I know Chazal say that all of the world’s pekelach are lined up on a shelf. Like a shopper at Evergreen, your neshamah drives a cart down the aisle and picks the pekel best suited for your tafkid in This World. I know each specific tzaar is designed for each person to reach their shleimus.

I know that this is exactly where I’m meant to be, that this is my avodah. And yet.

What was my neshamah thinking? Of all possible options, it chose this. It chose a young, vibrant, wonderful husband to develop systemic lupus erythematosus. It chose to have my spouse suffer from an unpredictable disease, from joint pain and exhaustion and a compromised immune system.

Some days, I tell myself that it could’ve been worse. You could be the one with lupus, Deenie. You could be in the ICU with a virus that attacks your lungs. You could be the one who has unexpected flare-ups that leave you bedridden for a week.

At least it’s not you.

It sounds selfish and terrible, and I rarely let myself go there. If I allowed my unfiltered brain to speak… oh, the things it would say.

Instead, I train myself to count my blessings. To thank Hashem for good days when we can take the kids on a Chol Hamoed trip. To thank Hashem that even when it’s a bad day, Meir is calm and accepting. His lupus is a huge challenge, but it hasn’t soured our relationship, thank You, Hashem.

Lupus does get in the way of other things. Meir’s condition is private, but not a secret. My neighbors know — they’ve seen Hatzalah at our house twice this year. Once when Meir was bleeding heavily after a fall, and once early on when his fever spiked and I panicked.

In September, I informed the kids’ teachers of Meir’s condition. We told my parents. We told our rav. Our rheumatologist, Dr. Franklin, is helpful and considerate. We’re members of Yad L’Ozer, the frum organization for autoimmune disease patients and their families. Meir joins support groups on Zoom, and I’m on a texting chat for patients’ wives.

The people we didn’t tell about Meir’s condition: his parents. His brothers. It’s how the Berman family operates.

I remember being a kallah, newly married to the youngest Berman boy. On Yom Tov at my in-laws, my oldest sister-in-law, Faigy, was talking about the Bermans’ old neighbor in Boro Park, who had been diagnosed with yeneh machlah. The minute Meir’s mother came into the room, Faigy zipped her lips, and my other sisters-in-law shifted to a discussion about açai bowls.

I had no idea what was going on. Did Meir’s mother not like talking about yeneh machlah? Talking about the neighbors? Talking about anyone in general?

Over the years, I’ve seen this scene play out again and again. Meir, his brothers, and their wives are in cahoots to protect their mother from bad news, especially if someone is sick. My mother-in-law is allergic to any upsetting medical information, and the Bermans go to great lengths to shield her from it.

When my sister-in-law suffered a pregnancy loss, Meir’s father discreetly funded a small vacation for the couple, but it was never discussed with Mommy. When Meir’s brother Yoni got into an accident, he skipped the family Succos party so Mommy wouldn’t see the bruises on his face.

Two years ago, when Meir was officially diagnosed, I thought we had to tell them about it. We would explain it gently. We would tell them that the autoimmune disorder is chronic, but not fatal. We would explain that the butterfly rash on Meir’s face is not acne or blushing, but a symptom of the disease. We would put them in touch with Yad L’Ozer. We would give them copies of the article, “The Spoon Theory.” We would help them understand, and we would all support each other.

I was overruled, of course. You can’t change decades of behavior patterns so easily. Since it was Meir’s disease, it was his call. “Fine,” I said. “We won’t officially tell any Bermans. But do you really think they won’t find out on their own?”

They didn’t. Turns out that it’s not that hard to hide a major disease in a family like the Bermans. My in-laws still live in Boro Park. My sisters-in-law are spread across Lakewood, and face-to-face encounters are rare. It’s easy to pretend everything is hunky-dory on our group chat.

