Shabbat, Shmini Atzeret, October 7, 2023, is a day that will not soon be forgotten by Jews worldwide. The story of the brutal attack and the ensuing bloodbath is well known by now. So, too, are the heartening actions taken by Jews around the world, who joined in unity for prayer, rallies, fundraising, and volunteer missions to show support to our Israeli brethren in distress. One of the less obvious outcomes of the Gaza war has been the massive downsizing and closures of businesses, medical centers, and a dearth of manpower on farms and kibbutzim as a result of most of the young work force being called up to military duty. In response, organizations mobilized volunteers from around the world to travel to Israel and help in any way possible, from picking ripe fruit off trees to packing supplies for soldiers. Those with emergency medical skills and healthcare training were invited to sign up to be activated when and if the need arose. One such organization is the Emergency Volunteer Project (EVP), a disaster relief and rescue organization whose primary mission is to recruit and deploy international volunteer teams to Israel in times of crisis. Baltimorean and Pikesville volunteer firefighter Captain Scott Goldstein is EVP’s director of medical and civilian recruitment. It was through EVP’s Baltimore connection that I heard about the dire need for physical rehabilitation personnel in Israel. In fact, many hospitals were short-staffed, some down by 50% due to the army call-up of necessary military personnel.
I felt a responsibility and a deep desire to help in this
crisis. I knew I could join a synagogue mission or help on a farm, but I felt
that more beneficial to Israel would be my professional skills as a
physiotherapist. Ironically, last year, on a whim and as a personal challenge,
I decided to sit for the Israeli Physiotherapy National Board Examination that
newly minted physiotherapy graduates in Israel must pass in order to be
licensed to practice. At age 65, I was the oldest person taking the exam. I was
later told that the candidates sitting for the exam that day thought I was a
mole planted to keep an eye out for cheaters on the exam! Other foreign
physiotherapists wanting to volunteer in Israel were forced to wait while their
credentials and license status were vetted by the Israeli Ministry of Health.
Who would have guessed that holding an Israeli physiotherapy license would
allow me immediate access to volunteer such a short time later?
* *
*
It was not long after I signed up with EVP that I was
deployed to the only rehabilitation hospital in Israel’s south, ADI NEGEV,
under the medical direction of Dr. Shilo Kramer. Dr. Kramer is an American who
was educated and trained in New York and now lives in Beit Shemesh. Founded in 2005, the 40-acre ADI Negev-Nahalat Eran Rehabilitation Village was named to honor the
memory of Eran Almog, the late son and guiding light of founders Didi and Major
General (Res.) Doron Almog. Fueled by his love for Eran, who was born with
severe autism and cognitive disabilities, Doron Almog led the creation of the
one-of-a-kind rehabilitation village in Israel’s south, a community where
people from diverse backgrounds and all levels of ability can live, heal, and
grow together.
The village has fully accessible residential villas for people with
multiple disabilities and complex medical conditions, an intensive care
hospital wing, special education school, green care farm, hydrotherapy and
sports therapy complexes, a therapeutic horse stable and petting zoo, and, most recently, a new Rehabilitation Medical Center – the first-ever
rehabilitation hospital in Israel’s south. There is onsite housing for staff
and their families as well. Before the Rehabilitation Hospital at ADI NEGEV opened,
there were only 850 rehabilitation beds in all of Israel, and none of them were
located in the south. Built near the city of Ofakim on the border with Gaza,
ADI NEGEV hospital has taken a major role in treating and rehabilitating those
injured on October 7th and many others who have sustained major
war-related and other trauma in Gaza.
Ofakim is a small town with a population of about 35,000,
15 miles east of the Gaza border and 12 miles west of the large Israeli city of
Be’er Sheva. According to Israeli authorities, Ofakim
is the furthest point of the 30 locations
the Hamas terrorists struck on October 7th. On
that fateful morning, a group of Hamas terrorists launched a surprise deadly
attack on Ofakim, threatening a larger massacre comparable to those happening
in other areas closer to the Gaza envelope. Interestingly, even though ADI
NEGEV Hospital adjoins Ofakim geographically, the signage on the main road
leading to the hospital lists the facility as an educational institution. When
Hamas planned their attack, they skipped over ADI NEGEV thinking that it was a
school and schools are closed on Saturday. While several families were
tragically murdered in Ofakim that day, the community, for the most part,
managed to avoid a massive slaughter due to the efforts of remarkable
first-responders, one of whom was the local community rabbi, Rabbi Shachar
Butzchak. More on Rav Shachar later.
