Last week, Chana was diagnosed with celiac and she struggles with this huge life change.
The eleventh grade in Israel is intense. It’s the year students start preparing for the bagrut – high school exams that determine much of their future. Five-point exams are the toughest, and the better you score on the exams directly influences what post high school programs you can go to, and whether or not you can receive scholarship money.
I’d seen with Batsheva, my eldest, that sometimes a class at school would be focused on a specific *bagrut* level. If you weren’t taking that particular exam, you didn’t need to attend. It did strike me as odd at first, but by the time Chana was in 11th grade, it didn’t seem strange at all.
There were a few times when I knew Chana was missing school during specific study hours for exams. She’d be in bed, half asleep, saying she didn’t need to go because she already knew the material. “The principal lets me study at home,” she’d explain. She was a high-achiever, an excellent student, so it made sense at the time. Right?
At first, it didn’t register how the once-bustling afternoons slowly started to get quieter. I believed her when she said she preferred to study alone; it helped her focus more. I believed her when she said her friends also started to prefer solitude when studying. I believed her when she’d tell me that she didn’t need to go to school sometimes, so I believed her when she said she could miss a class or two, because she “already knew the material. Afterall, I have seen this before, why wouldn’t I accept these explanations without much questioning?
These inconsistent incremental changes were slow enough that I didn’t really notice how things were shifting.
Chana was still social enough, there were still times when her room was filled with laughter, or, empty because she was out once again. And the other times she was in her room with the door closed I assumed she was just busy with her studies. Her late nights and late mornings were something I dismissed as typical teenage behavior. She had a routine, even if it was a bit unconventional. But she was doing well in school, so why worry?
There were moments when my husband would raise concerns. He noticed the late nights and the sleep-ins. He mentioned that something felt off, but I brushed it off. I had always prided myself on my intuition as a mother. I had an uncanny ability to diagnose strep throat or broken bones. I trusted my instincts, and they told me nothing was wrong with Chana.
So, the year plodded on. Holidays like Chanukah, Purim, and Pesach passed in the usual whirlwind of family, festivities, and food. We even gained a new son-in-law after Pesach, which added a new dynamic to our family. Watching the blend of our 10th-generation Yerushalmi influences from our son-in-law mixed with our American “out of town” vibe was both interesting and surreal. The very subtle cracks in Chana had begun, and I missed them.
After Pesach, things became more intense. Chana’s workload grew heavier, and that was when the changes started to become undeniable. Her friends stopped coming by. She spent more and more time in her room. On Friday mornings, she slept late. By early afternoon, she would eventually emerge – like a whirlwind – living up to her title “Dip Meister.”
It became part of our routine: late Friday afternoons in the kitchen, Chana creating all kinds of crazy dips while I did my best to keep up with the mess. The sink would be piled high with dirty dishes, and I’d complain. My husband would just tell me to let it go and that we’d clean it up together. (Thank goodness for dishwashers.)
One afternoon, Chana casually mentioned that her math teacher would be calling us to arrange a meeting. “It’s no big deal,” she reassured us. “She just wants to talk about some things that have been happening.” When we met with her teacher, I wasn’t prepared for what came next.
Her teacher explained that there had been some “politics” in the class. A few girls had formed cliques, splitting the once-unified group. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been done kindly. Some girls were forced to pick sides. Chana couldn’t. She had friends on both sides and didn’t want to choose between them. One of the more vocal girls, a former friend, had started giving Chana a hard time, and it was affecting her. The teacher had tried to intervene, but the social dynamics had already shifted too far. Chana was stuck, and it was hurting her.
Chana shared with her teacher that she was so upset about things that she had “pinched herself” once or twice. She felt guilty and told her that she could control it and that she was going to stop. My heart froze? Pinch herself? What? Why?
The teacher encouraged us to give Chana space to figure things out. She was confident it would resolve on its own. And, she was in regular touch with Chana, she was keeping tabs on the situation. She also suggested a therapist for Chana to go to.
When we got home, we asked Chana about what the teacher said. She was incredulous that it wasn’t so bad. She emphatically downplayed what was happening. She assured us she could handle it and would come to us if she needed anything.
I wish I had asked more questions. I wish I had pressed her further. I remember thinking everything would be okay. But why did I believe her?
After this meeting, I started paying more attention. Her friends were no longer coming over. She spent almost all of her time in her room. Her energy levels were erratic, and she was becoming more withdrawn. I reassured myself she was just busy. After all, this was a critical year – she had exams to prepare for.
How many signs did I ignore? When I meet other parents, I hear the same question echoed: *I should have known.* And in the quiet of my own mind, I wonder if I truly did know and just didn’t want to face it.
Looking back, I can’t help but ask myself: Was I just too trusting? Was I too eager to believe the explanations I wanted to hear? At this point I never in my wildest nightmares could have foreseen what was going to happen. The upcoming events were things that “happened to other people,” not nice girls from nice, regular, normal families.
Our life was soon going to go through such an upheaval that every single aspect of Chana’s, and our family would be forever affected.
The author has started a website and online support for parents who are going on similar journeys, she can be reached at parentsbyachad@gmail.com.