Sometimes, when I’m schmoozing recipes with Faigy or texting a response to a nephew’s witticism, I feel removed from my own body. Like part of me is hovering at the ceiling, watching this cute, perky woman in her colorful tichel post a series of emojis. Who is this person? How can she possibly juggle these two different realities?

Sometimes I wonder if I’m going to become that woman in a magazine feature, talking about emerging a tzadeikes from such a difficult challenge. Will I get a shiur, a podcast, and a best-selling book about what a caring, devoted wife I am?

Do I sound cynical? Sometimes I am.

Shortly after the freezer opens on Tu B’Shevat, there’s a flurry of phone calls and texts, and then it’s confirmed. Faigy’s oldest son is a chassan! To a most wonderful girl from… Los Angeles. My heart sinks. I can feel it thunk to the bottom of my chest cavity. It’s still beating, but it’s lodged in deep and hurts with every breath. Because there’s no way Meir can fly to Los Angeles for a chasunah.

Once again, it’s Meir’s decision. He knows he’s not well enough to travel. He offers to watch the kids so that I can go, but that’s not happening. Since it’s his family and his choice, he’s the one who has to let all the Bermans know that we won’t be attending the upcoming simchah.

Meir makes separate calls — first to his brother and Faigy, the chassan’s parents. Then his parents. I don’t know what he says to them. I know it’s not the whole truth, because he never says, “I have lupus.” He says some version of a story cleared by the rav as the balance between the truth and his kibbud av v’eim. I can’t listen to it.

Plus, I’m too busy to worry. My coworker at the agency goes on maternity leave, and I take over her client roster for extra cash. Sometimes, I’m so exhausted, it means pizza for supper. Meir grumbles, “Why are you working so hard if we’re just going to buy takeout?” It takes all my willpower not to snap back at him.

There’s spring clothing shopping, and I turn my kitchen over for Pesach. Meir is doing intense code review for a major client, pushing himself to make it to the office. He’s good enough that his boss accommodates when he can’t work. But on the days that he can, he sometimes pushes himself too hard. There’s no way he can help me with schlepping and kashering. I’m on my own.

The Goldbrenner kids make a pre-Pesach camp, which is a huge help. Rabbi Goldbrenner’s yeshivah is closed for bein hazmanim, but Mashie tells me he’s busy as ever on the phone with his bochurim. She’s happy for both our kids to be entertained. I’m preoccupied with my family, too busy to worry about what the Bermans are thinking. Most of the time.

I am sure there’s another Berman family chat, with all the sisters-in-law except me, where they avidly speculate why Meir and Deenie are skipping the chasunah. They probably conclude that a) I’m expecting so we can’t travel, or b) I’m a baby and too scared to fly, or c) I don’t care about my in-laws, and poor Meir has to put up with such a terrible wife.

I press “ignore” on this picture in my brain, but it pops up again and again.

After Pesach is dinner season, and I go to the Yeshivah Ketanah dinner because Meir isn’t up to it and somebody has to.

I’m kvetching about going, but I really don’t mind a night out socializing. I see Mashie and two other neighbors at a table across the room. Mashie pats the seat next to her and I slip into it gratefully. “Thanks. So nice to see you.”

“My husband’s yeshivah has mishmar on Thursdays, so I wasn’t going to come. But the kids need their prize,” Mashie says.

I reach for the seltzer. Maybe I’m exhausted from making Pesach, from pretending I don’t care what Meir’s family thinks. Maybe I’m a tiny bit irritated at Mashie’s endless chatter about her husband.

I know Rabbi Daniel Goldbrenner is a choshuve person, and his yeshivah is doing wonderful work. But it can be annoying when every conversation includes the phrase, “My husband’s yeshivah.” Or, “My husband’s bochurim.” She doesn’t mean to sound self-righteous. It just happens naturally.

I change the subject to a safer topic: sheva brachos menus. Who doesn’t love talking about food?

“I’m looking for ideas. My nephew is getting married right after Shavuos, and I’m in charge of dessert for our side’s sheva brachos,” I tell Mashie.

