Part II
Synopsis: It is Elul. All seems well, until...
Kalman, my eleven-year-old, walks in. "Welcome home," I
say.
He sits next to me. "Did you hear what happened to Yitzchok
Shneur?"
"No," I yawn. I'm so tired. Maybe I'll send them out to play
so I can sleep for a while. "What happened to Yitzchok
Shneur? Scraped his knee? Missed the bus?"
"Um..." Kalman looks around quickly. "Oh, well, ah...
nothing!" He forces a grin.
I sit up. "WHAT happened to Yitzchok Shneur?"
"Well, he choked on a piece of carrot, Mommy, and could
hardly breathe. The principal took him in a car and went down
a one-way street the wrong way!"
I'm in shock. Now I know why my husband didn't meet me at the
bris this morning.
I call the hospital. "Goldberg, Yitzchok?" a nasal voice
answers me. "He's presently being operated on. A piece of
carrot went into his lung."
I hang up the phone and stare at nothingness. I can't think.
I can't move.
After a while, my husband calls. "No, no. It didn't go into
the lung. It was lodged in the air passage and they got it
out without cutting, Boruch Hashem! He's already waking up
from the general anesthesia."
I feel my torso slump — relief and thanksgiving
flooding me.
In the evening, my oldest son and my daughter-in-law go to
the hospital to celebrate with my husband. They call.
"Yitzchok's running around and having a wonderful time!"
I stay home, giving attention and enjoying the other
children. The house is quiet. I'm in a good mood. Hashem's
chessed is amazing. I sleep the best I've slept all
summer.
*
Thursday morning. I get the kids off to school. I decide to
stay here and start getting ready for Shabbos. My husband
will bring Yitzchok home soon. The morning air is clear and
refreshing. I inhale deeply. What should I make them for a
homecoming brunch? I take out the whole wheat flour. This is
a good morning for fresh pancakes.
The phone rings. It's my husband. "They're not releasing
us."
It's suddenly very hard to breathe.
"While the doctor was signing the release forms, I mentioned
to him that you noticed something with Yitzchok's eye. After
he checked him, he told me that we're not going anywhere. He
wants to do some blood work today. Could be thyroid problems.
And tomorrow they'll do a CAT scan to rule out any
growths."
Tests. To rule things out, of course.
I bring the pancakes to the hospital. Yitzchok really is
having a great time. There's only one other child in the
playroom and they help each other with the puzzles and games.
It's nice to see Yitzchok so happy. I guess it's good to have
a little time off, a little time alone with his father. I try
not to feel nervous.
*
Friday morning. I stay home to prepare for Shabbos. My
husband takes Yitzchok for the C.T. I have the chicken soup
simmering and am checking barley for the cholent.
My husband calls. "There's a growth behind his eye, Rifca.
It's about the size of an egg and is pushing his eye. I saw
the C.T. myself. There's a big specialist coming in a couple
of hours to check Yitzchok, so hopefully, we'll be home
before Shabbos."
I hang up in shock. No. The C.T. was to rule out the
possibility of a growth. To rule it out... to rule it
out...
I call Chana C. She's in charge of organizing emergency
prayers for others. I'm in control. Everything's going to be
fine. Chana answers. As soon as I hear her voice, I break
down sobbing.
"Who is this?" she asks.
I hand the phone to my eighteen-year-old who tells her the
situation. By the time I get the phone back, she's crying
along with me. I have to cook for Shabbos. Right. Cook.
Shabbos. I have to cook for Shabbos, don't I?
"Hands — Move!" But they don't. "Feet — Get
going!" But they don't. I can't think.
There's a knock on the door. It's Ella. I can't believe it.
She left her family and cooking in order to be here with me.
"What can I do to help?"
"I don't know."
"How's your cholent coming along?"
"Cholent. Right. I was checking barley. I need
potatoes peeled." She starts peeling while I finish checking
the grains.
"What next?" she asks. She has such a beautiful smile. I'm
trying so hard not to cry. "I don't know."
"Fish. Did you make any fish?"
"Fish. We'll open some tuna."
"Salads?"
"Yes. Of course. Salads. Tonight's Shabbos, right?" She
nods.
She stays until all the cooking is done and things are
organized. Someone sends a kugel. Two women send cake.
A neighbor sends some salads. G-d bless them all.
*
It's Sunday. The 19th of Elul. Dr. L. gives us papers to go
to Schneider's Children Hospital in Petach Tikva to do an MRI
in order to see how close to the brain the growth is. "An MRI
is like a three dimensional X-ray," my husband explains to me
on the way home. "It can detect soft tissue that a C.T. might
not."
Once home, I pack for me, my husband and Yitzchok, not
knowing how long we'll be gone or what will be done. The bus
to Petach Tikva will be leaving at 4:30. I call two friends
to spread the word about what's going on and ask for everyone
to pray for us. I can't concentrate on even one word of
Tehillim. Everything is simply a haze. I'm relying heavily on
the prayers of others.
The phone rings. It's my husband's cousin from New Jersey.
He's here in Safed; he's going to the kivrei
tzaddikim. Can he come to see us afterwards?
"We're going to Petach Tikva in an hour and a half," I blurt
out. "They found a growth behind my eight-year-old's eye. We
would love so much to see you! Please, can't you come
now?"
"I'll be right over."
Mordechai and my husband haven't seen each other since they
were ten years old! They're thrilled to reminisce a little,
see pictures of each other's families. Then Mordechai hears
our whole story, blesses us, and takes Yitzchok's full name
to pray for. I just can't believe the hashgocha!
Today, of all days! After all these years, decades... And
he'll pray for us in exactly the places I would have gone to
had I had the time.
Thank You, Hashem, for sending a family member right when we
needed him! Thank you so much!
*
My oldest son and daughter-in-law stay in my house with the
other kids. I'm on the Egged bus. Yitzchok's head is in my
lap. My husband is sitting across the aisle.
"What will the MRI be like?" Yitzchok asks me.
I look down at his flushed face, his trusting sky-blue
eyes.
"You'll be on a large table. You won't be allowed to move at
all. It won't touch you but there'll be a very loud noise.
Louder than the rifle range near our house. They'll give you
ear plugs. You won't be allowed to move."
The sun has set. Yitzchok settles into the rhythm of the bus
and drifts off into sleep. My husband and I finally have a
chance to talk privately, if you call talking on a public bus
private.
He leans over the aisle and says, "This morning, two
specialists in the hospital had different opinions about the
growth."
He pauses. I strain to hear him over the bus noises.
"One doctor thought the growth might be from the wart family.
The other one thinks it could be an infection that became
encased in calcification and the calcification kept on
growing."
I nod. Neither sound pleasant, but nor do they sound life
threatening — if it's not touching the brain, that
is.
The wheels of the bus whisper, "if... if... if..."
[to be continued]
