As we sat together at bedtime last night, my 9-year-old Meir gazed wide-eyed at his book about the Chofetz Chaim. “When I grow up, I want to be a talmid chacham like him,” he said. My eyes immediately welled with tears, and I walked into the next room to get a tissue. Of course we would be thrilled if our little Meir would grow up to be a Torah scholar … But at this point, I would be thrilled if Meir would grow up at all.
He was born with a heart defect, and has already had 5 surgeries. The 6th is the one that could really save his life: Doctors have told us we should fly to Boston immediately to save him. How could I possibly tell him that we can’t afford it?
We’re just a simple family. I’m raising 11 kids, Baruch Hashem. My husband’s business took a hard hit from the pandemic. We made a Chesed Fund page to raise money for Meir’s surgery but as I scroll through the many stories of people I need I fear that we will never make enough. My heart breaks. I would do anything to see him grow, to be a man, to achieve his dreams. But if we cannot get this surgery, Meir’s story ends here.
I closed the Chofetz Chaim childrens’ book, and tucked my little boy into the bed. We said shema together and I shut the lights. And as he snuggled into the covers, I davened with tears in my eyes and all of the strength in my heart, that the book of Meir’s life should not close as well.
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