“You’re such a good sport.” Mashie gives me a sympathetic smile. She knows all about my difficulties with the Berman family dynamic.

I know that attitudes toward illness vary from family to family. Meir made it clear from the start that he didn’t want to be defined by his disease. He didn’t want to be treated as an invalid.

While we were dating, Meir once told me about his mesivta roommate, Gershy, who was diagnosed with leukemia. He talked about hospital visits and arranging phone chavrusas to keep Gershy caught up with the sugya.

“Gershy’s fine now,” Meir had told me. “I just saw him at a wedding last week. You would never know. Still, every time I see him — every time anyone sees him — the first thing they think of is leukemia. It’s like they’ve forgotten that he’s the guy who once fell into a garbage dumpster while rescuing some leftover Chanukah doughnuts. He used to be Garbage Gershy. Now he’s Leukemia Gershy.”

I had listened intently, drawn to the depth of Meir’s emotion and his genuine care for his friend. And I had agreed with him.

Now, 11 years later, Mashie is unwittingly doing the same thing to me.

I’m not in the mood to be a nebach case right now. Honestly, I just need a good recipe. “Any ideas for something for those little plastic tumblers? Like a mousse that I can do in advance and freeze?”

Mashie gives me a recipe for strawberry mousse cups that looks delicious. But when I mention it to Meir, he asks, “Can you do chocolate tiramisu cups, like the ones my mother makes?”

Right. My mother-in-law’s signature dessert is a four-layer chocolate tiramisu. All of the Bermans love it. “Won’t that be a little weird? Tiramisu is, like, your mother’s thing.”

“She’ll love it. Especially if you call her for the recipe.”

Meir isn’t wrong. His mother is thrilled when I call. She’s delighted to explain the ratio of ladyfingers to whipped cream, and she advises me how to pipe it into the tumblers to keep the layers neat. I thank her for the ideas and wish her a hearty mazel tov on the simchah without breaking down. Three cheers for me.

IF we’re looking for vindication for our decision not to fly to Los Angeles, we get it one night in the week before the chasunah, when Meir has a major flare-up. I turn the house upside down to find the tube of Medrol. We dropped the regular prednisone because of his liver, but the Medrol gel takes time to work.

I’m bleary-eyed and exhausted the next morning. It takes all my willpower not to snap at the kids, who seem to be preparing for school in slow motion. Meir is still in bed when I leave for work. He’s suffering, I remind myself. These nights happen every once in a while. Yad L’Ozer tells me it comes with the territory. I can’t blame Meir, of course. I can only take a 16-ounce cup of coffee into my first session and pray that my client cooperates.

Meir calls during my lunch break. “I’m ready to go into the office, but the van isn’t starting,” he says. “Something’s up with the transmission. Will you be home by three so I can make it to my three-thirty meeting?”

Now, if this were a mystery novel, I would plant some clues. I would use foreshadowing. I wouldn’t just dump new information — it’s clumsy storytelling and leaves you confused and upset. But that’s exactly how it happened to me. No hints, no revealing remarks, no clues. Mashie doesn’t say, “My husband hasn’t been feeling well.” The kids don’t say, “Our Tatty also takes a lot of pills.” I don’t notice any skin irritation or a brochure for Yad L’Ozer sticking out of their mailbox.

I find out the next afternoon. My van is at the mechanic, Meir’s car is at work, and I need to refill Meir’s meds, but it’s too late for the pharmacy to deliver. Mashie graciously lends me her minivan. After I pick up three prescriptions, I park in the driveway between our houses. As I pull into the Bluetooth range of Mashie’s cell phone, since I’m in her car, her call jumps automatically to Bluetooth mode. I can hear Mashie’s voice from the Sienna’s speakers. “So you think it’s okay for Daniel to up his Cytoxan dosage? Should we wait for results from the second biopsy?”

The voice that answers is warm and professional, comforting and confident, and oh-so-familiar.

