"Is There a Diagnosis? Is It Dangerous?!" I Sounded Hysterical

"The world is scary lately... everything is scary!" Sarit, a good acquaintance, told me when we met again on the path leading to the kindergarten to pick up our toddlers.
"Hmm...", I replied hesitantly, "We need faith, we need trust in Hashem," I recited like a good student, schooled in rabbi lectures.
She sighed and continued, "So many troubles, so many sick people, a new name every day for healing prayers."
"Everything is for the best; after all, it's a world of correction, you know. Let's hope for the best," I continued to recite without really thinking.
I think she felt my words were hollow, she retreated a bit and mumbled: "Did you hear that Avraham, the husband of..., had a simple headache... for a few days... and they discovered the terrible thing," she grimaced as she spoke.
I grimaced too. I hate hearing these stories, someone else I knew, on this crazy path of suffering.
These distressing, saddening stories suddenly intrude on a beautiful day when all I want to do is think about what to prepare for lunch for the kids.
"May Hashem have mercy, send him a complete healing, not upon anyone of Israel," I hurried to end the conversation.
I didn't want to dwell on what his family is going through, on the children, I wanted to quickly return to my boring and pleasant routine – noon, weekdays, kids, work, and that's it.

The holidays arrived, bringing both a festive and pressured atmosphere. Disoriented, we found ourselves oscillating between the sanctity of the synagogue and Moroccan fish, between chills of anxiety over a Torah lesson before Yom Kippur and recipes for post-fast cakes, between "Hammer Nails Quickly" and heaps of crazy expenses on a new sukkah, decorations, and food, and more food...
On Sukkot eve, I surveyed the lavish sukkah, mainly the guests and children.
I felt like I was watching a movie from the side... "We did it," I thought. Here, we've reached the holiday, everything's ready, the guests are enjoying, the kids are jumping... I leaned back with satisfaction.
A small, piercing pain suddenly emerged in my belly, near the navel.
I tried to distract myself and focus on the table conversation. It was hard; the pain bothered me.
Before going to bed, the pain subsided. I wondered if I ate something bad or if a muscle had cramped. I fell asleep.
The next morning, while navigating between the children and the next holiday meal, the pain around the navel started bothering me again, sending throbbing spasms, as if forcibly reminding me that it's there and demanding attention.
I sat down, took a deep breath, and tried to make sure no one noticed; I didn't want to be the killjoy.
Okay, if it continues, I'll go to the doctor tomorrow. Is there a doctor tomorrow? Why not...? Tomorrow is Chol Hamoed.
Oy, but I don't have time for this! The conversation in my head continued: Aunt is coming tomorrow, we're going on a trip, we promised the kids... and now this appointment stuck in the middle, it will ruin everything.
This is the time to apply some of the rabbinical lectures I've heard... I remembered the headline "Talk to Hashem!".
Fine, so I talked to Him a bit. It's not simple because I don't do it much.
Even though I need to, I know I need to.
I remembered that a well-known rabbi said in a reinforcement talk that he doesn't understand how a person in our generation can cope without talking to Hashem several times a day. Maybe he's right...
Okay, so... "Hashem, merciful and gracious," I quoted a verse I remembered, "You've given us holidays to rejoice, and be happy during your festival, so here I am, wanting to be happy with my family and travel tomorrow with everyone, and the persistent stomach ache won't let go, even worries me a bit. Please make it vanish in an instant."
It came out childish and shallow, I mused when I finished, if only I knew how to speak in an impressive poetic language, so that it'd be worthwhile for Hashem to listen at all.
Unfortunately, the pain didn't go away. It continued to contract, push, scratch, and throb.
After the holiday, I dared to open the internet and look for explanations based on location, intensity, symptoms... the computer didn't disappoint.
Dozens upon dozens of explanations, theories, and assumptions, types of diseases, mild and severe, outcomes and disasters, and other speculations. Private descriptions of people, mainly tragedies and disasters...

I felt a lump in my throat. I remembered Sarit saying the world is scary, and everything is scary. Suddenly my world also became scary. As if a button pressed "Play" in a scary thriller, and I was the heroine.
The internet predicted great evils for my type of pain and the accompanying symptoms. In my distress, I turned to my husband and poured out my bitter heart. "The internet kills everyone, don't you know? It'll be okay; it will pass."

