The doctor said my baby was fine — but I knew something was very wrong

As told to Musia Slavin 

Wednesday, Yom Kippur, 5779 (2018)

I stood in the living room of my Upstate New York apartment, my children scattered around the room in varying states of mess and fun. I side-stepped the blocks and reached for my siddur on the shelf.

Three steps back. I tried my best to tune out the noise around me as I davened for the year to come. I thought about my six children, the pride and joy of my life, and the one resting within me, yet to join us in This World. Hashem, please bentsh us all with koach, with parnassah, with gezunt. Three steps forward.

And the world around me came back into view.

Thursday, Yud-Alef Tishrei

“It’s a boy,” the doctor announced above the shrill sound of my baby’s cry. A healthy seven pounds, eleven ounces. Alert, adorable.

Thank you, Hashem, for this wonderful gift.

Thursday, Tes Cheshvan

I peeked into the cradle, where our four-week-old bundle of cuteness was whimpering. Before I started feeding Mayer, I grabbed a tissue from the box near the crib and wiped his nose. It had been drippy for the past few days.

“Do you not want to eat?” I asked a few minutes later. He was supposed to be hungry — and his kvetching proved that — but my little one was refusing to nurse.

Should I be worried? I wondered.

Friday, Yud Cheshvan

My head hurt. For three days straight, Mayer barely stopped crying. His cold had progressed. Every time he coughed, his little body shook. I couldn’t get him to nurse, and I was starting to get nervous. I stopped by the pediatrician’s office for a quick check-up. “It’s just a virus,” the doctor told me.

“But he’s not eating!” I said.

“When you’re not feeling well, are you in the mood of food?” she asked.

She had a point. Mayer was just under the weather. Soon the cold would dissipate and his appetite would return. Then our lives would go back to normal.

Friday, Yud-Zayin Cheshvan, 4 p.m. 

Although I’d been to the doctor twice that week, my heart was telling me we needed another visit. Her office was already closed for Shabbos, so I called the pediatrician on her personal line. “I don’t know what’s going on,” I explained. “This whole week, Mayer’s been going back and forth — he wants to eat, then he doesn’t. He’s happy, then he’s not. Today, he isn’t nursing, and I’m feeding him with a dropper. I know you keep saying that it’s a virus, but I think something is off.”

Trusting that a mother always knows best, the pediatrician recommended we take action. “Find a doctor’s office and have the doctor send you to the hospital so that you get admitted quickly,” she advised.

Hadlakas neiros was an hour and a half away. If we were going to have a crazy Shabbos, at least we could welcome it in the typical way. My husband and I decided I’d finish Shabbos preparations and light candles, then we’d walk over to the doctor’s office.

When I stood in front of the candles, I could hardly make out the flames. My eyes were brimming over with tears as I davened. “Yehi ratzon… Hashem, please be kind to me and those who are close to me. Grant us all a good and long life. Remember us l’tovah…” After licht tzinden, my sister came by to check up on us.

“We’re going to the doctor any minute now,” I told her.

“Why? Mayer looks perfectly fine right now.”

“No, something is wrong.”

“No, everything is fine,” she countered.

“I hope you’re right,” I said, “but I don’t think you are.” Di hartz fun a mameh veist, a mother’s heart knows when something is wrong.