The Only Prescription That Worked
I live in Modi'in Illit, and my beloved daughter, Chana bas Nechama Devorah, has been dealing with a difficult illness for several years. (Please daven for her refuah sheleimah.)
Throughout these years, we've been zocheh to see many sparks of light, and I want to tell you about one of them.
One day, we came to the hospital for a check-up. The doctor looked through Chani's file, examined her, and something about her eyes didn't look right to him. He checked them carefully and then said, "You must start giving her drops in her eyes six times every day, in addition to putting cream in them before she goes to sleep. Start today," he warned us. "I don't want her vision to be harmed."
He quickly typed up the vital prescriptions and sent them to the printer, but for some reason his printer was unresponsive. He swiveled his chair around and opened the printer's drawer. There were paper and ink aplenty. "Strange," he muttered. "I just printed a whole stack of papers here a few minutes ago."
"Here," he continued, "I'll give you a handwritten prescription instead."
He pulled out a pad of papers bearing the hospital logo, wrote the prescription in his semi-legible doctor's handwriting, scribbled a signature, and handed it to me, saying, "If it's important for you to get a printed version, ask the secretary outside to print it on her printer."
It was important to me. I knew from experience that many pharmacists wouldn't accept a handwritten prescription, and the last thing I needed was the added hassle of trying to get a printed version in the clinic near my pharmacy. I got in line for the secretary, waited fifteen long minutes, and finally received a printed version of the prescription. Then I hurried back to the doctor's room to get his signature on it, glad to see that there was no one else waiting for him.
I knocked on the door and put my ear to the crack between the door and the doorpost. It was quiet in his room, and dark. There was no one else waiting for the doctor because he'd already left. My heart sank, and despair seemed to creep up through my bloodstream and into every organ of my body. Ribbono shel Olam, how much can a person endure?! And what of Your child, Chana bas Nechama Devorah? I thought. How much suffering can a young child handle? And how would I get her the vital medication she needed right now?
I took a few deep breaths and told myself words of emunah and bitachon. We walked to the bus stop and traveled in silence back to our neighborhood. I took Chani up to our front door and, without even entering, I went right back out in the direction of the pharmacy, a tefillah to Hashem on my lips.
At the pharmacy, once again, there was a long line of people waiting. And the line wasn't moving. The pharmacist, flustered, announced, "Listen, people, there's a problem with our computer system and we can't scan in your prescriptions. We won't be able to help you today."
There were several sighs and grunts, and people started leaving the line and heading toward the door. I walked up to the pharmacist with my prescription in hand, the only one I had, which I'd highly doubted would procure the medication for me. I showed her the prescription.
"Can you take this?" I asked.
She looked at it briefly. "Yes," she said. "This prescription I can fill for you."
It was the only prescription she was able to accept that afternoon.
Why had I feared? How had I fallen into despair, when Hashem, our beloved Tatte in Himmel, had been holding my hand with care and love throughout - my hand, Chani's hand, and the hands of all of us, His beloved children.
