All the other women walked out of the examination room and into the waiting area. They turned to the left, asked the smiling receptionist at the desk for an appointment the following month, swung their pocketbooks over their shoulders and reemerged onto the busy streets of Geulah. It was a typical day at the women’s clinic, with patients arriving before or after shopping, teaching or doing laundry. I, however, was sitting on the blue plaid waiting-room chair crying unabashedly, waiting for my husband to join me. I couldn’t even talk over the phone; I just dialed his number and begged him to come right away. That morning he had offered to accompany me to the clinic, but I’d declined. There was no reason for him to skip learning for a regular skirat maarachot, a standard detailed ultrasound. My baby was at the babysitter’s; I would just go to the clinic and then continue on to work. Dr. P. had quietly rolled the ultrasound wand in different directions. Even in the darkened room I could see the consternation on his face. He paused, thought, and then tried again. He didn’t have to tell me; I already knew. “What are you checking? Is something wrong?” He hesitated. “Were you ever tested for Tay-Sachs?” “Yes, of course! We did Dor Yesharim testing in the twelfth grade. Why? What are you seeing?” He was quiet. The room was still and dark, with only the dim lights of the ultrasound screen giving off an ominous glow. “Wait. Maybe I’m making a mistake. Let me do it again.” He rolled the stick all over my abdomen, searching for hope. We were both quiet. Neither of us wanted to talk. After a few minutes he stopped, told me to get up and take a seat by his desk as he wanted to talk to me. He turned on the lights.
Their brightness felt inappropriate. “Your baby has something called multicystic kidney disease.* There are cysts on his kidneys that won’t allow them to function.” Pause. Then, in an undertone, he added, “I don’t think he’ll make it.” “Can the cysts be removed? I’ve heard that nowadays they can do surgery even before the baby is born.” “No, I’m sorry. That wouldn’t help. The kidneys produce the amniotic fluid that helps the lungs develop. The baby won’t die from kidney problems; he’ll die from undeveloped lungs. There’s nothing any doctor can do. I think you should consider terminating the pregnancy. There’s no reason to keep a sick baby inside of you. It could even become dangerous.” By then I was more desperate than the diagnosis. “Look, we’re going back to America in another month. I’m sure they can do something there. Or maybe another country? Tell me—which country should we go to? Where do they specialize in this? I’ll go anywhere in the world to save this baby!” He was silent. “I’m sorry. I don’t think there’s anything you can do. These babies never make it. The most they can live is a few hours. ” I was stung by his cruelty. Why did he have to say it like that? So cut-and-dried. Harsh. Mean. “Why? Why did it happen?” “We don’t know why these things happen; they’re usually just a fluke. With G-d’s help you will have many more healthy children.” I didn’t talk; there was nothing to say. He quietly typed all sorts of terrible things into the computer, printed out pages and pages, and stamped them on the bottom. I gathered them up and left the room, not trusting myself to speak.
I walked out of the office and within seconds was weeping hysterically. When I called my husband and he heard my voice, he got scared. He hailed the first taxi he saw in the street and arrived in minutes.Sobbing, I repeated the doctor’s words. My husband was much more optimistic. We’d go to a better doctor who would for sure know what to do. There was always something that could be done. We contacted our resourceful Yerushalmi friend. She had loads of stories of doctors who’d made mistakes on ultrasounds and everything had turned out fine. It would surely be the same with us. We went to our appointment with Dr. Y., a top ultrasound specialist, full of hope. Dr. Y. was going to tell us what a foolish mistake the first doctor had made. Dr. Y. didn’t cooperate with our plans. She did a long and careful scan and agreed with his diagnosis, stating even more forcefully that termination was necessary since there was a risk the baby could die in utero and his sick blood could mingle with mine. Otherwise, there was nothing I could do other than maintain a pregnancy I knew would ultimately be fruitless. I was devastated. The life inside of me was not meant to be. I was all of 21 years old and had a 15-month-old baby. How could I grieve for a life that still existed, mourn the loss of a baby that was still unborn? We left the doctor’s office in a daze, completely confused about what to feel. I slowly began to face reality. Aside from the emotional turmoil, we had a serious halachic question to deal with. The doctors wanted me to terminate the pregnancy.
Who could imagine a good Bais Yaakov girl doing such a thing? It was unheard of. Ridiculous. We left it hanging. After a while the dust began to settle and I told my husband we had to ask a sh’eilah. But I needed to have it answered by someone big; after all, it was a decision I would have to live with for the rest of my life. Using some protektzia, we managed to get an appointment with Rav Elyashiv rather quickly. A few days later we drove into a narrow alleyway framed by the ancient stone buildings of Meah Shearim, whose simplicity hid the greatness of the man who lived there. We walked through the aged metal gate, up a few stairs and into the simple house from which an entire generation was led. Walking through a sefarim-lined hallway we made our way to Rav Elyashiv’s dining room. A nondescript bedspread covered a bed off to one side. Sefarim shranks and an armoire lined the other walls, reminiscent of the simple Yerushalayim of a time long gone. At the head of a small table with some sefarim piled on it sat Rav Elyashiv. I was in awe to be in the presence of the posek hador. My husband sat down while I remained standing. We’d brought along the ultrasounds and repeated all of the doctors’ recommendations. “If the Rav agrees, then we know it’s from Hashem and we accept it as our personal nisayon,” we said. It was a matterof-fact way of screaming in pain. Rav Elyashiv listened carefully and then thought for a few moments. The room waited quietly as he deliberated. I was excruciatingly conscious of my baby’s life hanging in the balance.
