It’s hard to say if Dr. Rappaport is a naturally exuberant individual. His perpetual, toothy smile and jovial demeanor are part and parcel of his work. His reputation as one of Jerusalem’s finest and most repected pediatricians derives from his medical prowess, while his popularity derives from his concern and friendliness. When asked how he is able to maintain so cheerful an outlook with a hectic practice such as his, he shrusgs and explains that someone has to look cheerful in an office always crowded with chicken-pocked children and bawling babies. But for all of Dr. Rappaport’s congeniality, he was not about ot brighten Rivkie Shreiber’s Wednesday morning.
Rivkie was the consummate, Brooklyn-born-and-bread wife of a Yeshiva student: Gregarious, endearing, wide-eyed, a touch flamboyant-in short very American-frum. But beneath the façade of stylish wig and fashionable attire beat the faint heart of a timid Bais Yaakov graduate terrified to be on unfamiliar turf. A newcomer to Israel, Rivkie did not have local family or close friends, and barely spoke the language. The little Biblical and Mishanic Hebrew she could muster evoked gales of laughter from the natives. To have found a pediatrician who was not only well-qualified but able and willing to speak to her in her own tongue was a relief.
As Dr. Rappaport’s deft fingers examined Rivkie’s seven –month-old baby Deena, however, his smile faded. This was not the common ear infection or simple case of bronchitis for which a standard prescription and best wishes for a speedy recovery sufficed. The baby’s chronic listlessness and soaring temperature were the symptoms that alerted him; stool specimen tests corroborated his tentative diagnosis. There was little doubt now as to the nature of Deena’s ailment.
As gently as he could, Dr. Rappaport broke the news. His diagnosis etched painfully sharp lines in Rivkie’s brow, reducing her vivaciosness to stony silence. She had never heard of shigellosis before, but she realized that her Deena wasn’t suffering from an ordinary case of diarrhea.
To make sure that the baby received the proper care, Dr. Rappaport told Rivkie the truth: “This disease can be fatal in infants. It is also highly contagious. The baby must be admitted to a hospital immediately.”
“Fatal?!” Rivkie thought to herself, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. “Oh, my God!” Her hands trembled as she attempted to button up Deena’s creeper. If this simple chore of closing a button seemed a near impossibility to her now, how in the world was she going to manage to bring Deena to the hospital? Besides being nearly hysterical with fright over her baby’s condition, Rivkie could barely breathe at the prospect of all the red tape that would surely confront her there. She often became flustered and embarrassed when attempting minor transactions at the bank or supermarket; how, then, could she overcome the infamous bureaucratzia to admit her baby into an Israeli hospital?!
Rivkie’s thoughts drifted back to the more carefree times of her childhood, when her warm, large family was always there to help her over even the most inconsequential hurdles. Tears welled up in her eyes as she recalled her mother’s kid loving face. But Rivkie’s daydream lasted only a split second, her maternal instincts galvanized her into actions, penetrating the inertia of despair. This was no time to sob on the phone to Mommy in Brooklyn. She had to take care of Deena herself, and she had to act now.
Reaching down into herself for the fortitude she had to have, she turned to the doctor and said: “Just tell me exactly what I must do.”
“I am preparing all of the papers,” he told her while he quickly tended to a veritable ream of printed forms. Dr. Rapaport punctiliously explained each item, repeating himself where he thought it was necessary. He then escorted mother and child out of his office, ensuring that the infectious baby did not come into contact with the dozen patients in his waiting room.
Once outside, however, Rivkie’s courage waned. Of all the times to be left on her own! Her husband had flown to the States the night before for his brother’s wedding. Even before the present crisis, she had felt incompetent dealing with the normal rigors of daily existence without her husband’s patience, calmness and fluency in Hebrew. She had never been so completely alone before.
Rivkie had come to Israel for the same reason many of her peers had: she wanted her husband to ascend in learning, and there is not Torah like that of Israel. Attaining that goal entailed a sacrifice on her part in terms of separation from family and friends, but she was sure it was worth it. Besides, it was sort of a tradition. Hadn’t Rabbi Akiva’s wife, and all of the wives of great scholars before and after her, made sacrifices for Torah’s sake?
Because of budgetary considerations, Rivkie had not traveled with her husband, but she no longer regretted having remained behind. The thought of toxins attacking her baby in mid-flight with no proper medical attention available was even worse than the current state of affairs, as bad as it was.