“Mrs. Goldbrenner,” says Dr. Franklin, our rheumatologist, “I ordered the second test out of an abundance of caution, but the lab results are very clear. Daniel has elevated C-reactive protein and increased white blood cell count. This type of large vessel vasculitis calls for stronger measures.”

I’m too shocked to hit the Bluetooth button to end the call. I’m too shocked to do anything at all.

Lab tests and biopsies, prescriptions and blood-cell counts…. Before Meir’s diagnosis, Dr. Franklin spent six months testing him to rule out other autoimmune disorders. We ruled out chronic fatigue syndrome and dermatomyositis and all kinds of vasculitis.

And Rabbi Goldbrenner has large vessel vasculitis, with all its inflammation and aortic difficulties? How is this possible?

In a daze, I slip the keys under the mat at Mashie’s front door. I take the pharmacy bag into my own house. I oil the frying pan and turn on the flame. I peel, slice, and dice an onion, working on autopilot. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. The poor Goldbrenners. So much suffering, so much pain. The tang of the onion stings and I’m all-out sobbing now.

Then I wash my face and blow my nose and greet my kids with a fake smile when they walk in. “Hi, Naftali, how was yeshivah?”

“Shmully Goldbrenner let me play with his Game Boy on the bus.” This is second-grade hock.

A Game Boy? The Goldbrenners never let their kids have electronic devices. Mashie must be really desperate to give a Game Boy to Shmully. I can imagine the tremendous strain she must be under.

“Is the Game Boy new?”

Naftali confirms my suspicion. “He got it yesterday. No one was allowed to touch it. ’Cept for me.”

I serve Naftali a piece of schnitzel. “It’s nice that Shmully shared his brand-new toy with you.”

Naftali shrugs. “It’s the Goldbrenners.” It’s understood we’re the first ones to share anything, at least in his world.

In my world, I’m not so sure. By the time I finish supper, homework, baths, and bedtime, the sorrow behind my eyelids has transformed into a different shape.

Why would Mashie keep her husband’s condition a secret from me? There is a deep pressing in my temples, a throbbing sense of discomfort.

I tell Meir immediately, of course.

“Rabbi Goldbrenner has vasculitis. Large vessel.” I spill out the whole story. How I borrowed Mashie’s car, how I overheard the conversation with Dr. Franklin.

Meir listens quietly, chewing.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I ask.

“What do you want me to say? I feel really sorry for them. It’s very hard.”

“And?”

“And what?” Meir’s voice is reasonable.

“And we had no idea. This whole time, they were hiding it from us!”

“What whole time?” Meir says. “How long has this been going on?”

“At least a few months! You know how long it takes to get a clear diagnosis. Rabbi Goldbrenner must have been suffering for a while. And Mashie never said a word. Every time I kvetched to her, borrowed from her, asked for favors, leaned on her… this whole time — this whole time — she’s been suffering in the exact same way! I feel so… so exposed.”

Can I tell Meir that there’s a video reel playing in my head now, every moment when I took, when I asked, when I borrowed? I should have known. I should have understood. “I feel so stupid.”

“Stupid?” Meir’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I know it sounds selfish and I know this isn’t about me. But can we, like, for a second, make it about me? Because this is what I’m feeling.” I’m trying hard not to cry.

Meir says, “So what are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling stupid because I’m this total nebach case, but I suck it up and take what I can. And then— and then—” I sniff. “And then, I realize that she’s in the same position. And I feel like even more of a nebach! First, because Mrs. Perfect Mashie Goldbrenner has her life together to the point where she doesn’t need to tell me that her husband is sick. And second, because Mrs. Perfect Mashie Goldbrenner doesn’t need to be vulnerable to anyone at all.”

“It sounds like Mrs. Perfect Mashie Goldbrenner is a really bad person,” Meir says, totally deadpan.

“The absolute worst,” I agree.

