Whispers: Chapter 7
I
In the last years of high school I learnt how to study; in seminary, how to act. My frequent absences from school had left a hole in my religious education, so at age 18, after a very positive heart scan, my parents decided to send me to seminary in Israel.
As a trained observer, I looked around at the girls and realized that each one had her own small secret or weakness she was afraid of sharing. With this understanding, I was able to reach out and connect with everyone, quickly creating a large circle of new friends. In the classroom and dorms, I was the confident center of things.
But on hikes, everything was different.
At the start of the trail, I charged ahead, desperate to prove to myself that I could do anything. Soon, my friends overtook me, one by one, with a quick query if I was okay. As I trailed behind down another rocky mountain, one friend relaxed her pace to join me. Noticing my thoughtful expression, she paused and asked, “Want to share...?”
What could I tell her? That I was legally blind, and could barely see the step ahead of me? When I had confessed to the tour guide on one trip, she had immediately sent someone to babysit me for the rest of the hike. No thank you.
Maybe I could tell her that my heart was beating funny and I had no idea if it was okay. I had once confessed to my roommate that I had a heart condition. Since then, every morning when she woke, she checked I was breathing.
“I have some back issues,” I said eventually. “But don’t worry, I have a chiropractor who helps.” Back pain was understandable at least, so with some sympathetic sounds, she stuck by my side for the rest of the way down.
***
In seminary I became known as The British Kid. I amused all by eating pizza with a knife and fork and used the phrase, “Sorry, I’m English,” when anything I did raised eyebrows — even if it had no connection with my nationality. It was my answer to everything. I had a pile of vitamins in my drawer because that’s what English people do. I was thin because we English are too polite to get fat. I might have pushed it with that one, but mostly, I got away with it.
On Chanukah, I discovered coffee. Forgetting I was supposed to be a polite British girl, I spent my first caffeine high dancing on a stack of chairs, much to the amusement of my American friends. With the caffeine making up for my Marfan’s lack of energy, I found the time and place (the middle of the night) to be a child. I stopped worrying about my health and began to enjoy a more carefree life. Aside from a few visits to a local chiropractor, I was just a regular girl — almost.
I stayed up all night studying with my friend, but had to add one more thing to my list: memorizing any Rashis mentioned, since I wasn’t ready to tell the teacher I couldn’t see enough to actually read them.
The DMCs took all night. I knew how much a wrong comment can hurt and soon got a name as a listener. I shared tiny pieces of my story with some people, but was careful never to overload one person with too much information. As I listened to other girls’ problems, I never felt they were insignificant next to mine, just that everyone has her own tough situation. And I learnt that I have something to give in this world. By helping my friends I found purpose to my own existence. No one guessed my story; there was only one girl I shared it with — two years after we had safety left the dorm. Although I still feel like I sometimes overwhelm this girl, she became one of the first people I now talk openly to.
At the end of that year, I left seminary with lifelong friends and a sense of determination: I was going to do whatever it took to do something significant with this life — a life for which I paid a high pain price.
To be continued…
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 507)
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