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.

Dovid’s flight took off from JFK at 9:30 in the morning, New York time, and I made sure to be at LAX at lunchtime to pick him up. As passengers streamed out of baggage claim, I watched nervously for Dovid. But ten minutes passed, and then 15, with no sign of my son, and I was almost ready to find a pay phone and call the yeshivah to find out if Dovid had made his flight (this was before everyone had cell phones) when I heard a weak voice calling out, “Hi, Ta.”

I spun around looking for Dovid’s lanky frame and was literally blindsided at the sight of my son sitting in a wheelchair, pale as a ghost. My words failed me.

“Dovid, what happened?” I finally asked in astonishment, reaching out to give him a hug. “Why are you in a wheelchair?”

“Your son collapsed at the gate when he was getting off the plane,” explained the wheelchair attendant, whose American Airlines nametag identified him as Timothy.

My head started spinning, and for just a second, I thought I might need Dovid to get up so I could sit down in that wheelchair. This was my Dovid? The kid who stayed up till midnight playing basketball when he was home from yeshivah? He was a shadow of himself and one look at his face left me terrified.