Too Stubborn to Go Home

Last year, I was in the Negev–a desert in southern Israel–where my friends Talya, Levi and I planned to climb Masada and swim in the Dead Sea.

Masada was beautiful and the view from the top was extraordinary. Standing there, on the mountain’s edge, I felt an incredible sense of calm.

Hours later, as we approached the bottom, I took one clumsy step and the next thing I knew I was on the ground, screaming with pain.

Talya quickly responded to my screams. “I’m going to run down the mountain and get a doctor,” she said, without realizing we were in the middle of the desert.

As the pain turned from searing to throbbing and with one arm around each of my friends’ necks, we continued to the bottom of the mountain.

Sitting at a picnic table, I removed my shoe and elevated my leg. My left foot had swollen to twice the size of the right and was beginning to turn dark shades of purple. I could hardly move it.
Levi suggested we catch the next bus back to Jerusalem, but I refused. Injury or not, I was going to the Dead Sea!

Luckily, because of the high salt content, I didn’t have to tread water to stay afloat. For the next hour, I just tried to relax and enjoy the experience.

When we were ready to leave, I realized there was no way that I could walk back up the beach to the bus stop. Levi offered to give me a piggyback ride up the hill. As I jumped on his back, I kicked his arm with my swollen foot. Tears flooded my eyes immediately and I cried out in pain.

Talya did the only thing she could think to do. “I’m going to find a medic,” she said, and within a few minutes she came running back to find us.

They carried me over to a group of ultra-orthodox Jewish women and set me down on a tree stump. There, one of the women began to bend and pull on my foot without concern for my tears or screams.