*
* *
At the time of my
deployment in February, only El Al was flying the direct route between the U.S.
and Israel. I was instructed to fly from
Newark Liberty Airport, only to be later rerouted through Miami. The flights
were long and arduous with various delays and nearly-missed connections, including
having to run 20 minutes from Miami’s domestic terminal to the international
terminal (the shuttle was not in service). But my motivation was high and my
spirit was not to be broken. I was excited and felt privileged to be part of a
team to help treat Israel’s war injured. I arrived at Ben Gurion airport Monday
morning, February 19th, exhausted from the flights but energized to
begin my service.
The Tel Aviv
sky was gloomy, and the air felt moist from a recent rain. Yehuda, my contact
at ADI NEGEV, dispatched a taxi to bring me to the hospital campus, and I soon
found the cab and sat back for the one-and-a-half-hour drive to Ofakim. Being
that most of my prior vacation trips to Israel were during summertime, when the
country lacks rain and the terrain looks tan, the landscape on this ride looked
oddly very green and lush. Heavy rains started and stopped throughout the trip.
We passed farms and kibbutzim, small communities, and industrial complexes.
The taxi driver
was a partially retired Sefardic man, very talkative, who told me all about his
experiences as a truck driver. I was tired but the banter of his stories kept
me awake. When we arrived at the hospital, we passed the security gate and
entered the large campus with many new buildings, beautiful gardens, and
accessible pathways. At the main hospital entrance, I was met by Nissim, the volunteer
coordinator at the hospital, who ended up being one of my apartment roommates.
Nissim was very warm and welcoming, quickly assisting me to my apartment and
asking me if I needed specific foods or supplies. He gave me a temporary ID
badge, which was also a “smart” card that I could use at all the hospital’s
vending machines. Prior to my arrival, Nissim stocked the refrigerator with
yogurt, cheese, vegetables, and fruits. He also gave me vouchers to get food at
the hospital’s cafeteria. The vending machines outside the various rehab
clinics, which were stocked with breakfast or lunch in a box, made it convenient
during busy workdays to grab a quick bite. The residential part of the campus
had multiple white, two-story structures surrounding a green courtyard. Our
living quarters were one flight up in a well-appointed, furnished, three-bedroom,
two-bath apartment.
After I unloaded
my luggage. Nissim walked me to the physiotherapy clinic – a three-minute walk –
and there I met the clinical director, Nira Shemesh, an outgoing, warm
professional with an appropriate name, as she was warm and bright like the sun.
Nira gave me a brief orientation to the hospital, documentation software,
patient census, and daily schedule. We then took a walking tour of the
administrative offices and the various in- and out-patient clinics
(physiotherapy, occupational therapy, communication therapy, psychotherapy, and
recreational therapy). There is a large beautiful gym where wheelchair
basketball teams from all over Israel compete, as well as athletic programming
for neighborhood school children. The well-stocked cafeteria serves salads,
soups, pizza, borekas, shakshuka, and such usual Israeli fare. Upstairs are
offices and research labs in conjunction with Ben Gurion University in Be’er
Sheva, a well-equipped exercise facility specifically for patient use and under
professional supervision as part of each patient’s treatment schedule, and a
synagogue with bright LED strip lighting, plenty of religious books and siddurim, and comfortable, accessible
Kibbutz Lavi wood furniture.
One unusual and
fascinating aspect of the shul is the hydraulic pump-controlled center Torah shulchan (reading table) that can be
lowered to desk height for individuals in wheelchairs who cannot stand at the
table to see when the Torah is read. There are daily minyanim in the synagogue
for staff and patients. The front windows of the synagogue face northeast
toward Jerusalem and resemble painted landscapes every morning with beautiful
sunrises and the lush fields of neighboring farms. I walked around the opposite
end of the campus and saw the therapeutic horse stable and small petting zoo; I
met the manager, Nitai, a sweet and caring young man, and sat and talked to him
for a while. Like others, he and his family live on the hospital campus. Nitai
was amazed that Jews from the Diaspora are coming to help Israel at her moment
of angst and stress and put out his hands to give me his blessing for a
productive and enjoyable experience. Like Nitai, the staff and professionals at
ADI NEGEV were, without exception, warm and welcoming, and so appreciative of
the volunteers’ commitment to Israel and her people.
