Fear, an ambulance ride, and the panic of a brand-new father—
I suppose every person has one day in their life they define as the scariest of all.
A day that puts them through a test that, at moments, feels bigger than they are.
My day from hell happened when Sara was only ten days old.
It feels strange that I’m only writing about it now. Maybe because only now has the full weight of that day truly settled into me. Back then, I was a brand-new father, extremely anxious. Sara and I were living at my parents’ house, each of us trying to adjust to a reality that had changed our lives forever and bound us together for good.
I was a 52-year-old single father who, for the first time in his life, took a risk and let someone truly into his life—after years of solitude and emotional distance that had become comfortable and familiar.
And she—Sara—had gone through the biggest and most terrifying change imaginable, from the very first second of her life: leaving a perfect, protected, worry-free existence, with no possibility of going back.
In those first weeks, we were trying to learn each other. I knew it wouldn’t be simple. And still—no one prepared me for that day.
An Ordinary Day, Until It Wasn’t
Until the afternoon, it was a completely normal day.
My task was simple: feed Sara every three hours, help her burp, and put her to sleep until the next round. I did it with joy and pride. I was pleased with myself for managing even this most basic mission.
The drama began around four in the afternoon, when it was time to feed her. Sara woke up, but for some reason, she couldn’t finish more than half the bottle. She seemed too tired to continue.
As I tried to encourage her, the warnings from the maternity ward staff at Rambam Hospital echoed in my head:
A baby this young has to finish the full amount. No exceptions.
But Sara simply couldn’t. She fell asleep.
My mother and I began to deliberate. How could we wake Sara so she could eat?
And then the idea came up.
The Bath
A bath.
I don’t remember who suggested it, but it was probably me. We were highly motivated, convinced we had solved the problem. We bathed Sara in the tub. She enjoyed it, as she always did, and we were sure we’d succeeded.
But what happened after the bath frightened me more than any horror movie I’ve ever seen.
When we tried to feed her again, we realized her eyes were closed. She wouldn’t take the bottle nipple into her mouth. Worse than that—she barely reacted at all.
We tried to wake her. Again and again.
Nothing.
That’s when the panic began.
No Response
Horrible thoughts flooded my mind—ones I’d rather not spell out.
I knew I needed professional help. Immediately.
A call with a nurse at the maternal and child health hotline didn’t calm me down. Quite the opposite. I felt she was only adding fuel to the fire of anxiety already burning inside me.
I said to my mother,
“I’m calling an ambulance.”
She nodded. She understood—and she looked worried too, despite trying to hide it. The fact that my mother, a certified pediatric caregiver, was worried pushed me to the edge. I felt like I was losing control.
The Ambulance
A United Hatzalah team (a volunteer emergency medical response organization) arrived within minutes. They checked her vital signs.
Sara opened and closed her eyes intermittently, looking detached—as much as a ten-day-old baby can.
Her vitals were clear and normal.
It should have calmed me down. It didn’t.
A short time later, the ambulance arrived as well. The paramedics received the update and then said to me:
“From our perspective, everything looks fine. But if you want, we can transport the baby to Wolfson Hospital.”
It was the hardest decision of my life. And also the fastest.
I knew I had to be sure.
The Emergency Room
We rode in the ambulance—my mother, Sara, and me.
Ten minutes. The longest ten minutes of my life.
At the ER, they received us immediately. Sara was taken for urgent tests. When the doctor inserted a needle into her tiny body, I felt as if my own heart were being stabbed. Her screams completely broke me.
We waited for the results.
Sara began to come back to herself—to respond, to show signs of alertness. But when we tried to feed her again, she ate only a small amount.
Even though all the tests came back normal, the decision was made to keep Sara for observation in the pediatric ward, with IV fluids, out of concern for dehydration.
A Sleepless Night
It was almost midnight. Sara was sleeping beside us in the ER.
My mother and I realized we hadn’t eaten anything since noon. We ordered pizza. We managed to eat only one slice each. We gave the rest to the staff.
At one in the morning, we were transferred to the ward.
It was a long night. We didn’t sleep for a single minute. We sat on either side of the bed, staring at Sara, making sure she was breathing, replaying everything we had been through over and over again.
In the morning, a young doctor questioned us. To my surprise, he confirmed that everything we had done was the right thing to do—including the bath, which, in hindsight, we concluded had simply exhausted Sara further and deepened her sleep.
By noon, we were discharged and sent home.
Life returned to normal.
But I didn’t.
What Remained
That day left a mark on me. I was angry at myself. I hated the helplessness. I felt I had failed my ten-day-old daughter, who had entrusted her life to me—and I had let her down.
They say what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.
Bullshit.
That experience didn’t strengthen me.
It made me a more anxious parent, painfully aware of how many dangers exist—and how little control I truly have over them.
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Read Next
If you’d like to read more about Sara and our life together, here are two more posts you might enjoy:
Beyond the Blog
Alongside this blog, I also give talks about late fatherhood, surrogacy, and the emotional journey of becoming a parent later in life.
Sara and Me 