Part VI [final installment]
Synopsis: Yitzchok Shneur, eight years old, is recovering
from the removal of an orange-size tumor behind his eye. And
so is his mother . . .
To tell or not to tell — all the neighbors who don't
know. She asks for the shoe store man's blessings and is
reduced to tears at the caring look in his eyes.
I go home with my purchases. I step into the elevator along
with a group of Breslov women.
"The men in Uman prayed for your son," one of the women says,
the other nodding. "They prayed for him in unison. There were
thousands of men there."
After they go out, the enormity of it strikes me —
those in Uman, those in Safed, family, friends, strangers,
all davening in one voice, as one man, with one prayer for
one little boy whom few even know. The caring of the Jewish
nation, one for another, is beyond belief.
*
I take Yitzchok to the post operative appointment with the
surgeon two days before Yom Kippur. The earliest bus from
Safed won't arrive in time so I make arrangements to sleep by
my friend in Bnei Brak Wednesday night.
In the middle of the night, I am awakened by the sounds of
Bnei Brak. They're so different from the sounds in Safed It's
2:00 a.m. and I'm listening to the cars whizzing by. In
Safed, you seldom hear more than an occasional cow mooing.
There's no way I can sleep when we'll be getting the biopsy
results in just a few hours. I say Tehillim, making sure that
I'm in Yitzchok's view once he awakens.
7:00 a.m. He opens his eyes. "Don't leave me, Mommy."
"I won't, sweetheart. I'm here."
I put down the Tehillim and snuggle up to him. He cups his
little hand over my mouth and nose and in a man-like voice
says, "General anesthesia." I close my eyes and snore loudly,
a smile on my lips. He lets out a giggle. I open my eyes and
we both begin to laugh. My little solider — my sweet
little soldier.
*
We're in the outpatient clinic, sitting in the surgeon's
office. Yitzchok is twirling around on the swivel chair.
"Sit still!" the doctor says.
Yitzchok stops.
After checking Yitzchok, the doctor says, "Excellent! Now
let's look at the biopsy results."
He starts pressing buttons on his computer's keyboard. I'm
leaning forward across from the doctor trying to see the
screen. Yitzchok is swiveling again. The noise irritates me
but if the doctor isn't saying anything, then neither will I.
In truth, it's good that he has an outlet for his own nervous
energy.
The printer begins to whiz. The doctor takes the two pages of
test results and places them directly on the desk in front of
me. I don't understand all these long medical words. And then
I see it. One word, all capitals:
BENIGN
Tears overflow from my eyes.
I never thought that the word `benign' was a pretty word but
now I do. `Benign' is the most beautiful word I've ever seen
or heard.
We ride the bus, the three and a half hours back to Safed, in
relative silence. Now I finally feel the heaviness of the
past three weeks pushing me down with force. The exhaustion
of sleepless nights and worry seem to avalanche onto me,
through me.
Once home, I immediately drag myself to call Yitzchok's
orthodontist, who only works in the Safed area on Thursdays.
"Yitzchok hasn't worn his retainer for three weeks now and we
missed our last appointment.
"Is there any reason for that?" the secretary asks. I
explain. "You can come in right now, if you like," she says
kindly.
"Yitzchok!" I call out, ignoring the incredible exhaustion I
feel. "Come on! We're going to the orthodontist."
I call a taxi. We arrive fifteen minutes later. They take us
right away. The dentist checks Yitzchok, then says, "We're
finished. The treatment is completed." The one tooth that
needed straightening is perfectly straight. On the way home,
I feel like stopping the car, getting out and dancing right
there on the highway! I feel like extending my arms until I
hold the entire universe! I feel like singing with every bird
that exists!
And then I laugh out loud — to the wind blowing on my
face through the window, to the lovely layered mountainside,
to the very heavens, and to myself. And I laugh even more
deeply at the absurdity of my overreaction.
It's as if I'm saying, "My son's life has been on the line
for the past three weeks, but his tooth is straight!"
The last three weeks have been too difficult to feel, too
big. But his tooth being straight, that's something I can
celebrate. And in my heart, I do; I celebrate. But for much,
much more than just his tooth.
