Wednesday, May 31, 2006, Silver Spring, Maryland

By Yaffa Klugerman

“Ma’am?” the air conditioner technician said. “Your son is lying in the middle of the street.”

I dropped the last bag of my groceries and whirled around to face him. I had just returned from the supermarket, and my two youngest children were in the kitchen enjoying their after-school snack. Outside, our gardener was taking advantage of the clear, sunny day to mow our lawn. The air conditioner repairman had been called to check on our unit. After several seconds, the meaning of his words began to resonate, and I suddenly realized that all traffic on our street had come to a halt. I abruptly pushed our screen door open and bolted out of the house.

In the center of the street, almost directly in front of our house, lay my oldest son Dov, age 14, moaning softly as blood flowed from his ear. I quickly glanced around and saw an SUV about 50 feet away, its driver weeping inconsolably. Dov’s teachers surrounded him, blocking traffic and reassuring me that an ambulance was on the way. My breaths came in short gasps as I realized what had occurred, and I was suddenly inclined to rub my eyes to try and wake up.

Just three months ago, we had switched him to his new school, conveniently located across the street from our home. He took advantage of the proximity to our house, frequently running across the street to grab a snack or use the bathroom. When our younger children would step off their school bus in the afternoon, Dov would stand outside his school building and wave. He joked that his entire school knew where he lived.

Yet he loved his new school. He had suffered from learning issues, but his work began to improve, and soon he began bringing home papers marked with As. He began to laugh more and complain less. Because of his academic struggles, he had always been discouraged about what he would do as an adult, but for the first time, he saw his possibilities expanding.

Now he lay between his school and our house, and between life and death, struck by a vehicle on his way home for an innocent afternoon break. This was my cautious, responsible Dov, who looked both ways twice before crossing the street, unplugged the iron after each use, and walked his bike across the avenue rather than ride it. I stood frozen in place, refusing to believe the scene in front of me, until a teacher gently suggested that I try to speak with my son.

I crouched down by his side and spoke softly in his ear. “Dov,” I called. “I’m here. Help is on the way. Hold on, honey, it’s going to be OK.” The CPR class I had taken years ago came to mind, and I instinctively reached for his pulse, which was strong — a good sign. I took a deep breath, and realized that my husband needed to be informed right away. Then I had to call my neighbor to watch my children so I could accompany Dov in the ambulance. Thankfully, a teacher handed me his cell phone, and I made the necessary calls as the ambulance arrived.

En route to the hospital, I called my sister and frantically recounted what had happened, and then instructed her to call people to pray for Dov. By the time we arrived at the emergency room, it seemed like everyone knew. I ignored my ringing cell phone as I sat in the ER waiting room, where a social worker gave me water and tried to keep me calm. She reassured me that accidents like these happen all the time, and usually things turn out fine.

My husband finally arrived, and we sat together, shaking with fear, as the doctor briefed us on Dov’s condition: He had suffered a massive head injury, we were told. He would not survive.

My husband and I reeled in shock and horror. I thought of Dov crossing that street safely hundreds of times before. I remembered him bounding out of the house that morning, healthy and smiling, his blue eyes alive with anticipation for the upcoming weekend. He had been wearing the slacks and button-down shirt I had recently purchased to conform to his new dress code — a size larger than usual, since he had just grown a few inches. As he had called, “Bye, Mom,” I could faintly glimpse the glint of his braces.

Then I thought of how I cried with him as he received his first vaccinations, how I had insisted he wear a helmet when riding his bike, and the parental Internet controls I had installed on our computer. I thought of the million and one things I had done to protect him throughout his life, all the time, care, and love we had given him, only to see him, today, unconscious and dying because some speeding SUV had knocked the life out of him right in front of our house.

“I don’t understand!” I sobbed in anguish to anyone who would listen. “He was just crossing the street!”

We kept vigil at the hospital, praying for a miracle while doctors battled to save our son’s life. Hundreds of people gathered at our synagogue that evening to pray for Dov. Our parents flew into town to care for our four other children. Our relatives and friends joined us in the hospital, and my neighbor handled countless phone calls from people offering to bring food, clean our house, carpool our children, and do our laundry. My brother emailed Dov’s name around to thousands of people, asking them to pray for his nephew.

But after nine grueling days, Dov succumbed to his injuries. The following day, we buried our eldest son, and thousands of people mourned with us. For an entire week, our community cared for our family, and hundreds came to comfort us.

Weeks later, after the phone calls and condolence cards had begun to taper off, Dov’s principal arranged to have his backpack brought to us, along with the rest of the belongings he had left in his locker. I brought the backpack up to Dov’s room, which still lay untouched. His bed was made, his clothes were folded neatly in his dresser, and his New York Yankees posters still hung on his walls. I opened the backpack and took out the first paper I saw, an English test marked with a “92” on it. I sat with the test in my hands, remembering how Dov had struggled with English. I thought of how that new school had made such a difference in his life.

“Atta boy, Dov,” I whispered softly. And then I folded the test in half, closed my eyes, and wept.

Yaffa Klugerman is an associate editor at a national children’s magazine. Her freelance work has appeared in many publications, including the Forward, Lifestyles Magazine, and the New York Jewish Week.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, February 12th, 2007 | Email This Post

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