Installment IV
Synopsis: Eight-year-old Yitzchok Shneur from Tzfas has
been found to have a huge tumor behind his eye. He is sent to
Schneider's Children Hospital in Petach Tikva for
surgery.
My husband and I decide that I'll take Yitzchok for
admittance on Sunday, while he takes the first bus down on
Monday morning. We don't know what time the operation is
scheduled for. The other children need some parenting, so we
feel it will be good for them if my husband is there to put
them to bed and get them off in the morning.
My friend Ilana, who lives near Petach Tikva, calls, "I'm
coming to the hospital to be with you during the
operation."
"I don't want to trouble you, Ilana. I'll be okay. It's three
days before Rosh Hashono!"
"Don't be ridiculous! Let me know what time the operation is
scheduled for and I'll be there. There's nothing more
important right now than you."
I pause. Are there words to respond to unconditional love and
kindness?
"Thank you," I say.
*
Sunday night, I wake up every hour on the hour, on my cot
next to Yitzchok's hospital bed. It takes all my mental
powers not to let the "what ifs" engulf me. It's so
incredibly hard.
6:00 a.m. Through a haze of partial sleep, I hear a nurse
say, "Room 512. Yitzchok Goldberg. Operation."
There's no point in even trying to sleep. My body aches. I
feel a pull-you-down back onto the bed weightiness. But there
really is no point. With both hands, I push myself up, force
myself up, wash my hands, dress and daven.
I don't eat anything. I can't. My stomach is in knots.
Painful pulled-too-tight knots.
"No!" I tell the fears. "You stay away from my mind, my
heart. I'm not letting you in!" So often, I've been
frightened and then Hashem makes everything work out so well
and then I feel ashamed at my lack of faith. How often have I
rebuked myself saying, "Rifca! Hashem's taking better care of
you than you could ever dream of and you doubt
Him?"
Yet the fears are so real, like lurking creatures trying to
capture my soul. They smirk. They encircle me, close in on
me. I'm being choked.
"Let go!" I scream silently. The fears retreat in
astonishment. "Leave me," I whisper. "Hashem is more powerful
than any doctor or any tumor. He's the One in charge."
*
Ilana comes. She went through a similar operation a few years
back. It's nice to have someone with me, especially someone
who knows about hospital procedures. A technician comes in
and gives Yitzchok some pink fluid to drink, to calm him. The
technician raises the side of the hospital bed.
"Lie down, Yitzchak," he says.
"Yitzchok Shneur!" his childlike voice insists, still
sitting.
The technician gently pushes him into a lying position.
"Yitzchak Shneur!"
We're wheeled into the elevator. I'm holding Yitzchok's hand
tightly. Are they really taking my little boy to have his
head opened up? Will they have to cut into the bone structure
of his face? What will they find? How long will the operation
take? What if he doesn't wake up from the anesthesia? The
what-ifs are finally overcoming me. I am shaking.
We're now in the antechamber of the operating room. "You're
the mother?" the anesthesiologist asks.
"Yes."
"And you're Yitzchak?" the anesthesiologist asks, looking
down at the patient with a pleasant smile.
"Yitzchok Shneur." Yitzchok's voice is slurred.
"Come in with us, Mother, please."
Yitzchok is extremely groggy. They no longer have to push him
into a lying position. I hold his hand as they wheel him into
the operating theater. It has the smallest operating table
I've ever seen. Instruments are hanging, standing, all sizes,
all lengths, everywhere. This place makes me nervous.
The anesthesiologist puts a clear mask over Yitzchok's mouth
and nose. "This will take about five minutes." I'm still
holding Yitzchok's hand. He seems completely asleep. "Can I
go?"
"Not yet." He looks at the clock on the wall. "Three more
minutes."
The room seems alive with `things.' I have no idea what these
`things' are. No desire to know.
"You can go now, Mother."
Ilana is in the waiting area. I pick up my Tehillim and start
saying each word with kavono. "Perhaps this word is
what will keep my son alive," I think to myself. "Maybe this
verse is what will save my child's life..." My stomach hurts
so much.
I can't concentrate on the words any longer. I begin talking
to Ilana, rambling. Ilana listens and listens. I talk about
everything and anything, everything other than Yitzchok,
in there. Ilana is my anchor right now. She knows that
I need to talk. Ilana is my reality. Any reality is better,
more able to be withstood, than the real reality. Ilana is
with me. Now. Here.
And then my name is called.
[to be continued — to a happy end]