*
* *
Jet lag kept me
tossing and turning the first few nights. It did not help that once darkness
took over, very loud booms of what I learned were tank fire and missiles from
the direction of Gaza, made the glass panes in our windows rattle for hours at
a time. This went on most nights; sadly, I got used to it and fell asleep
quickly each night. Oddly, once it was sunrise, I do not recall hearing any
sounds of war nor was anyone walking around fearful or anxious. It was as if no
war was going on.
Tuesday
morning, my first official day at work, I got dressed in my clinic scrubs and
headed to Shacharit at 6:20 a.m. The davening nusach was Eidot Hamizrach,
which took me a good few days to acclimate to. By the end of my three weeks
there, I was answering the shaliach
tzibbur with all the proper responses like everyone else. Davening was over
before 7:00, which gave me about 45 minutes to go back to my apartment, grab
some cereal and milk, coffee, and straighten up my room. We had a washer/dryer
in the mamad (safe room) next door
that I used a few times before starting work. Israeli washing machines
routinely boil the clothes, so my white gym socks ended up with a nice blue
hue. Being that it was a “sealed room,” the dryer was vented inside the room,
that is, the vent duct was just hanging there, unattached. That seemed to
lengthen drying times, but what do I know?
After my
coffee, I walked over to the physiotherapy clinic. Each day, I was the first
person there. The Israeli staff arrives a few minutes before patients arrive,
change from street clothes into work clothes, and begin treating the patients.
They always come armed with bakery treats to share. The therapists were
familiar with their caseloads, so they did not really need any prep time. Being
that my orientation the prior day was barebones, I was clueless about the
patient population, the flow of the schedule, and the documentation
requirements. I caught on quickly and soon knew the patients’ names and
diagnoses and their treatment routines, and I became an adopted part of the
team. Each patient was seen one-on-one by the therapist for 45 minutes.
Documentation was done on the fly or at the end of the workday.
The patient
population was split into thirds: One third of the caseload comprised soldiers
injured on or after October 7th. The soldiers’ injuries were
massive, mostly as a result of wounds from RPG shells, shrapnel, and rifle
fire. Post-injury infections were common, which delayed the soldiers’ access to
rehabilitation and, as such, the patients were more debilitated upon initiating
therapy. The second third of patients treated were people who were injured
defending the city of Ofakim on October 7th. These were civilians,
either part of the community emergency response team or other citizens who ran
to help protect Ofakim from the brutal terrorist attack. Their injuries were
sequelae of bullet or shell fire. Most of Ofakim’s dwellings are older
construction without safe rooms or bomb shelters. Instead, there are
neighborhood safe rooms and designated shelters for emergencies. The final
third of patients were middle aged to senior citizens who had fallen and
fractured hips and shoulders when running to neighborhood protected areas on
October 7th. There were definitely cultural differences but no
divisiveness among the groups of patients or among the patients themselves.
Having a Yemenite therapist and a Russian-born therapist on staff was surely
helpful in both communication and cultural exchange. I used Google Translate
for an elderly, blind Ukrainian woman patient who spoke no Hebrew or English.
Now that was a challenge! After her first words to me, “Lo Ivrit, Lo Anglit”
(no Hebrew, no English), her face lit up when she heard the digital Google
voice from my iPhone in Ukrainian asking her to bend her knee!
The
physiotherapy staff was young and all female, since the males on staff were
called up into reserve duty. Most of the therapists were married, and half were
overtly observant, wearing hair coverings. My own caseload was cobbled together
with patients who were being seen by the therapists who were called up for
reserve duty. Since many patients had been hospitalized for a time prior to my
arrival and had developed a rapport with a given therapist, imagine the
suspicious and apprehensive looks on the patients’ faces when I showed up on
the scene! Thankfully, it did not take long for the patients to warm up to this
foreigner. I hit it off with most of the patients, and they enjoyed the upbeat
attention I gave them and perhaps a little different treatment perspective and
approach than what they had received to date. Between patients, I enjoyed
talking to the staff. They were very interested in hearing about my professional
experiences and educational background and eager to learn, often approaching me
with more complex clinical questions and suggestions for their own patient
care. I was impressed with their clinical knowledge and enjoyed their team
approach.
*
* *
Time went fast
for me. There was little down time. Patients were brought to the clinic a few
minutes before their allotted time by a designated transport person. Eran was a
caring, happy young man, always on time, who loved the patients –
and they loved him. If I was running a few minutes behind
with a patient, the patient waiting for me was sure to let me – and everyone
else in the room – know that I
was late. Patient self-motivation to improve was impressive, and each patient
clearly understood that to improve they had to participate in physiotherapy. I
felt that I personally had to concentrate much more there than in Baltimore
because of the language difference and my need to plan and communicate clearly
with patients and staff.
