Miracles
| April 1, 2020
I walked through the doors of the hospital’s main entrance and headed straight for intensive care. A friend of mine was caring for an ill relative, and I’d come to spend some time with her.
As I exited the elevator and entered that alternate universe known as the ICU, I noticed a flurry of activity around Rivka’s room. Medical personnel scurried in and out, and multiple members of what I deduced to be her family kept rushing into the ward.
I was aware of the basic details of the case. Rivka was a young woman who’d suddenly contracted a serious infection. Its progress was swift and brutal, and in a matter of days, here she was, fighting for life. Now, her condition had gone from bad to worse, and those closest to her had had been summoned to face the unthinkable.
I listened in horror as the doctor advised the family to say goodbye. I watched in shock as the nurses emerged from the room, grief evident on their faces. I observed the heartrending scene as they congregated in the hallway — parents, siblings, a husband, swaying frantically in prayer, desperately pleading for another lease on life.
And embarrassingly enough, I, who believes in Hashem, who talks to Hashem, who studies Living Emunah every single night, found myself thinking sadly, But what’s the point? Don’t they realize it’s all over?
I left the hospital shaken, shaking. I attempted to go about the motions of my daily routine, but I was haunted by the sight, by the thought, by the enormity of the tragedy. She’s so young. She’s my age! And she’s dying! A daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother. How could she be dying?!
The image of the family wouldn’t leave me, the notion of a way-too-young loved one leaving so many bereft. I dreaded every ping on my phone indicating a new message, lest it be the harbinger of bad news.
After two hours of unbearable suspense, I texted a friend who I know is friendly with Rivka. How’s Rivka?
Her response was instant. Very not good. But still holding on.
Still holding on. Against all odds.
A spark of hope ignited within me. Perhaps there was a point after all. Maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to be all over.
I sat down, opened my Tehillim, and bawled my eyes out for this woman I’d never met, but who’d touched me so deeply. Please, don’t let her die. For her parents, her husband, for her innocent little children who need their mother! Please, please, let her live!
Following a restless night, I texted for updates first thing in the morning. She survived the night, I was told. That’s no minor feat.
The spark of hope turned into a steadily burning flame. She might really make it through.
Over the next few days, I exhorted everyone I knew to daven for Rivka. Along with countless others, I continuously mentioned her name in tefillah, in zechusim big and small, in every asher yatzar. And slowly, unbelievably, positive updates started trickling in.
Baruch Hashem, she stabilized!
A couple of days later: Beginning to see improvement.
And then, one glorious morning: She was moved out of the ICU. Expected to recover completely.
When I heard that report, I found myself humming Shwekey’s “Maamin B’nissim,” and crying. In gratitude, in awe, in reassurance. With that exhilarating sense of freedom that comes with witnessing a miracle, of believing in them.
I’m eternally grateful that, of all days, it was on that terrifying one that I visited the hospital. Because the wrenching encounter stayed with me, and it shifted something inside me.
Throughout the ebb and flow of life, when I find myself pining for comfort, yearning for connection, groping for strength, I remember Rivka.
I envision doctors gravely shaking their heads, nurses surreptitiously wiping their tears, Klal Yisrael relentlessly storming the heavens. And a woman pulled back from the brink of death. I think of the One in control, His plan, His presence, His power. Our power, in the gift of tefillah.
And I believe in miracles.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 687)
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