The receptionist and I were the only people in the doctor's waiting room when the siren sounded. We looked at each other, bewildered and a little amused, for a few seconds, until the doctor came bustling out of his office with the patient who was with him at the time in tow. There's not much point in being in the waiting room if the doctor isn't there, so the receptionist and I followed them into the stairwell, which apparently was the designated secure space. The actual secure room was locked and no-one knew where to find the key.
We were soon joined in the stairwell by lots of other people, each and every one, it seemed, engaged in something to do with a smart phone. The reception in the stairwell was bad and the network soon ground to a halt due to overload. Lacking information, we hung around for about 10 minutes before resuming from where we had left off.
Back in the waiting room, I had to deal with a challenge from two newly-arrived patients who claimed priority under Israel's informal first-come-first-served tradition. But the receptionist backed me up and I was soon sitting opposite the doctor. Not that it did me much good though. He was a lot more interested in finding out where the missile had fallen (south of Tel Aviv, apparently) and in speaking with every member of his extended family to make sure that everyone was OK.
In between phone calls, he informed me that my blood test showed that I was borderline diabetic and had various other issues typical of my age and habits (drinking, smoking and eating everything that doesn't move.) He didn't seem particularly concerned about my health, so neither was I. It was the first time that a missile had fallen on Tel Aviv since the first Gulf War in 1991, which helped both of us keep things in proportion.
My daughter, Zoe, had been outdoors with friends when the siren went off and had had to run into the shelter of a nearby building. She was a bit spooked and insisted that she and I fill a backpack with emergency provisions, flashlights and everything else we might need during the next attack. She had already drawn up a long list of the items we needed, which included clean underwear and a gas mask for the dog. But before we could begin packing, Noor, my 19-year-old daughter, came home and put an end to our efforts. Noor is a soldier in military intelligence, so she is our rebbe on all matters military, if not exactly intelligent. She assured Zoe that an emergency bag was not called for in the present circumstances.
Overall, it has been heartwarming to observe the alacrity and ease with which Israel slips into war mode. TV broadcasts transition seamlessly into 24-hour war coverage, ancient retired generals are woken from their slumbers and propped up in front of TV cameras to pontificate endlessly and Twitter is mobilized by the Home Front Command to provide streams of instructions to Israel's panicked citizens. The rumor mill kicks into overdrive, our politicians are in lock-step and an invisible cloud of self-righteous indignation settles over everyone.