Barging into the local ER, my sheitel plastered to my face, I took a deep breath. “Tzipporah Leibenson,” I nearly bypassed the receptionist. “My son Yechezkel is here?”

“Yes, his principal is in there with him.”

Not a good sign. Where was his rebbi?

“I need you to fill out these forms.” The receptionist came forward, blocking me from moving past her. “Then you can go right along.”

Picking up the pen, I willed my hands to stop shaking and fill out the familiar questions. Yes, Chezky takes meds. Yes, a lot of them. No, he has no allergic reaction to them. Yes, I’m his primary caretaker (for better or for worse). The form went on and on, and then I was free. Sprinting down the hall, I heard Chezky before I saw him.

Ducking past the curtain in the triage corner, I saw him struggling with the nurse. “No! No!” There was blood all over his head. Dripping down his cheeks. “No!” he shrieked. “Don’t touch me!”

I flew into the cubicle, elbowing past the nurse to reach him. “Chezky, Chezky, I’m here. Mommy’s here!” He grabbed on to me, his body heaving, rocking, and shaking. I put my arms around his bony shoulders, ignoring the blood that would stain a work outfit. I squeezed his body tight in a bear hug and said softly in his ear, “Chezky, Mommy’s here, and the doctors and nurses are going to make you better. Let’s calm down to help them.”

The nurse gestured to a syringe she held in her hand. “The doctor ordered a tranquilizer… to calm him.” She sounded like she was unconvinced it would work. “Can you help me give it to him?” Nodding, I continued my crooning soft voice as I felt Chezky marginally begin to relax against me. “This is  going to hurt for one second, Chezky, but then you’re going to feel a lot better, and we’re going to let the doctor fix you up.”

“Okay.” He let out a deep breath. And then he continued in his normal tone, “But it better not be a tetanus shot. Tell them I don’t need a tetanus shot, I know I had my booster. It can be dangerous to give an extra tetanus if you don’t need it.”

I almost laughed; here was this gangly preteen, acting like a two-year-old in the midst of a tantrum, and looking like he’d just escaped the battlefield. Yet he knew the details of his last tetanus shot, and was worried about the risks of overdosing. Life with Chezky was never boring.

I’m pretty squeamish when it comes to stitches. I handle broken bones better. But I sat on the examining table, my hands tight over Chezky’s, trying to stare comfortingly into his eyes, while averting my gaze from the suturing needle hovering above his right temple. Waves of nausea and dizziness kept flooding me, but my voice stayed soft and soothing throughout. “Okay, Chezky, we’re almost done. It’s almost finished.”

Finally the doctor motioned to the nurse to finish closing the bandage, and I slipped off the table. Chezky was lying calmly, the sedation having done its job, and for the first time I noticed my surroundings, and the principal standing in the corner of the room.

Wearily — oh I was so exhausted — I walked over and nodded. “Good morning. Can you tell me what happened?”

He nodded somberly, stroking his long beard. “I’m so sorry. So sorry it came to this. But there was an incident in school (there always is) and Rafi was fighting with Chezky (he usually does) and then Chezky just snapped (nothing new there either). So Chezky picked up a desk and threw it out the window.”

“Wait.” I held up a finger. My hands were shaking again. “A desk? Out the window?”

“Well, the window wasn’t closed.” He tried to pull off a slight laugh. “Chasdei Hashem. And he didn’t throw it at Rafi. (Right. Points for Chezky for self-control.) So his rebbi tried to get between Chezky and Rafi to calm them both down, but then Chezky lunged toward Rafi, and, well, he and the rebbi went down, and Chezky took down a few desks with him as he fell, leading to—” He gestured around the ER cubicle, apparently at a loss for words.

“Where is the rebbi? Is he okay?” Was my voice also shaking?

“Umm… he’s in the other cubicle.” The principal motioned vaguely with his hand. “He’ll only need a few stitches, but he feels terrible that it came to this.”

Chezky gave his rebbi a few stitches. I don’t think I spoke out loud, but in my mind, my crisis thermometer went spiking. New twist to standard meltdown. It wasn’t like these types of situations were unusual in this class. With eight preteen boys, all with various diagnoses ranging from ADHD, ASD, ODD, and OCD, we secretly dubbed the class the alphabet soup. But Chezky wasn’t the most physical of the bunch, and he’d never hurt anyone like this before.

“I’m so sorry, Rabbi Berger. Really sorry. And if you can tell Rabbi Stein as well. That we’re so sorry,” I felt myself begin to babble, “and a huge refuah sheleimah.”

Just then Rabbi Stein appeared at the curtain. He looked a lot better than Chezky but there was a prominent white bandage on his cheek. The sight of that bandage had my knees almost buckling. Was I going to get sued here? Would they kick Chezky out of school?

But Rabbi Stein’s face held only concern. “I apologize that this got so out of control,” he said softly. “Really, I wish it hadn’t ended like this.”

These people were tzaddikim. Could they stop apologizing to me and say, Hey, lady, your kid just really hurt me… my staff… could’ve beaned another kid if there’d been anyone below that window? But no, with solemn voices and many more apologies, they wished Chezky a refuah sheleimah and said they’d call tomorrow.

I sank into a chair, waiting for the nurse to finish up. Finally we were discharged. Chezky was shaky as he stood. He looked like a war veteran, his shirt covered with blood, a huge white bandage wrapped completely around his whole head to keep pressure on the temple wound. He’d gotten 36 stitches across his temple, eyebrow, and forehead. And it was three weeks until his bar mitzvah.

As I supported Chezky out of the ER, I couldn’t help thinking, How on earth had the last few years spiraled so out of control?

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 838)