He gave us one of the most beautiful brachos we’ve ever received, “May you have much bruchah, hatzluchah, and nachas”
I was quick to learn the social norms, nuances, and rules of the early-morning appointments at the infertility clinic. No talking. The waiting room may be full, but no one wants to be acknowledged or talked to at an unearthly hour, in a personal space.
Until one morning when someone broke the silence.
It was 5:30 a.m. in the surgery center at the clinic’s main location. Outside the building, the moon was shining brightly, the world was still and dark, and a thin layer of frost covered the ground. Inside, the building was eerily empty and silent; the perky receptionist hadn’t yet arrived.
So many hopes and dreams were pulsing through the very atmosphere. My husband and I entered the elevator. A moment later a young chassidisher man — a boy really, he couldn’t have been much older than 20 — walked into the elevator. I looked down, trying to give him some space and privacy. As a veteran to the world of infertility, I’d been there, done this before. This young man looked so vulnerable, so young — too young to be dealing with this.
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