Part V
Synopsis: Eight-year-old Yitzchok Shneur is recovering
from surgery on a brain tumor.
And then my name is called...
My husband is in the hall. He's just arrived. We go into the
recovery room together.
"Your son will be waking up within the hour. There was no
cutting," a nurse informs us. The room is filled with soft
noises: heart monitors, moans, whooshing from who-knows-what
machines.
The surgeon stands on one side of Yitzchok's bed. The blue
surgical mask is pulled below his chin. He has kind eyes.
Yitzchok lies sleeping, an oxygen mask over his mouth and
nose and an I.V. in his arm.
"The tumor was much larger than we thought," the surgeon
says, his fingers spread wide to indicate the size —
like an orange. "It was a very unusual growth. It was not
integrated into the facial bone tissue. We'll have the biopsy
in ten days."
Ten days. My head swims with the words. My Ten Days of
Tshuva. Our post-operative appointment is two days
before Yom Kippur.
I've got to improve my davening. What about
chessed? What about tzedoka? What do I
do?
We follow as a technician wheels Yitzchok back to his room an
hour later. He is sleeping. There's a feeling of unreality;
everything is hushed. My friend Ilana and I sit and speak
softly. My husband recites Tehillim. I see Yitzchok's eyes
flutter and I'm standing at his bedside instantly. I look at
his face. Ilana says, "It's O.K. He's doing wonderfully." I
don't look up.
He looks so small, so vulnerable. I touch his arm, the blonde
hairs so fine, so soft. My fingers reach the palm of his hand
and his fingers curl around mine. I feel tears in my eyes. I
love him so much.
Yitzchok's looking at me now. "Don't leave me," he
whispers.
"I'm here with you," I reassure him. He closes his eyes.
Ilana starts talking. I can't hear what she's saying. All I
know, all I feel are Yitzchok's sweet little fingers around
mine.
Slowly, he wakes up, still holding my hand. "Does anything
hurt?" He shakes his head.
"Do you want to sit?" Ilana asks. He nods.
She cranks the bed up and he begins to vomit blood. I run for
a nurse. She comes and says he's alright. "That's completely
normal," says Ilana. She's been through this once.
My husband and I exchange glances. Neither of us wants this
scenario to be in the realm of `normal.'
"Let us know if he's uses the toilet," says the nurse. "You
see, the anesthesia puts his organs to sleep as well as his
mind."
Soon he asks to go to the bathroom. I steady him with one
hand, roll the I.V. pole with the other. Opening the door, a
mirror stares at us, framing Yitzchok's face, the blood-
drenched bandage covering his nose, his blood streaked cheek
and chin. My sweet little soldier.
Later he vomits again. Ilana's with him with a second towel.
My head aches in a very deep place.
Yitzchok is completely awake now. He touches his eye lightly
again and again. "Does it hurt?" He shakes his head. I
finally understand. "You had something pushing on your eye
and now it feels funny, right?" He nods.
The nurse comes in to change the bandages. My eighteen-year-
old son walks in with five books for Yitzchok to choose from.
He's come to read to him and give us a breather.
The cell phone rings. "Mommy, when are you coming home?"
It's two days to Rosh Hashono. Even if they release us on
Wednesday, it'll be too much for me to organize. I call my
daughter-in-law's aunt who lives nearby and ask if we can
stay by her. I feel uncomfortable imposing on her; she has
her own big brood. There's a pause.
"I'll try to place some of the children elsewhere..." I
offer.
"No, all of you," she says. "We want all of you."
Ilana goes home after having spent eight hours with us. I
tell my husband, "I think I should go up to Tzfas and bring
the children here." He nods.
A bus to Tsfas leaves at 10:00 p.m. Yitchok doesn't say it
but I know he doesn't want me to leave him. I lie down next
to him. He rubs my arm the same way I've been doing to him.
He finally drifts off. I go with a heavy heart; he has his
father and brother. I'll be back in a day and a half...
*
I'm on the bus. The darkness outside is spotted with highway
lights blurring past me. The previous days are a blur in my
mind as well. I see many children in different stages of
admittance, hear the cries, the running of the nurse... Now I
hear the steady beep, beep, beep of a heart monitor. My
breathing quickens. I awaken. It is the blinker of the
bus.
"Ten minute rest stop," the driver announces and turns the
motor off.
*
It's Tuesday. Rachel needs shoes for Yom Tov. I've run out of
soap. I walk down the main street of Tzfas, feeling that I'm
not really here. In a way, I simply don't feel. I see
acquaintances. To tell or not to tell? I want the whole world
to pray for Yitzchok Shneur. I look at the face of the older
Sefardi salesman as I pay for the shoes.
"My little boy just had a tumor removed from his head," I
whisper. "We don't know what it is. Please pray for him." He
writes down the full name and blesses me, his deep brown eyes
caring. I walk out totally shaken up, holding back the tears,
biting my lip. It's a hard decision to make.
To tell or not to tell...
[final installment next week]
