Meir’s condition isn’t a secret — except to his family

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veryone has good days, bad days, and lots of in-between days, and they look different for each person. A good day for me is one in which I smile at my children and the cleaning lady shows up on time. What’s a bad day for me? You can imagine.

For my husband, Meir, a good day is when his temperature is an even 98.3 and he has the strength to go to shul and the office. A good day is when he can fit in a session with his trainer, because he needs to move his joints, and all of his meds are taken on time in the right order. What’s a bad day for Meir? I don’t like to think about it.

Today is an in-between day.

Meir gets up, pulls his sleeves down over the bruises on his arms, and goes to shul. Naftali and Dovid make the bus, but Chanala has a meltdown because her morah said she must have an empty egg carton for school today. Normal people problems.

I scan the crumpled, week-old note from her morah. I have two full cartons of eggs in the fridge and Chanala doesn’t understand why we can’t empty out the raw eggs because she’s desperate — she’s four.

“Let’s call the Goldbrenners,” I say. I’m confident that Mashie Goldbrenner will pick up her phone, and since she makes eggs for breakfast every single day, she likely has an empty carton. I know this because Mashie is my next–door neighbor and therefore my best friend by default.

Mashie answers my call on the second ring. “Yes, I have one. Send Chanala over.” Then we’re back to the morning rush.

I check in with Mashie later that afternoon. “Thanks for the egg carton, it was a lifesaver.”

“My pleasure. How was your day? I see your husband made it to work.”

“Yeah, baruch Hashem, it’s a good day. I have a ton of session notes to catch up on, though.”

“My husband’s yeshivah is making a siyum tomorrow, so we’re baking today,” Mashie says. “You can send Chanala over to help.”

It’s a generous offer. I don’t know how much help Chanala will actually be. But Mashie gives me a break when she can. Even though Meir is having a good day, I could still use some breathing room. Aside from my paperwork, I have to email BlueCross about a form for Meir’s Benlysta prescription that still wasn’t approved. “I’ll send Chanala soon. Thanks.”

When I moved onto the block, my frum realtor told me, “You’re going to love the neighbors! It’s a great chevreh!”

I got lucky with the Goldbrenners next door. Mashie and I aren’t the same type. She’s two years older than I am. I knew her younger sister in camp, and we had nothing to do with each other. But Mashie and I have become really close.

Living in a development, you get to know your neighbors differently. I know when the Goldbrenner kids are running late, and I send my Naftali to bang on their door so they don’t miss the bus. I know that Mashie’s cleaning lady does the linen every other Tuesday. And I’m sure Mashie knows plenty about me. She’s been there for me many, many times.

It’s not all rosy. Sometimes it’s hard, like when Mashie’s shalach manos was a professional-looking homemade babka in a boho-style aluminum pan with matching ribbon. I felt a pang at my wafer rolls tied to a mini bottle of schnapps. I said, “Oh, gosh, these look gorgeous. Where did you find those adorable pans?”

“My husband’s yeshivah had a tea for the mothers. The color scheme was this purple, so I went out to Michaels and found these pans, too.” Of course. Look how easy it is for her.