Rivkie raced through her apartment, stuffing into a bag whatever she thought Deena would need in the hospital. Just when time was so critical she found everything disorganized and nothing in its place! Frantically scurrying from the baby’s room to hers, she improvised, settling for anything that was clean and serviceable. She grabbed pajamas for Deena and a denims skirt for herself, as her fingers fumbled for the Tehillim (psalms) on the shelf. Grasping the little book tightly, she reassured herself “I’m not really alone,” in an effort to fight off the terrible thought that Deena might never return to their apartment.
To complicate matters, one of the pediatricians forms had to be stamped by the Kupat Cholim (“Health Fund”) office in downtown Jerusalem before Deena could be admitted by the hospital. Rivkie’s few encounters with Kupat Cholim led her to fear a protracted process involving several offices and interminable lines. But even if it were to go quickly this time, how could she take Deena with her? On the other hand, how could she leave her very sick and contagious baby with a sitter or a neighbor? The walls of her apartment seemed to be closing in on her. There were no doors in sight.
Rivkie’s instincts impelled her to get the baby to a hospital without delay. If necessary, she would turn on the charm and hope for the best. If a womanly approach failed to get her any medical attention, she would…she would…she’d just scream!
Rivkie dialed for a taxi and explained that it was urgent. But the problem with taxis is that every caller feigns urgency, desperation, or the like in order to receive a cab quickly. Waiting for a taxi at any time is a trial of patience; waiting for one in an emergency is a test of nerves. Rivkie failed both.
But the mother was not the worse off. While Rivkie and her daughter were waiting for the cab to arrive, Deena began to convulse. Her fingers kept clenching and unclenching. Her eyes rolled wildly and she hissed through her closed mouth. Rivkie clutched her baby tightly in her arms, her eyes darting up and down the street frantically. Just then the taxi pulled up at the curb.
As they sped away, Rivkie implored the cabbie to drive as fast as possible. She nearly screamed each time he slowed down for another red light. Her body tightened like a spring around her baby’s contorted form, and she prayed that the hospital would soon be in sight….
Deena’s grave condition circumvented the admission procedure. When the taxi finally arrived, it went straight to the emergency room entrance. Layers of red tape fell away when the medical personnel saw the agonized baby and her panic-stricken mother.
The convulsion passed but its effects lingered. The insidious toxins attacking Dena’s brain had turned her into a baby her mother couldn’t recognize. An alert attendant in the ward sized up the situation at once and rushed to notify a doctor. Within seconds Deena was injected with a tranquilizer.
The baby was placed in a crib, and a medical team huddled around. One nurse inserted an IV tube into Deena’s tiny wrist, while another left to arrange a spinal tap and a third took her blood pressure. The doctors prepared a stool sample and ordered a battery of other tests.
Rivkie was unable to comprehend the Hebrew words flying back and forth, but the word ”shigella” cut into practically every sentence. “What’s happening with my baby?” she pleaded several times, but the doctors were too intent on their work to respond. They motioned for a nurse to remove her so that they could continue unhampered.
“Not to vorry,” a nurse tried to assure Rivkie in broken English, “you baby go upstair to qvarantine and get good care.” Not worry?! Rivkie was terrified! The doctors’ looks of concern and the pediatrician’s earlier warning about fatality converged like cymbals crashing in her ears. She trembled and began to cry hysterically.
Rivkie loved her baby more than anything in the world, and the thought of her demise was…God forbid! She refused to allow that unimaginable thought in her head; it was too horrible even to contemplate. The death of a child was the kind of tragedy no one ever thought could befall his or her own family; it only struck hapless strangers and was only discussed in dark whispers that hovered somewhere between sympathy, shock and Lashon hara (slander)
It was astounding that in just a few short months one could grow from a teenaged bride into a mother willing to endure the worst tortures ever conceived in order to save her child. Rivkie would have gladly changed places with little Deena if only to spare the baby even a second of pain. She chastised herself for having earlier indulged in homesick thoughts of Brooklyn, and wasting precious seconds-seconds that might have meant the difference between life and death.
As helpless as she felt, Rivkie was determined to do anything to save her Deena. But for the time being, her lonely crib-side vigil, her constant prayers, and her continuous loving caresses were all she had to offer.