The three different doctors who sold me my three knees strongly agreed on one aspect of my future: “Don’t fall. Do everything you can to proceed safely. DO NOT FALL.” Gotcha. I have respected their advice and been uncharacteristically cautious.

During the past 21 years, since Knee 1, I have fallen – but only three times. None of those tumbles was my fault. I am v-e-r-y careful. Until last week. When I was visiting New York City. I blew it.

My dear BFF, Ginger, lives in Forest Hills, a leafy section of Queens, just outside Manhattan. Ginger converted her late husband’s artist studio to her computer office and guest room, and after many visits, I can testify to the comfort of her Murphy bed.

When the vertically stored Murphy framework is lowered from the wall, the end of the bed is a little over a foot from the wall. It has never been a problem. I just scoot carefully along the wall, avoiding the bed legs, to access my clothes and necessities.

On day three of my fun visit, I was threading my way across that space when I caught my foot – actually my rubber-soled flip-flop – against the baseboard. I crashed forward, heading toward Ginger’s office cabinets. Hoping not to break my neck or the cabinet doors, and trying hard not to land on a knee, I twisted to the left as I crashed – more instinct than brains. But it helped.

Assessing the damage, I determined that all joints and connectors seemed whole. Years ago, my family doc told me that my bones were made of steel I-beams – and they still were doing their job.

Ginger stayed calm and called her doorman. Sympathetic, he nevertheless had to tell her that he wasn’t allowed to help. We understood, with insurance regulations being what they are. But he had a great suggestion. He told her about a volunteer group that serves the Queens community.

The group, named Hatzalah, consists of Orthodox Jewish volunteer EMTs and paramedics. The doorman told Ginger that they serve everyone in need and would probably be happy to put me on my feet. She called the number right away.

Within only a few minutes, the doorman called up that the first responder was in the lobby and was sending him up. Meyer was personable, caring, and asking the right questions when Yahtsi arrived. It always takes two to put me upright, so I was relieved that he was larger than Meyer. As they were still assessing my condition, Schlomo arrived, the paramedic. This all happened in a handful of minutes. The first two arrived in their cars with emergency lights and the third in an ambulance. I couldn’t even imagine where they parked. Ginger, a life-long New Yorker, had never heard of them. I have to tell you about this incredible, all-volunteer, life-saving organization:

The original Hatzalah Emergency Medical Service was founded in Brooklyn in the ’60s, to improve rapid emergency medical response in the community, and to mitigate cultural concerns of a Yiddish-speaking, Hasidic community. The idea spread to other Orthodox Jewish neighborhoods in the New York City area, and eventually to other regions, countries, and continents… 14 countries and 12 states. The New York group, divided into 14 neighborhoods, has more than a thousand volunteer EMTs and paramedics who answer more than 70,000 calls each year with private vehicles and a fleet of more than 90 completely equipped ambulances. Hatzalah is known for its rapid response time and will go wherever needed, not just the Jewish community. Many of their teams and ambulances responded to 9/11.

After determining how I fell, Schlomo, the paramedic, took charge. He completed a thorough protocol and vital signs before moving me. He was extremely kind, but thorough and professional. (And we laughed together when I told him my name was O’Brien). His head bore a yarmulka and the long fringes of his prayer shawl hung out from under his polo shirt. The fringe shows constantly to remind them of their devotion.

The dedication of these men to their task was overwhelming to Ginger and me. They wouldn’t take any money, but Ginger finally convinced them that a check to their greater organization was appropriate.

My Three Musketeers, with the unlikely names of Meyer, Yahtsi, and Schlomo, showed us that the goodness of men in this world doesn’t start or stop with people just like us. Learning about this life-saving, deeply religious, and cultural organization has opened another room in my heart and mind.

This was the type of one-on-one kindness usually seen in small towns. Yet the organization exists only in large urban centers where orthodox communities exist. God bless them and their mission. And thank you again, Hatzalah. I kneed-ed you.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmal.com.