MAZEL TOV
Elisheva stroked the soft fuzz of hair on her day-old baby's
head. Her other children had been to visit and now she just
sat cuddling this new gift, thinking about the name they
would give her. She heard someone calling her name and
wondered who wanted her. A nurse in starched white uniform
was standing by the door with a pile of forms. What was this
all about? Elisheva put the baby down gently into the
bassinet and hurried to the door.
"Ah, just the person I was looking for. Your daughter seems
to have a problem."
Elisheva went white. Her legs trembled and her heart pounded.
Ribono Shel Olom! What happened? They hadn't said a word in
the delivery room that things were not all right. The nurse
was businesslike and authoritative.
"We did a routine hearing test on your baby in order to rule
out sensory-neural hearing loss. Your baby did not respond,
so please bring her back in a month for a repeat test," she
explained, coolly thrusting the necessary forms into
Elisheva's shaking hands. The letters seemed to move on the
page in a macabre dance. She was to come back in a month...
thirty days of unbearable worry.
"The chances are that my baby is deaf, that my baby cannot
hear." The words echoed inside her aching head day after day.
She had never felt so low after a birth before. Actually, she
had been called back to the clinic for `failed' tests before
now, especially when one of the children had a cold or was
teething; both conditions seemed to affect their hearing. But
this was different, a congenital neural hearing loss was not
to be compared to the conductive hearing loss of older
children.
Throughout the endless month of waiting, Elisheva conjured up
visions of her baby wearing hearing aids, of faulty speech
which led to slow mental development. How was she going to
cope? The house was completely neglected, the children were
sent off to neighbors. Elisheva was weak and depressed.
"What's happened to you?" asked the neighbors who were
accustomed to her ready radiant smile.
"Oh, it's nothing. I must still tired after the birth," she
answered dismissively. She wasn't in the mood for gossip when
friends came in to wish her Mazel tov.
"You know, nowadays, medicine has improved by leaps and
bounds and they can provide a person with almost perfect
hearing," her husband said, trying to comfort her. But
Elisheva thought of all the extra time she would have to
devote to this baby and how a handicapped child can disrupt a
whole house. She tried to delve into the family's genetic
makeup, of someone having a hearing problem, but there was no
history of deafness in either of their families.
She sent the children shopping, refusing to go out to meet
anyone, and stayed brooding between her own four walls.
Telling her not to worry was as futile as telling her to stop
feeding the baby. Every time she changed the baby, she turned
into an amateur diagnostician, trying various sounds and
noises, but the baby remained blissfully unaware, sleeping
through most of her antics. She took down the activity
center, suitable for a six-month old baby, in order to elicit
some response, but Baby slept most of the day, as newborn
babies do. Elisheva needed moral support and involved her
mother.
"Mommy, do you know what a resonance test is?"
"No, I have no idea. When you were small, they didn't do
those tests yet."
A month later, in fear and trembling, both parents took the
baby to the audiology clinic in the hospital, an unfriendly
uninviting place. Never had Elisheva been so worried about a
hospital visit.
One of the technicians came towards them and asked, "Is the
baby asleep?" as she vigorously pulled back the blanket in
which she was wrapped. Obligingly, the baby opened her eyes,
wide awake now.
"You'll have to get her to sleep. We can't do the test unless
she is asleep," stated the technician.
"Why didn't you tell me this before?" asked the bewildered
mother. She refrained from asking, "And why did you wake her
up so carelessly?"
How was she to make a baby who had been asleep for over four
hours fall asleep promptly again?
"A pity you didn't know about that," remarked the technician,
blinking with affectation, as she rustled off in her white
uniform. Elisheva now recognized her as the one who had
brought her the news about the baby's possible hearing
loss.
"Let's push the carriage up and down the corridor," suggested
her husband. Impatiently they walked backwards and forwards,
but the baby was determined to stay awake. Their appointment
had been for one o'clock, an awkward time, as the children
were waiting for their lunch.
"We're closing in about half an hour," a young nurse informed
them, encouraging them to get this obstinate baby to
sleep.
"It doesn't depend on me at all. Why didn't anybody let us
know that a baby has to be asleep for this test? We live out
of town and organizing a trip like this was a major
operation. I think we'll have to leave it for another
time."
"Well, remember that we can't give you another appointment
for another three months," remarked the technician, rubbing
salt onto their wounds. Elisheva did not know how she could
cope with this uncertainty for another three months.
At ten past two, they made their way to the hospital gates
where a kind volunteer driver offered them a lift. They were
sitting in the back seat of the car when Baby suddenly closed
her eyes; she was asleep. Her husband urged her, "Come on.
Let's see if there's anyone still around and get this test
over and done with."
Elisheva was sure that all the clinic staff was surely
halfway out of the hospital gates, but there was no harm in
trying. They both felt calmer now, knowing that they were in
the hands of Hashem. The driver promised to wait for them.
Inside the hospital they were greeted by a young technician
whom they had not seen before. "Mazel tov," she smiled
at the exhausted parents and at the sleeping little bundle in
Elisheva's arms. "I'm due to leave right now but this test
doesn't take long." She introduced herself, "My name is
Tirza. I just want to tell you before I do this test that it
is a routine check on newborns. However, sometimes there is
some water in the ear or the baby moves involuntarily so that
we cannot get fully accurate results. If you have no history
of deafness in the family and if the birth was normal, there
is really nothing for you to worry about."
"Everything is fine!" Tirza announced even before the test
was completed. She identified with the mother who was worried
out of her mind. And a few moments later, "That's it. Your
baby has excellent hearing."
Elisheva had never heard sweeter words in her life. As they
left, they thanked this pleasant, dedicated young woman for
her inimitable help.
"The main thing is that everything is alright. May all your
problems always be solved so simply," she said heartily.
As they left the room with Elisheva clutching her baby in
relief, they met the technician who had first noticed the
`problem.' The same person who had spoken with such
conviction without bothering to explain the difficulty of
accurately testing a newborn.
"Ah, yes. The tests seem to be in order," she said, glancing
at the forms.
Elisheva nodded, not trusting herself to speak. An unbidden
thought came to mind. They can do wonders nowadays to
improve impaired hearing. But what can they do for an
impaired heart, a heart which is deaf to the troubles and
feelings of others?