The camaraderie
amongst the patients was amazing
– each patient cheering and rooting for his/her
colleague to do more, balance better, reach higher, jump further, or just stand
without using hands! Specifically, within the soldier group, the motto was to
get better to return as fast as possible to each soldier’s respective unit.
Actual patient care hours ended about 4:00 p.m. Sunday through Thursday, but it
took me longer to type my notes into the patient record online. I closed the
clinic, turned out the lights and locked the doors about 5:30 p.m. I then
walked back to my apartment, grabbed something to eat, relaxed a bit, and
prepared for the evening activity, which was going to an ohel ra’anen – a “refreshment tent.”
These very
large structures, about a city block long by two city blocks wide, were erected
in open areas around the Gaza envelope. This particular tent was in Gilat, a
large moshav nearby. The tent housed long tables and chairs where soldiers
exiting Gaza after their missions could come and relax, eat, listen to music,
and hang around with friends. Gigantic BBQs were set up outside the tent, and
local citizen volunteers from Ofakim and the various area kibbutzim and
moshavim would man the serving tables, offering everything from grilled meats
and soft drinks to baked goods, chips, and fruits. The aroma throughout the
tent was tantalizing!
Months back, a
group representing the Israeli Physiotherapy Association began setting up
treatment tables in these tents and treated soldiers “on the fly” who were
suffering from neck and back, shoulder, and leg pains, from carrying heavy
packs or crawling around on the battlefield in Gaza. Similarly, soldiers lined
up for our services in the Gilat tent and were so very appreciative, especially
after they found out that we were volunteer physiotherapists from the U.S.
After I completed a soldier’s treatment, he would invariably stand up, grab the
rifle that he had positioned alongside his body on the treatment table, sling
it over his shoulder, smile, and ask me, “How about a hug?” Hard to imagine
anything more satisfying than that.
*
* *
One free
evening, Yisrael, my partner-in-crime, a volunteer physiotherapist from
Connecticut, managed to borrow a car. We drove to nearby Kibbutz Be’eri to pay
our respects at the Nova Festival’s grounds where thousands of young people
were partying before dawn on October 7th when terrorists poured in
from Gaza. In total, 364 people were tortured and murdered there, and around 40
were taken hostage back to Gaza. Those who have witnessed the festival grounds-turned-graveyard
have seen the photo posters of those murdered mounted on poles, yahrzeit candles burning, and flowers
laid around the memorials of the festival attendees who were brutally killed. A
prayer tent and a large charity box are positioned near the markers.
Surrounding the open field are innumerable kalaniyot,
Israel’s well-known poppy flowers that are the first to blossom when winter
rains subside. The juxtaposition of the beautiful, red flowers against the
bloody tapestry of death is chilling. Yisrael and I cried, prayed, and sang to
honor the souls who were taken from our people that day. On our way back to the
hospital, we decided to take a detour to Netivot, a small nearby city, to visit
the grave of the holy Baba Sali, the Moroccan Sefardic rabbi and
kabbalist renowned for working miracles through his prayers. The memorial is
housed in a large building, and people come and go day and night. We stood
among many other visitors that evening and prayed for peace and salvation. It
was a moving end to a very emotional day.
One of my other free
evenings turned out to be a busy reunion of sorts. I had finished my workday,
when on my way back to my room, my phone suddenly rang. It was Tidhar Jackson,
my “adopted kibbutz brother” from Kibbutz Sa’ad. Unlike the post-high school
gap year (or two or three) taken by local day school or yeshiva high school
graduates today, in my day, there were only a handful of Israeli yeshivot that
took in American boys. An alternative to yeshiva or seminary was a popular
kibbutz-based program through the Bnei Akiva religious Zionist youth
organization, called Hachshara (preparation). It was created to be a one-year
introduction to religious kibbutz socialist living that young men and women
would complete and then plan for their aliyah
to kibbutz thereafter.
