It’s every mother’s nightmare — the call that goes, “I’m in the hospital. Don’t worry. I’m fine!”
But Yonatan wasn’t fine. He’d woken up, just after the beginning of Elul Zeman, feeling unwell and realized he couldn’t move his legs. Escorted to the hospital, he was now awaiting the results of tests.
It was surreal. Two weeks before, he’d teased us by climbing up a huge cliff and dancing along the edge. Now, this strong, six-foot bochur was lying paralyzed on a hospital gurney.
We planned to come from England to Israel to bring him home, but he rejected our plan. “I’m staying here, in yeshivah! They say I’ll get better.” But time passed, and every time we visited, we saw our son reduced to a thin, very unwell, wheelchair-bound invalid. There was no diagnosis. It was heartbreaking.
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