced as the pain in my side rose sickly.

“Please, swadiiqii.” He spoke quickly to his grandson, who came into the room and held me carefully under my shoulders. “Gently now. Gently.” With a slow, painful tug, the young man managed to slide me up and back on the bed.

“Thank you.” The effort had left me clammy with sweat.

“Here.” The doctor dripped a small towel in the icewater beside the bed and mopped my brow. It felt incredible.

“Thank you,” I repeated.

“Patients. Always wanting to move around in their beds.” He smiled.

The movement had opened my hospital gown above the waist. As he dipped the towel again, the doctor’s eyes looked over the revealed patches and stents with professional interest.

“They did good work.”

“Everyone did. Without the staff at Alsun...”

“Terrible what happened there. Terrible.” Dr. Hawas eased the washcloth over my forehead. “Eight months ago, they probably would not have been able to save you.”

“Hmm?” I had faded for a moment.

“They would not have had the supplies, Joshua. But with your work, they are getting drugs. New equipment. Even an fMRI scanner, now.”

“Oh. That’s wonderful.”

“So, in a sense, you saved yourself.”

“Huh.”

“Yes.”

We talked for a little while: about what had improved in Gaza City, about what still needed work.

“You know the biggest thing? It is small, really,” the doctor said. “No more low-level flyovers.” He held his gnarled hand just above the covers. “The Israeli jets, they used to come in like this over the city. Every day. The sonic booms would terrify the children. The sky felt like it was pressing down on our heads.” He smiled. “Now, no more booms.”

I nodded, remembering the IDF general I commanded to raise the minimum altitude over Gaza to 10,000 feet. “The airport, next.” I said. “After the powerplant. You’ll have the sky back.”

You’re making promises you don’t know you can keep, Angie whispered in my head.

“Insh’allah.“ He raised himself carefully from the chair. “We should be going, Joshua. We must be back before nightfall.”

“Of course. Thank you again.”

“Maafi Mushki. Be well.”

“And you, doctor.” I felt myself already starting to slip from the effort of talking.

As he was heading for the door, Yael returned from her errands. She looked at the bent little old man with intense look of curiosity. He, in turn, looked from Yael to me with a smile. Pressing his hand to his chest, he bowed as deep as he could manage. “As-salaam ‘alaykum.“ Yael, holding something in both hands, could only nod in surprise.

The doctor beamed, looking upwards. “You have great man, miss,” he said, in broken English.

“Yes,” she said. Her eyes looked at me. “I do.”

Hawas grinned, and hobbled out the door, giving me a small wave in parting.

“Who was that?” she asked, placing a pot down on the table.

“Someone I know. From Gaza.”

“And he knows –”

“A little.”

Yael seemed to want to say more, but let it go.

“Soup,” she said instead, raising the lid on a steaming pot. “From my mother. I hope you like sinkers.” She stirred the dumplings at the bottom. “That’s the way she makes them.”

“Joshua.”

“Sir.”

Yael’s father looked at the flowers at the window – a gift from Loira – suspiciously. “You’re healing well?”

“Yes, Sir. I can make it around the ward now.”

“Good. That’s good.” His eyes lingered on the torture device at the foot of the bed. “And your physical therapy?”

“Progressing, sir.”

He nodded. “You worried my daughter very much.”

“I know, sir. I’m sorry for that.” I’d finally prevailed on Yael to be outside for a day. She was with Loira, and a Shin Bet security detail.

He lifted his chin. “She comes from a family where everyone has served. She is used to it.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “This thing that you were doing. In Gaza. Was it for the good?”

“I think so, sir.”

He nodded. There was a long, awkward silence. Finally, he cleared his throat. “We don’t give decorations like the Americans,” he said. “None of that – “ his mouth twitched. “Salad dressing. Here, everyone is expected to fight and bleed for their country. We don’t award medals for scratches.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So.” He reached into his pocket. “I don’t have one to give you. But I have this.” He leaned forward, thick fingers working to pin a tiny painted emblem - a sword surrounded by flames - onto my hospital gown. “My 10-year IDF combat pin.”

I was struck speechless. “Sir – I...”

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Perhaps it might make my daughter feel a little better.”

I found my voice. “I’m sure it will, sir.”

He looked around the hospital room once more as if inspecting it. “Good. Well. I expect to see you at the next barbecue, Joshua.”