My year had 20-some
men and women, of whom many did
move to Israel after returning to America for college or other training. In
those days, when a participant in the Hachshara program came to the kibbutz, he
or she was adopted by a family. That family was that participant’s lifeline to
the kibbutz; we ate with the adoptive family and often visited them in the
afternoons after work or at the kibbutz pool. Some of us became very connected
to our respective kibbutz and families, others, not so much. I was fortunate to
have a large adopted family with whom I have remained in touch for more than 50
years. David and Sarah Jackson, my kibbutz adoptive parents, moved to Kibbutz
Sa’ad in the 1960s and raised their family there. David was originally from
County Cork, Ireland, and Sarah was from Siberia. Tidhar was their youngest son;
his voice on the phone that evening had quite an urgency to it.
It turned out that it
was David Jackson’s yahrtzeit that
day, and the family was all together to commemorate the occasion of their
father’s passing. Tidhar was emphatically telling me that I had to come to the
kibbutz immediately. He exclaimed, “It is an opportunity of a lifetime to see
all of us together, in one place.” In fact, all seven siblings with their
respective spouses and children and “Ima” Sarah Jackson were all there. Tidhar
related that, as the family was assembled around their father’s grave minutes
earlier, one of the sons spoke about how David Jackson was always the one in
charge of the American volunteers on the kibbutz – when, suddenly, Tidhar
remembered that I was in Israel, close by in Ofakim, volunteering at the
hospital, and blurted out to the family, “Wait! Sammy is here! We have to bring
him here now!” In short, Tidhar immediately sent a cab to Ofakim and swept me
15 minutes away to Kibbutz Sa’ad so I could take part in the special occasion.
I had been in touch with David and Sarah Jackson and several of the children
over the years, but I had not seen some of the siblings in 50 years, and
certainly not all in one place! It was yet another emotional evening for me,
and I felt special being included in the family again. Kibbutz Sa’ad is
directly across the road from Kibbutz Kfar Azza, the site of an October 7th massacre,
and was fortunately spared mass destruction by alert guards who stemmed a Hamas
incursion.
With our
five-day work week running from Sunday to Thursday, Friday was a great day to
travel to friends and prepare for Shabbat. On both of the Shabbatot that I was
there, I managed to travel to friends up north, using various online travel
programs to plan my long rides on public transportation. When I was looking
online to figure out my travel route, one of the therapists looking over my
shoulder freely offered me a ride to a connecting city, which would make my
trip more convenient. Since the war, especially in the south, close to the Gaza
envelope, certain train and bus routes are rerouted. I must say that the bus
and train systems run on time and are very convenient to use. The online bus
and train schedules are likewise easy to navigate. But as I was not used to
Sunday being a regular work day in Israel, getting back to campus by 8:00 a.m.
Sunday morning was a challenge.
*
* *
As I mentioned
above, one of the many heroes of my story is Rav Shachar Butzchak, a young
community rabbi in Ofakim, and a member of the first-responder team. This is
what Rav Shachar told me as part of my initial examination of him:
“On October 7th, at 7 a.m., I was
inside my home and heard gunshots from the direction of the entrance to my
neighborhood. I looked outside my window and saw bands of Hamas terrorists
speeding down the street in pickup trucks. The terrorists saw a few neighbors
having an early coffee outdoors, and began shooting at them. Those were the
first gunshots heard in Ofakim, typically a slow, quiet town, especially on Shabbat.
I grabbed my handgun and prepared to respond. I asked my wife to take the kids
and seek shelter in the protected room, and then went to the street in the
direction of the gunfire. I was one of the 10 or so initial citizen responders – armed civilians,
police officers, and on-leave soldiers – who went out to confront the terrorists. Once our group was
visible to the terrorists, the Hamas men opened fire. The impact was so
powerful that the whole road shook; everything flew into the air. Our group
advanced toward the gunmen, but no army training taught us how to face a
Kalashnikov and an RPG with our simple handguns. The Hamas terrorists confused
us by dressing in green army fatigues and wearing ammo belts. Initially, they
did not appear to be terrorists, but we were soon ambushed and realized they
were the terrorists. Two responders were hit by automatic gunfire – I was
struck in the left leg above the knee and the other responder was killed. I
looked around and saw that I was surrounded by death. I could not move because
of my leg wounds. Another responder, a policeman, shielded me as bullets were
whizzing past our heads. The policeman took me to a nearby safe house, where he
applied emergency first aid. At 9 a.m., IDF special forces arrived, and a
fierce gun battle ensued. I was eventually transported from Ofakim to receive
medical care in the hospital. By the end of the tragic events, 52 residents had
lost their lives, including armed citizens, police officers, and on-leave
soldiers.”
I remain in awe of Rav Shachar and his commitment to his
community and our people.
