For the first time, a little voice whispered in my consciousness, Chezky has to have somewhere else to live

“HI,

Tzippi? It’s Rochel Goldberg, the shadchan. I was wondering why you didn’t get back to me yet. It looks like I’m getting a yes from Yehuda Aron’s mother, but she said she doesn’t think you’ve made any phone calls yet? Are you not interested?”

It’s incredible how the world can function on parallel planes of existence. On one level, there was life out there, people redting shidduchim and expecting to be called back. That plane was barely visible in my life; I was careening on much shakier ground, trying to keep my balance while navigating my inner world of wackiness.

With our psychiatrist Becky’s support, we’d decided to try to wean Chezky off his meds by ourselves. At home. With us. Petrifying. The thought of rocking this already shaky plane of our life was sending me into waves of panic. But the doctors kept mentioning that the psychosis may have been caused by contraindication of his medications, and since Covid seemed to be here to stay, there wasn’t a single hospital that was willing to admit him through this process. Unless we found the right dosage for him, Chezky could swing from being Hashem to being the Malach HaMaves, and I didn’t know which one was scarier.

I heard Rochel Goldberg still talking, her voice sounding tinny and echoing in my exhausted brain.

“Yes, we’re very interested in Yehuda!” I said, hoping there was enthusiasm in my voice. Was his name Yehuda? I think his name was Yehuda. “I’m sorry we haven’t followed up as fast as we’d like. You know… with Corona and all....” I let my voice trail off. Corona was the excuse for everything these days. Why couldn’t I jump on the bandwagon too?

I assured the shadchan we’d be in touch within the next few days and hung up, feeling dizzy with overwhelm.

How was I supposed to do this? How on earth was I supposed to navigate shidduchim for my firstborn, who deserved my attention and the opportunity for her own future?