IF you think I’m overreacting in my hatred of Mashie Goldbrenner, then you have never been in this position. You’ve never opened yourself up to someone else, showed them everything — the good, the bad and the ugly — and they responded with a shiny veneer of goodness that’s a glaring mirror of all of your faults. If you think I’m overreacting, don’t judge me.

At least, not for too long.

That night, I don’t sleep well. Curiosity draws the walls of its own prison.
You can’t escape the tantalizing idea of knowing something. But once you know it, you’re trapped and you can’t unknow it.

BY the next morning, I’m calmer. My heart is no longer racing, and I’m distracted by timing my schedule with Meir’s so that I can take his car while he works from home. “Then I’ll take a taxi to pick up the van while you go to Minchah.”

“A taxi? You hate taxis.”

“I can’t exactly ask Mashie for a ride,” I mutter. I can barely look Mashie in the eye right now, let alone ask her for another favor.

I arrange my comings and goings so I don’t see Mashie. My kids go to the bus stop on their own while I watch from the window. I know that on Tuesdays, she goes to visit her father in the nursing home, so I feel comfortable leaving my house. On Wednesday, I look both ways and peer over my shoulder like a fugitive so I don’t bump into her. Because if I did, what could I possibly say?

I do catch sight of Rabbi Goldbrenner. Once, just the shape of him walking, cellphone tucked under his ear. And once, I see him bringing Shmully to the car. The stiff movements of his joints are unmistakable. I don’t know how I missed it before.

We bring the kids along to the Berman family sheva brachos, though no one else does. I promise myself not to be self-conscious, and my sisters-in-law are very sweet. Faigy greets me with a warm hug and thanks me effusively for the dessert. I circle around the tables, catching up with family. Everyone is happy to see me, no one asks awkward questions, and I’m reminded that the Bermans are actually very nice people.

The tables are arranged in a long ches, and I find myself sitting next to the kallah’s aunts. I introduce myself, and they ask where I live. “Here in Lakewood, on Darcy Circle.”

“Oh, do you know the Goldbrenners?” the kallah’s aunt asks.

Everything I do and do not know about the Goldbrenners is whirling in my mind as I smile politely. “Sure. The Goldbrenners are my next-door neighbors.”

“That’s so nice! My son is in Rabbi Goldbrenner’s shiur and he raves about him, says he’s the most amazing rebbi….”

I can’t get up and leave in the middle of her sentence, but I can’t bear to listen to her, either. I crane my neck and spot Meir at the other end of the room. He’s having a lively schmooze with his brothers, all of them laughing and interrupting each other.

My gaze automatically goes to his fingers to monitor the stiffness. I’ve been worried about his Raynaud’s disease, the blood flow to his hands. Then, I stop myself. He looks so happy just sitting and talking to his brothers. This is what he wants — just to be himself.

They’re serving the dessert now. A waiter with a tray approaches the men’s table. Meir takes a tiramisu, and then asks the waiter for seconds. He catches my eye, winks, and mouths, “Thank you.”

I give a small wave. Then I excuse myself from the table, muttering something about checking on the baby, before I can cry in public.

The next morning, I don’t know if the images that had passed through my mind were sleeping dreams or waking thoughts, but really, is there any difference? Meir with his family, content sharing as much of his life as he can. Mashie and me, huddling over our coffees at the bus stop. Naftali and Shmully Goldbrenner, banging out messages in Morse Code on the shared wall of our succahs. Rabbi Goldbrenner and Meir, schmoozing at the mailbox about the upcoming Dirshu test.

It’s Mashie’s private life. It’s Rabbi Goldbrenner’s personal decision. It’s their family’s choice to weigh what they do and do not say, and who they say it to.

It’s not my secret.

It’s not my secret, but she’s still my friend.

I pull out my battered binder of recipes and flip to the baking section. I have a recipe for spicy muffins with turmeric that Meir always finds invigorating. I can make a double batch, and there will be enough for both of us.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 907)