I feel like the veil that usually muffles my tefillos has been thrown back, and it’s just me standing before Hashem

I

just want to curl up in a ball and never leave my bed, ever. I don’t want to talk to Atara and I don’t want to talk to Ma and Daddy and I definitely don’t want to speak to peppy Goldie. I want to lie on this bed until I grow old and withered and everyone can whisper about how I used to be so talented and it’s such a shame.

I snort out loud, because it is a lot more than a shame. It’s… abominable.

“Abominable,” I say aloud. It fills the empty room, echoes around it loosely.

I nod in satisfaction. Abominable is a good start to describing what I think about my diagnosis.

There’s a knock at the door. I try to ask who it is, I really do, but all that comes out of my throat is a strangled half word, so it sounded more like “whoatrat.”

Naftoli pokes his head in the room. “Whoatrat to you, too,” he says cheerfully, plopping himself down at my desk.

I just stare at him.

He pushes his yarmulke forward until it’s practically covering his eyes.

“We’re doing great, aren’t we?” He sighs.

I sigh too. We sit there together in silence until Naftoli has to leave to Minchah. Then I sit alone.

***

The day of the tests I wake up extra early so I can daven Shacharis. And I don’t just daven. I beg. I plead. I spill out my heart, tears streaming down my face. I know I should put more focus on my relationship with Hashem, that I shouldn’t connect just because things are hard. But it’s difficult for me to always feel close and I don’t try as hard as I should. Not now, though. Now I feel like a helpless baby cradled in her Father’s Arms. I feel like the veil that usually muffles my tefillos has been thrown back, and it’s just me standing before Hashem. And so I daven.

Ribbono shel Olam. Please. Please, I beg of You, let the tests come back positive. Flesh-and-blood doctors are nothing if You don’t give them the koach they need to heal me. Please let the outcome be good. Please allow me to dance again.

I’m not great with words — movement has always been more of my thing — so I just repeat the same thing over and over again before taking three steps back. And strangely, once I do, I feel a sense of loss. As if something real and tangible has just ended.

Ma sticks her head into the living room and raises her eyebrows at the sight of me, siddur in hand, face wet with emotion.

But, “Breakfast is on the table, sweetie,” is all she says. Which I appreciate.

I pick at a yogurt until Ma says it’s time to go. I know I’ll be starving later, but I can’t stomach anything right now. It’ll just come back up.