Emergency Surgery

It was just a stomachache. I was an 11-year-old boy, much too old and mature to complain about a “sore tummy.” Instead, I took a drink of water and tried to find a comfortable position. The pain wasn’t terrible, and I continued reading. Eventually my mother came downstairs, gave everyone their Erev Shabbos treat, and, as the sun moved lower in the sky, lit the Shabbos candles.

By the time she finished lighting and turned around to wish us good Shabbos, my stomach was really hurting. I guess Ima noticed, because she said, “Noach, what’s wrong?”

I winced and gingerly touched my stomach. “My stomach. It’s really bothering me.” It was really bothering me. The pain was getting worse.

My mother gave me a few different ideas to make me feel better, and I tried them, but nothing helped. It was hurting more and more. My aunt came by to say good Shabbos, and my older sister’s friend came too. I felt too unwell, and much too sore, to go to shul with my father. I kept trying to read, but the pain was getting worse. I couldn’t focus on my book. As the pain increased, I tried to find a position that would hurt less, curling up my feet toward my chest. My mother gave me some painkillers, but I couldn’t get comfortable. My aunt also offered some suggestions to ease the pain, but they didn’t work. I found myself on the floor, clutching my stomach. Soon it was hurting so badly that I was screaming in pain and writhing on the floor.