MY MIRACLE BY BASYA KOVACS

My by Basya Kovacs Miracle

We all have miraculous events that give us pause, and sometimes even reshape our lives. Reminding ourselves about these experiences allows us to stay focused on the endless blessing Hashem gives us. Sharing these defining moments can inspire others to appreciate Hashem’s endless kindness.

A Date, a Window and a Lesson Learned

“Finish your bagels before I leave the house; bagels are a choking hazard,” I warn my 10-year-old twins. “Text me when you are out of the shower,” I remind my teen before running off to work in the morning. “I know people who have slipped.” “Make sure you unplug the toaster, text me when you get there, don’t run near the steps.” My list of worries sometimes seems ridiculous, but my kids are great: they humor me and do as instructed. I wasn’t always this cautious. In fact, I used to be a pretty carefree mom. My story of extreme overprotectiveness, bordering on insane, dates back to when my oldest children were just babies. Fifteen years ago I was 22 years old and already the proud mother of a son and a daughter, Simcha and Sarah*, born 14 months apart. They were pretty easy babies, and as they got a bit older, they were super cooperative and well behaved, allowing me the illusion that I was a supermom. They slept well, they ate well, listened well and delighted me with every new stage and milestone. While other children got into mischief and danger, mine played nicely and seemed to naturally stay out of trouble. The fact that my son didn’t talk at all and was almost two years old did not concern me at all. I knew he understood what I was saying, and I could usually figure out what his one word “ba” meant. We had an understanding. Life was good. Being a mother was easy. It was a beautiful Sunday in May and excitement was in the air. My younger sister Adina had moved to Monsey after seminary and was dating a guy she seemed to like. Today was date number three, and since my parents still lived in Chicago, my husband and I were to have the honor of hosting my sister, meeting the guy she was dating, and seeing them off. I was feeling honored, and pretty excited, as not much usually happened in my sleepy neighborhood in Staten Island. We cleaned the house until it shone, dressed our two little ones in clothing that my sister deemed cute enough, and set out some cold drinks. Adina got herself ready and my husband and I calmed her nerves as well as our own, and then...it was time. Moshe walked up the path to our little townhouse, and we welcomed him into our home for some awkward conversation about traffic and the weather. We were impressed by Moshe’s maturity and struck by his handsomeness, and while there wasn’t much time to get to know him, we liked what we saw. When we felt we had done our fair share of chit chatting and analyzing we sent them off with our blessings. As soon as they were out the front door I scooped up Simcha, who was almost two at the time, and ran upstairs to my bedroom window to sneak one last peek as they walked to the car. I opened my bedroom window and Simcha and I climbed onto my bed and gave Adina one last wave and two thumbs up...and off the adorable couple went. “Job well done,” Yehuda and I congratulated ourselves, feeling very mature. Yehuda went to our nearby shul to learn and I put Sarah down for a nap.

With Sarah peacefully asleep, I went back downstairs for some puttering and Tehillim. I davened that the date should go well and that Adina should have a great time, and more importantly, to have the clarity to know if Moshe was the one. After a few minutes I noticed that the house was very quiet. Too quiet. “Simcha,” I called. No answer. No “ba.” “Simcha, where are you?” I called louder this time. My house was small. Where was he? Simcha was well behaved but he was never this quiet. Despite being pretty much nonverbal, we usually kept up a little banter while he played and I puttered. Suddenly panic stricken, I took the stairs two at a time, calling out my son’s name and flinging open doors. Bathroom first— what if there was water in the tub! No water. No Simcha. Kids bedroom—just Sarah sleeping peacefully. “Simcha, where are you?” I hollered. Then I noticed my bedroom door was open and my eyes went straight to the window. The window. The window that I had opened a few minutes before to wave one last goodbye to my sister. The window that just a few minutes before had a solid screen and was now a wide gaping hole…. I ran over to the window with dread. “Simchaaaaaaa”.... I didn’t need to look because I already knew. But I forced myself over to the bed—forced myself to look out the wide, gaping hole and there, lying on the concrete two floors below, in a pool of blood, was my son. Terror-fueled adrenaline took over. I flew down the stairs, ran out the front door and scooped up my son. I remember thinking I was holding my dead baby in my arms. In retrospect I should have never moved him, but at the time my brain was off; I was in absolute panic. My Irish neighbors had been sitting outside enjoying the particularly beautiful weather when they heard a thud. At first they figured we must be doing some spring cleaning, and were tossing discard bags out the upstairs window, but when I flew out the door a moment later and grabbed up my son, they quickly pieced together what happened and called an ambulance, which came just moments later. In a daze, I raced off to the hospital while they graciously watched Sarah, and called Yehuda.

The ambulance ride was one of dread mixed with hope, as Simcha faded in and out of consciousness. But amazingly, by the time we reached the hospital, Simcha was fully conscious. Relief began to take the place of panic. Simcha was alive. Simcha was going to be okay. He had to be okay. The next few days were nothing short of miraculous. Simcha’s vitals stayed stable. He was placed under observation, but there was no sign of brain damage—just some bruising on the right side of his head, which was the source of all the blood. We pieced together that Simcha’s fall must have been broken by the awning several feet below the window, effectively cutting his fall to the concrete in half. The neighbors later told us that from when they heard the thud of Simcha falling until they saw me fly out the front door was less than a minute—which meant that as I was checking the bathroom and then the bedroom, Simcha was falling; it all happened in a matter of moments. Another miracle. On Monday when I came to relieve Yehuda of his shift at Simcha’s bedside in the PICU, I was greeted with a surprise. “Mommy, I got booboo.” Yes, Simcha spoke his first full sentence in the hospital crib. It was as if Hashem was telling me that not only would my son be okay, he would be more than okay. We came home with Simcha on Wednesday, feeling for all the world like we had experienced techiyas hameisim.

I was different, though. Changed. I no longer let my children out of my sight even for a moment. And I no longer thought of myself as a supermom. I began to understand that while my children were well behaved, cooperative and easy, they still needed to be watched carefully. Every moment that my children were safe and healthy became a gift that I would never again take for granted. Yehuda and I started a window gate gemach, to help parents cover the expense of childproofing their home. And I became the overprotective mother that I still am today. The way I see it now is that I have been entrusted with precious gifts and can never be too careful.

*Names have been changed for privacy.

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