When our son's body shut down, could we hope for a cure, or say the final goodbye?
As told to Sandy Eller
IT was almost 30 years ago when I got the phone call that no one ever wants to get from their son’s yeshivah.
“Hello, Mr. Mintz*? Dovid hasn’t been feeling well and we’re more than a little concerned,” said the disembodied voice located some 3,000 miles away from my Los Angeles home. “It’s probably just a virus, but this has been going on for a while and it is probably best for him to be seen by his regular doctor.”
I hung up the phone feeling slightly dazed. Sending your 18-year-old son to yeshivah clear across the country isn’t without its challenges, and it’s hard knowing that your kid won’t have his parents there to dole out the Tylenol and the homemade chicken soup when he gets sick. In general, we’re pretty easygoing parents who try not to worry that every sneeze or sniffle is going to turn into something major. But this conversation left both my wife Malky and me on edge.
I booked Dovid a flight from JFK to LAX the next day, and Malky scheduled an appointment with our pediatrician. While we waited for Dovid to arrive, I kept replaying the conversation in my head, thoughts flying fast and furious. Did Dovid have a fever? Was he lethargic? Had he been eating properly? Going to sleep too late? There was a three-hour time difference between California and New York, and the yeshivah office was already closed. I had no choice but to wait till the next day. Still, falling asleep that night was a lost cause.
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