The Hopsital

It’s been a long week.

It started with a belly ache.

My little girl complained a bit and then bounced off the kaitana, excited about summer camp.  I don’t really know what changed over the course of the next three days, but by Sunday morning, we were sitting in the doctor’s office with a withering toddler grunting in pain.

In the cab on the way to the hospital, I called my mother.  It was five in the morning in America, but I needed my mommy.

A whirlwind of tests and very mystified yet concerned doctors and nurses became our reality for forty-eight hours.

Then she was better, and we went home.

She sauntered off to kaitana again this morning, excited about summer camp.

The only thing that changed for her is that now when she doesn’t feel all that great she asks to go to the hopsital.

My life has been completely altered by this experience.

There were a few significant things that happened to me this week that make me wonder at myself.

–  I called my mother instinctively, as though her voice would make everything alright, and it did.

–  My voice soothed and comforted my own little girl, even though I was shaking inside.

–  I was calm, cool and collected.

These are strange phenomena for me.  I’m still processing them and wondering.

There was one thing about my behavior that makes me feel a different sort of feeling.

I didn’t daven.  Not even one little prayer.  Not even a plea for help.

Why?

I don’t know.

Maybe I don’t feel that instinctive connection to Him.

Maybe I think of Him as my father, when I should know that He is also my mother.

Dear G-d, why don’t I want to talk to You?