Fast
forward five months, and I have the distinct opportunity and honor to examine
and treat Rav Shachar. I was not the only one who was enthralled by Rav Shachar
and his story. On my last day work day at ADI NEGEV, a camera crew filed into
the physiotherapy clinic, led by a gentleman named Menachem Horowitz.
Unbeknownst to me, and much to his chagrin, Menachem is a wildly popular TV and
print journalist who broadcasts a feature dealing with life in Israel on TV
channel 12 every night. Within minutes Rav Shachar and I were mic’ed up and
after a brief sound check, Menachem began firing questions at Rav Shachar about
his injuries and treatment at ADI NEGEV. He then turned to me and asked who I
was and what I was doing there! My brief moment of national stardom was when I
told him my name and that I was a volunteer physiotherapist from the U.S.
Friends in Israel viewing Menachem’s spot that evening from their homes
practically fell over when they saw me on the TV screen. One friend said, “I
have lived in Israel for over 30 years and have never been on television. You
show up here for three weeks, and now you are a star!”
* * *
By the time
Rav Shachar came into my care, he had undergone surgery to repair and replace
his shattered right hip bone and part of his pelvis. He was walking, albeit
with a severe limp, and he returned to his position as community rabbi and
teacher. Outside of the extensive bone and soft tissue damage, the bullets that
struck him months prior severely damaged the sciatic nerve, the large nerve that
supplies movement and sensation to the leg and foot. He walked with a makeshift
brace that somewhat prevented the marked drop foot that slapped every time he
took a step. His balance was compromised, he was weak, he had pain, and he was
limited in mobility, but his spirit was unshaken. He was a motivator and a
cheerleader for every patient who was in his company.
I worked
closely with Rav Shachar for the three weeks I was at ADI NEGEV, using every
technique and trick up my sleeve to improve his strength and function. His
daily appointment with me was always at 12:30 p.m. to allow us a full hour to
work one-on-one and then to have time to go to Mincha together. The few minutes
we had together between therapy sessions and Mincha were very special for me,
just to hear a word or two of spirituality or a thought about that week’s parsha from him. Unlike the other
in-patients, Rav Shachar was granted special permission to be at home at night
to tend to his community’s needs. One evening, I, along with other therapy
volunteers, was invited to Rav Shachar’s home in Ofakim for a celebratory pizza
dinner with his family. Rav Shachar wanted his children to meet us and learn
about how we help the people in the hospital. The meal was delicious, but
meeting the rabbanit and the children was a most warm and special time for us.
On my final work day at ADI NEGEV, Rav Shachar presented me with his newly
published sefer entitled Birkat HaShachar, a study guide about
halacha. He wrote a beautiful inscription thanking me for my efforts on his and
the country’s behalf. I was truly touched by his sentiments.
Despite
intensive physiotherapy, Rav Shachar unfortunately did not regain much active
use of the right lower leg or foot. He has since undergone yet another surgery,
this time to debride the sciatic nerve, in hopes of a re-growth potential and
future function of the nerve. Prior to this recent surgery, it was felt that
the sciatic nerve had been severed on that fateful day by the path of the
bullet. It became apparent when the surgeon exposed the nerve this time, that
the bullet that entered Rav Shachar’s hip, struck the thigh bone, and then
changed course, turning upward and scraping but not severing a 12 cm. length of
the sciatic nerve. Rav Shachar is now recuperating at home from the recent
surgery and in two weeks will return to the surgeon to remove the stitches and
then reinitiate aggressive physiotherapy. In the future, he will likely need a
leg brace to walk safely with improved balance and a more symmetric gait
pattern.
Rav Shachar’s horrific experience is surely one of thousands of
such heroic stories of this war. My ability to provide care to Rav Shachar and others like
him in need, feeling an integral part of the nation, being part of a
highly-trained staff, experiencing the hugs of appreciation and admiration for
volunteering time – these were the real highlights of my trip.
To return for more would be my privilege and my wish.
Samuel Esterson is a third generation born-and-bred
Baltimorean, on both his paternal and maternal sides, who has been a physical
therapist for 45 years, 35 of which in private practice in Baltimore County. He
trained at the world renowned Rusk Institute for Rehabilitation Medicine – NYU
Medical Center in New York City, one of the first and largest rehabilitation
centers in the world. Dr. Esterson is a diplomate of The American Board of
Physical Therapy Specialties in Orthopaedics. The Esterson family was one of
the original members and builders of Suburban Orthodox Toras Chaim synagogue in
the early 1960s.