Determined not to ruin the family trip, I set out to explore the country, biting my lips occasionally when the pain intensified, trying not to bend much, not to move much. No one noticed, the joy of the trip and the people covered everything.
Tomorrow I'll go to the doctor, I promised myself.
Night came. The toddlers went to sleep tired but satisfied, the husband fell asleep with the book.
I entered the sukkah lit by a thin, small light, surrounded by the night darkness.
I sat on the big couch I forced into the sukkah with incomparable willpower.
My husband wasn't home, and I decided this year there would be a couch in the sukkah.
Heavy as it was. And it was very heavy.
Sitting on the couch, I closed my eyes, and the thoughts crawled in. Sarit's words echoed in me.
"Did you hear that Avraham, the husband of..., had a simple headache...for a few days... and they discovered the terrible thing"...
My breathing suddenly became rapid, I felt distress. What a fear. I was scared even of the thought, and she was afraid of me...
On one hand, I felt protected. Sitting under the schach, wrapped, after all, that's how the sukkah should make us feel spiritually. On the other hand, I felt thrown and cast on the ground outside the sukkah, outside the camp.
"Hashem!" I heard my voice whisper excitedly, "Hashem! If I go to the doctor and check what this pain is and everything will be fine, and it's something small, negligible, that can be fixed, reversible..." I continued to roll out synonyms, "I promise to recite the *Nishmat Kol Chai*, 7 times in a row!".
My breath was taken away. "And also... also, I'll publish this miracle of revealed mercy and grace to a small and lowly one like me! Just please, make everything alright, that it's not a serious illness...". Tears flowed uncontrollably from my eyes, I sobbed like a little girl. Lucky everyone was asleep deeply, no one heard. No one except Hashem.

A week after Chol Hamoed I writhed in the waiting room chair for the doctor – not from pain, from tense waiting, mixed with dread. She reviewed the ultrasound results, pressed a bit on the navel...
"Is there a diagnosis? Is it dangerous?" I sounded rather hysterical, even though I tried not to.
She smiled a bit. "You have a tiny hernia in your stomach. An umbilical hernia."
"What? What is it? Did my belly break?" I almost cried, and she almost laughed.
"The abdominal wall can rupture slightly when lifting very heavy things or making sudden effort; it's quite common. In the case of a large hernia, there's a simple non-invasive procedure for repair. In the case of a tiny hernia like yours, you go home and stop lifting heavy things. Does it still hurt?"
"Hardly at all. Tell me... this is something really new, right?"
"Yes, very fresh, it seems it happened very recently."
And she was right. The image of myself fiercely lifting an old and heavy couch suddenly struck me, because this year I promised myself there would be a couch in the sukkah... that same couch I sat on and cried.

A few days ago I met Sarit again. I hugged her warmly. "Tell me... what about Avraham?"
"Thank Hashem, they discovered it in time, it's still small, he started treatment, I'm praying for him." She answered immediately, surprised that I was interested.
Righteous Sarit, she has a list as long as the exile of names of sick people, and whenever she hears about someone, she adds to the list.
"Can I help them, the family, with something?" I asked with slight embarrassment.
"Yesterday his wife asked if maybe someone could help a bit with the kids, because she's traveling with him for treatments."
My eyes lit up. I knew taking care of their little children is a real act of kindness.
"I'll call her! We must help. And... what do you do with the list of sick names?" I asked sincerely.
"I read Tehillim for them, sometimes I separate challah... when I manage, you know, with the kids and everything, I barely get to myself... and this," she almost apologized.
"You're a righteous person! It's time I, instead of just studying and quoting words of wisdom – implement something in the world. Something that might make a difference."
She looked at me without understanding.
"Can I copy your list, so I can pray for them too? At least occasionally...".
"Really?? I always felt you were a bit uncomfortable with their stories... but I'd be happy to give you, as more pray, maybe salvation will come."
"I was indeed uncomfortable, those stories, but now I'm mostly uncomfortable with Hashem," I said with a big smile.
I took the list and promised Hashem that without making any vows, really without vows, once a week, I will read chapters of Tehillim for them. And so I do.
I fulfilled the promise I made in the sukkah: I recited the *Nishmat Kol Chai*, 7 times in a row... Now, I am publishing Hashem's salvation for His reverent ones to strengthen and be strengthened.
And this, I am doing now, through the dear Hidabroot.
And the message? Simply to remember that the Father in Heaven is always with us, loves us, and sometimes shakes us a bit so we bring out a little more.
A little more than just quoting Torah and wise sayings, but to really live them.
A little more than just clicking one's tongue and saying "Hashem will help," but to do something to help.
A little more concern for the troubles of others, a little more compassion, a little more prayer.
A little more acts of kindness.

Wishing strong health and complete recovery for all those who need it,

Yael. (Pseudonym)