"Everyone is staring at me," my daughter wailed.
While it is hard to give comfort over the phone when you are
5,000 miles away, I did my best to sound like "Mother Knows
Best." On her own for the first time, our daughter seemed to
be adapting well to the seminary experience. She had made
friends with her roommates, was experiencing the thrills of
walking in Yerushalayim each day, and even found some of her
classes to be mildy interesting. (A great comfort to her
parents who were spending so much money for the
experience.)
One week into this idyllic life (what can be bad when your
parents are sending you money?), the school took their first
trip. A laughing Huvi called to tell me she had fallen down a
rocky hillside while climbing, and klutz-ily, probably
sprained her ankle. Joining in her laughter (after all, she
inherited the 'klutz gene' from me), I reminded her to ice
the ankle and take a painkiller when she returned to the
dorm.
The laughter turned to tears when she called a few hours
later from the emergency room to tell me the ankle was
actually broken, that she was in a cast up to her knee, and
that she could put no weight on it for six weeks. Surprised
at the severity of the injury, I tried to calm her worries,
and called friends and family in Israel to try and be
available to comfort her, and help her out.
Her roommates helped with her laundry, and carrying her books
to class. Friends invited her for yomim tovim, and
helped her to get a wheelchair, and now in the midst of
Succos, she was calling me to cry about how much she hated
being a public spectacle.
I certainly could not deny the physical discomfort she was
going through, nor did a pat answer like, "Don't worry it is
just a few more weeks," seem like the right thing to say
under the circumstances, when suddenly a flash of inspiration
hit me.
"Huvi," I said, "look what Hashem has done for you. You
wanted to work with handicapped and sick children, and now
you have been given an opportunity to really feel what they
go through. You feel like everyone stares at you in your
wheelchair; you hate having to impose your needs on your
friends to help you get up and down the stairs and accomplish
the everyday tasks you took for granted. You have pain in
your arms and hands from supporting yourself on crutches. But
all this will go away, while the memories of these feelings
will never go away, and will be there for you to call on when
you work with these kids.
"Now you know the nisyonos that they have to go
through each day. This is your temporary nisoyon. This
is really a positive experience if you just try and see it
that way."
If this were a soap opera, that would be the end of the
episode. A tearful "Kitten" would smile at her father,
recognizing these great words of wisdom. Real life isn't
always like a fictional program. Huvi did not seem terribly
reconciled by my words.
I tried again, this time using humor. "Put a cup on your lap
and call out 'tzedokoh' — I bet you will
actually collect some money for charity if everyone is really
staring at you as you say." This at least elicited some
laughter.
For the next few weeks, our phone bills continued to climb as
Huvi called to cry, and sometimes to laugh at her various
experiences as a temporarily handicapped person. Finally the
day arrived — the x-rays were read, and the cast came
off. Returning to walk did not come easily, and she still
needed crutches and physical therapy to regain her
mobility.
Some day, Huvi will work with handicapped children. In spite
of what she may think now, I know she will look back at this
experience as one that helped to increase her natural
empathy, and that she passed her 'test' with flying
colors.
