Hugely Tiny Blessings

Beit Egged. Even the name of the building makes me cringe. It’s ironic that although it’s named for Israel’s bus company, I’ve never seen anyone coming to fill a Rav Kav or to sort out transportation issues. We have another destination: eighth floor, Meuhedet’s gynecology department. This is the place I don’t want to be. Looking at some other women waiting in the hallways, I can tell I’m not alone in that sentiment. They also seem stressed.

The most benign reason you’re sent here is for a detailed ultrasound. Sifrei Tehillim are in almost every pair of hands, as we wait, and wait, and wonder: Is everything okay? Will I make it through, will we make it through, healthy heart, healthy limbs, healthy baby?

I examine the faces of the women around me, abstractedly guessing what brought them here. If only I could also be here for a postdate appointment — ultrasound, monitor, home-free. You can tell who’s here for that. They unceremoniously drop themselves onto any available chair and take out crackers or chocolate. They don’t seem anxious, just annoyed at the wait.

Then there are the women who aren’t even showing yet. Bad news. They don’t meet anyone’s gaze and seem to be so vulnerable, waiting for their number to be called. I wish I had something comforting to say, but don’t have the words… and anyway, most of them brought their husbands along. More bad news.