Part III
We follow Rifca to Schneider's Hospital in Petach Tikva.
Her eight-year-old son was discovered to have an egg-size
growth behind his eye that has to be removed. We pray along
with her...
Petach Tikva is so different from cozy, sleepy little Tzfas
— here there are so many cars, so many people, so much
noise. In the admittance area of the hospital there are huge
stuffed animals, bigger than Yitzchok himself. He has so much
fun as he jumps from an enormous stuffed panda bear to a huge
stuffed floppy-eared dog.
I guess it's making my little boy feel pretty big, especially
in a situation where he's feeling pretty small. The nurse
comes in and says, "Stop, little boy. You're not allowed to
be wild."
"Come," I say, "I'll read you a story. Sit on my lap; I want
to hold you."
He comes to me. I begin to read to him. I caress his cheek,
then give him a tight squeeze. He squeals. "Stop, Mommy!" He
smiles and rests his head on my shoulder. Are these the last
times I'll be holding him? I'm so scared.
The worst fears can come when you think you're wrapped up in
your cozy sleepy little life.
*
The hospital has seven floors. There are so many game rooms
and toys — so many play areas. It's amazing! The
stethosocope of the doctor is encased in a stuffed animal; a
green iguana. The blood pessure armband is bright yellow with
pink and blue polka dots. The glass elevators talk. When the
door opens, a pleasant electronic voice says, "Third floor.
Entrance level." For us hicksters, it is a complete novelty.
The first day we go up and down the elevator dozens of times.
Yitzchok has both me and my husband all to himself — a
rare treat. He's having a great time.
We're assigned a room on the fifth floor. Each day we explore
different floors: amazing fish aquariums, each one different
and more beautiful than the next. At one side of the entrance
level there are three miniature trains under glass. With a
push of a button, they go over bridges and through
tunnels.
I feel like I'm in a giant playground but now it's not my
children that are on the teeter-totter; it's me. One side is
up. That's the side with all the amazing Hashgachos
such as the fact that choking on a piece of carrot ended up
revealing a growth, that my husband's cousin from abroad
should `pop over' the day we were going to the hospital, the
beautiful care and patience we're receiving here at
Shneider's Hospital and so on.
The other side is down. That's the side with my doubts,
fears, the "what ifs." I use everything I've ever learned
from teachers, everything I've heard from Torah tapes, as
well as going over and over the times I've seen Hashem's
kindnesses clearly in my life. All of this is on the up side
of this teeter-totter and that's what I try to keep in my
mental and emotional view.
It's work. The hardest work I've ever done.
My cell phone rings.
"Come to the Ear-Nose-Throat ward. The doctor wants to see
you right now," the nurse says.
There's one person ahead of us. Yitzchok is sitting on my
lap. I don't know who's need is stronger right now: his need
to be held or my need to hold him.
I stroke his soft small arm. How long has it been since I
noticed how soft he is? This life of constant running,
housework, shopping, banking, working... But to just sit and
hold my youngest child?
My first children were pure fascination for me, but my
youngest... "Go to your brother. I have to finish making
dinner," or "Your sister will help you with your homework." I
sigh.
*
Thank G-d, all these tests are non-invasive: the CT,
ultrasound, X-ray and hopefully, soon, the MRI. Nothing hurts
him. The fact that Yitzchok has no pain is a tremendous
blessing.
The doctors come to check often. Doctors, plural. Never just
one but always a group. They're kind, though.
We're in our hospital room. No. 512. Another cluster of
doctors comes in. The head doctor looks at the clipboard and
turns to Yitzchok.
"Yitzchok, look to the left."
"Yitzchok Shneur!"
The doctor smiles. "Yitzchok Shneur, look to the left.
Now to the right. Put your glasses back on."
The doctor turns to the others. "You see how it's not
noticeable with his glasses on. Always make sure the child
takes his glasses off. It's possible this growth has been
with him since birth, since he's never complained of
headaches or of his eye hurting in any way. That's a good
sign." He turns to Yitzchok, "Thank you very much, Yitzchok
Shneur."
Yitzchok jumps off the bed and turns to the doctor. "Now it's
my turn! Why do you wear this tag? What's this instrument
for?"
They all laugh. The doctor answers Yitzchok's questions
patiently. It encourages him to ask more. My timid little boy
has become bold, proud. I'm amazed.
*
Our roommates' uncle comes to visit his nephew and ends up
talking to Yitzchok for an hour.
"Here, little boy, have a cookie."
"What hechsher does it have?"
My husband and I are impressed with Yitzchok's strength of
character. It's not a hechsher we use, so Yitzchok
politely declines. The uncle leaves. Later, he is back, laden
with rogalach, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate
milk.
"Here!" he shows Yitzchok proudly. "It's all Badatz!"
Yitzchok grins broadly.
"You're a sweetie," he says to the uncle as he eats his
chocolate gifts.
A nurse comes in to take a sample of Yitzchok's blood. "You
won't get any blood from him," I say to her. She looks
startled.
"You'll only get chocolate."
She laughs. Yitzchok holds out his arm proudly as if to say,
"Go ahead and take my chocolate blood!"
*
Days of tests and doctors. Thursday they do the MRI. Yitzchok
will have to keep completely still for twenty minutes. My
husband goes in with him. I wait in Room 512 saying
Tehillim.
When they come back, I ask, "Was it loud, Yitzchok?" I've
never experienced an MRI, boruch Hashem, but I've
heard about them.
"Boy, was it!" my husband says.
Yitzchok comes to me. "It was different kinds of loud, Mommy.
Sometimes it was like the rifle range and other times it was
slower, quieter, and then it got faster again. It was a loud
that kept changing."
The surgeon comes in. "You can go home for Shabbos. The
operation will be Monday."
"The operation will be through his nostril, won't it?" I
ask.
"We'll start through the nostril. I can't promise you
anything. The calcification may be in the bone structure of
his face. We may have to cut away at the bone and do
reconstruction work."
The diagnoses are getting more and more frightening. Yet
they're all guesses. They won't know for sure until they go
in. I fight the "what ifs" to the point of feeling numb. Numb
is better than falling apart. With numbness I pack our
things.
Arriving home, there are thirty-one messages on our answering
machine. "Rifca, we're all praying for you. If there's
anything you need, anything, let us know." One message
of kindness after another.
The community love and concern is palpable.
[to be continued]