After what seemed like an eternity but was only a few minutes, he spoke. According to halachah, he explained to us, if what the doctors were saying was true, the fetus wasn’t considered a bar kayama, compatible with life, so terminating the pregnancy would not be considered snuffing out a life. A bar kayama needs to live more than 30 days, and there was no way this baby could do that. And if keeping the baby inside posed a danger to the mother, then removing it would be the correct thing to do.“However,” the rav went on, “all of the ultrasounds were done by non-religious doctors. As good as they may be technically, it’s easier for non-religious doctors to advise someone to terminate a pregnancy because they don’t value life the same way we do. I want you to go to Dr. M. He is a top doctor and also a shomer Torah u’mitzvos. Let’s hear what he has to say, and then I’ll decide.” We left in a jumble of emotions: awe at the experience, devastation at the serious possibility that I might have to terminate the pregnancy…and a tiny tendril of hope that there was a solution. We immediately made an appointment with Dr. M. at Hadassah Medical Center. As I waited for my turn to be seen, I was flooded alternately by fear, sorrow and fierce denial. We went into the examination room and explained the situation, and the doctor proceeded to examine me; his verdict would decide my fate. It was a quiet few minutes that stretched a lifetime.
Finally he made his pronouncement: “The doctors were correct. This baby cannot live.” He pointed out all of the complications involving the baby’s kidneys, digestive system, and excretory organs, and explained the ramifications. Inside the uterus the baby could live and develop, but after he was born he would not be able to breathe and many of his bodily systems would not function. He would also need numerous operations to correct all sorts of problems that might not be fixable. But he wouldn’t live long enough to be operated on. “I personally don’t think that there is a danger to you. This baby could even be carried to term, although I doubt it will. It will live for a few hours—at the very most a day or two—and then die. I do not see any reason for you to continue the pregnancy. You can repeat to Rav Elyashiv everything I’ve said. As a matter of fact, I have a personal connection with him. I’ll call him myself and tell him what I think.” I left the room surprised at my calmness. It was okay. We’d done our best and it was not meant to be. This was our personal nisayon and we would overcome it. We’d be all right. With G-d’s help, we had a long future ahead of us and we’d have many more children. We went back to Rav Elyashiv the next day with an attitude of acceptance. All we needed was the final psak and we’d be on our way. We’d terminate the pregnancy and look forward to future healthy ones. We entered the room a second time. He recognized us and knew why we had come. “I had a long talk with Dr. M.,” he began. “He told me his opinion. These days, three ultrasounds by top doctors are enough to conclude that a diagnosis is correct and that the situation is indeed as the doctors have said.
However, Dr. M. told me that while this baby will not live after birth, inside the uterus he can flourish and even possibly be carried to full term. You may therefore not terminate the pregnancy. Every second that a neshamah is down here in this world is precious. This baby has a tafkid to fulfill by living inside of you. We may not cut that short. We need to help him live as long as he can.” The rav ended off with a brachah that we would have many healthy children. Answering with a heartfelt amen, we walked out of the room backward. The descent down the stone staircase took us a long time; there was a lot to process. I would continue the pregnancy. I would carry this baby and feel his kicks, knowing that this baby inside me will die. I would face people on the street who would see me and think I was looking forward to a joyous occasion. But I would have a secret: my baby was special. He would need only a short tikkun. For him, it would be enough to live only the few months of pregnancy and his tafkid would be fulfilled. It would be painful for me, but for him it would be good. The next two months lasted forever. I tried to limit the time I spent out of the house. The fewer people who knew about the pregnancy, the easier it would be to deal with afterward. I read articles of chizzuk, davened and tried to build strength for the challenge I would soon face. I found the tefillah of Elokai Neshamah especially poignant. Hashem had put a holy neshamah inside me that He was going to take back soon, but He would return it le’asid lavo. I worked, cared for my toddler and waited anxiously for it all to be over, simultaneously wishing it would last forever. I had no idea how I could ever say goodbye to this baby.
In the middle of my eighth month, labor began. Shaking, I went to the hospital knowing that the long-awaited—and long-dreaded—moment had arrived. I received a dressing-down from every staff member who entered my room for having allowed the pregnancy to continue when all the doctors had told me it wasn’t viable. I was calm. “We went to a big rav, and this is what he told us to do,” we repeated quietly over and over. It was a difficult few hours. And then he was born. Small, but perfectly formed. A real baby. A precious baby. He didn’t cry. He was whisked off to the NICU to battle for his life while I lay in bed waiting to be told the terrible news. The hospital didn’t want to move me to the maternity ward, where I’d be with other mothers and their newborn babies, so they told me to rest up while they decided where to put me. I barely felt my exhaustion. I barely felt anything at all. I lay still in bed, preparing myself for the inevitable. A nurse came down to tell me the baby was struggling for his life. I knew that already. Four hours later they told me apologetically that he had passed on to a better world. He had fulfilled his tafkid. My husband called the chevrah kaddisha. They came down to the hospital, gave him a bris, named him Adam and took him to be buried. And I was left to recover, both from his birth and from his quick departure. I knew he was in a better place, but my hands hurt in my yearning to hold him. Someone told me that babies who pass away so soon go to the highest place in Shamayim because they never had the opportunity to sin. I was comforted mentally, but my heart continued to mourn. I accepted what had happened, but it was a sad acceptance. Although I never knew him, I missed him terribly. I would take walks and imagine myself holding him or pushing his carriage. I was shocked by how much I could miss a baby I had never known. The years went by. A few adorable girls joined our brood, and the incident receded somewhat into memory. Recently, though, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. His siblings have no idea that he isn’t the first boy born into our family. But in a way he is. He had a real bris—and oh, how I cried! With Hashem’s help, my new baby will have a harder tafkid to fulfill than my first son and a longer journey. But I will be able to accompany him, and for that I couldn’t be more grateful.