The last thing I remember before losing consciousness was optimistically thinking that a few minutes of rest would put me right
I live in Hollywood, Florida, where I serve as rosh kollel of the Hollywood Community Kollel. Due to the pandemic, I hadn’t been able to see my mother, who lives in Lakewood, for more than a year, except for one brief, socially distant visit. I received my second vaccine in the beginning of February, and when my mother got hers at the end of the month, I jumped at the chance to visit.
The trip worked out well. It was great seeing my mother, and we both appreciated the time spent together. But after three days, I had to head back.
It was 5 p.m. when I left Lakewood, and I figured I had plenty of time to return my rental car and make my JetBlue flight at 8 p.m. from Newark Airport. Traffic was light as I headed north on the Garden State Parkway, and I spent my time making phone calls for the kollel, glad I’d made the trip and thinking about when I would be able to return.
I had to fill up on gas before returning the car. I noticed the Cheesequake Rest Area ahead — a service area I’d used dozens of times during my years living in Lakewood and my frequent visits since — and I prepared to exit. But for some inexplicable reason my hands froze, and I continued straight, instead of taking the right turn into the service area. I shrugged it off to tiredness and continued onward on the Garden State Parkway.
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