Here's a great tip:
Enter your email address and we'll send you our weekly magazine by email with fresh, exciting and thoughtful content that will enrich your inbox and your life, week after week. And it's free.
Oh, and don't forget to like our facebook page too!
Contact Us

Seeing Clearly

Seeing Clearly

 Email

“I see flashes in my left eye. I need an appointment with a retina specialist,” I said on the phone. “I need an appointment before the 9:30 train leaves Natick for Boston this morning.”

“Go to your regular eye doctor,” demanded the operator.

“If I go to him he’ll tell me to go to Boston to see a retina specialist,” I pleaded, while keeping my good eye on the clock.

My husband Adam was busy finishing up our taxes, but he agreed to go with me. I was afraid to travel alone.

I was so afraid I would need an eye operation. How did people do it?

A year ago, Adam had seen flashes in his right eye, and had an emergency operation to save his sight. How different things looked when they were happening to you rather than to someone else!

Adam and I rode the train into Boston, then walked from Back Bay to the eye clinic on Staniford Street, up and down cobblestone sidewalks, past the State House with the golden dome gleaming in the sun, past brick buildings with stone stairs.

The trees practically sung with happiness, displaying reds, yellows and greens on this crisp autumn day. It lessened my apprehension.

Boston Common was crowded with people, some sleeping on benches, some rushing off to work, some begging on street corners. Police pranced on horseback around Beacon and Washington Streets. It was probably the last time we’d see the horses, since the City of Boston had decided it couldn’t take care of the horses anymore.

How I loved walking around the city, but I kept saying, “Let’s take a cab. It’s too far to walk.”

Adam insisted we could make the long walk.

The retina specialist said, “You were right to come.”

“I can only see from the sides of my left eye. I cannot clearly see what is ahead of me, only a gray cloud. I have trouble reading, I have to cover my left eye to see the words.”

The doctor scheduled surgery, saying, “Your vision won’t be the same as before, but it will be much improved.”

The surgery was frightening, as I knew their was a slight risk of going blind.

A few weeks later, I could see better but not well enough to travel alone.

On a Thursday evening, Adam felt very tired and went to bed early. I wondered why he was tired as I readied for the upcoming Shabbat.

The next morning, I awoke hearing Adam saying, “I need help. My legs don’t move. I can’t get up by myself.”

“How long have you been on the floor?”

“I don’t know.”

“I better call 911.”

“If you do, I’ll make a scene,” he said pulling himself up by his arms onto the bed.

I dialed 911, hands shaking. “I think my husband is having a stroke.”

“Is he conscious?”

By then Adam was in the kitchen glaring at me on the phone.

“Yes, he is standing beside me.”

“Don’t give him food or drink, the ambulance is on the way. Open the door.”

“Okay,” I said. “Adam, sit on this chair. I have to run down to open the door.”

I ran to get dressed and packed my cell phone, handkerchief and eye drops.

“For me?” Adam jumped up as the firemen arrived.

They put a tearful Adam on a stretcher.

“Do you have a way to get to the hospital?”

“No.” I said.

“Come with us.”

“You will be okay,” I said to Adam as they carried him down the stairs.

I rode in the front of the ambulance. It was only 5:30 a.m., so they put on their flashing lights without the siren, yet I could hear the sirens of fear beating in my heart.

When we arrived, the doctor said, “The only way to know if he had a stroke is for him to have an MRI.”

I waited till they took Adam for the MRI to call my children. By then it was 7:00.

I heard my son’s tearful voice, then my daughter’s, saying, “I’ll be right there.”

Sitting together, we all heard a doctor say, “We saw a stroke on the MRI, he’ll be admitted.”

Later that day, my son drove me home, where I lit my Shabbat candles in my large empty dining room.

On Shabbat, I could clearly see Adam’s prayer shawl on his arm chair and his tefillin on his desk, surrounded by many of his prayer books, Old Spice deodorant and Q-tips. I could clearly see his special Shabbat prayer book on the dining room table and the candle I bought for his mother Chassa’s yahrtzeit this week waiting to be lit.

The mantle over the unused fireplace was covered with pictures of our family life together. Many of the pictures were of our parents and my brother, of blessed memory.

On the glass table were Adam’s reading glasses, a bowl filled with rotting bananas and my black hat with a feather.

I could clearly picture our life of over fifty years in my mind’s eye. Shortly after we were married, I burned the dinner. How it smelled and how Adam smiled as he ate it! The happiness and gratitude we felt after the births of our son and daughter. How blessed we were to be under their wedding canopies. How my heart sang with joy when I made a collect phone call to my husband, the new zaidy, after the birth of the first of our four grandsons.

Early Sunday morning, looking over my deck, there were still a few stars in the clear blue sky. In the east, the sun sent its flashes of light through the forest.

I could feel the tears run down both my cheeks as I went to see my husband.

Linda Goldberg lives in Natick, Mass., where she belongs to the Chabad Center. She founded The Metro West Writers’ Workshop and led it for 17 years. She is blessed with four grandsons.
© Copyright, all rights reserved. If you enjoyed this article, we encourage you to distribute it further, provided that you comply with Chabad.org's copyright policy.
 Email
Join the Discussion
Sort By:
2 Comments
1000 characters remaining
Alisa Massachusetts April 21, 2015


This is lovely. We spend our days seeing the periphery of our lives, not spending enough time focusing on the important stuff right in front of us. Beautifully done. Reply

Marcel March 10, 2015

Linda, may you live long to see and feel the children your grandsons will bring you.
By then you will be ready and write another story about them to connect them with their grandparents, who were now supporting "you" and "Adam" in this story. Reply