Mayim Rabim

When we were dating, and when we were engaged, I heard my soon-to-be-husband talk a lot about his rebbeim. As I planned the wedding, his biggest concern seemed to be which one should get which kibud*. Who should be mesader*? he agonized. Who should get which bracha*? To me, wrapped up in the burning question of how to get a kosher meal catered for less than $25 a plate (you can stop laughing now) and how to explain to my in-laws that they could not invite all the people they wanted to invite without giving us more money because I, myself, was paying for this wedding with the seven thousand dollars in my savings account—to me, that question seemed trivial if not insignificant.

In the end, the rebbe that my husband refers to as “my rebbe” the way Chabadniks refer to “the rebbe” had the bracha acharona*. I met him, briefly, at the chassuna*. He seemed nice. Enormous, physically, with many many children. Big black hat. Big black beard. You know. A rabbi.

When, a month or two after our wedding, I had to deal with some impossible personal problems, my husband had one piece of advice. “Call my rebbe,” he said. I didn’t do it. What did his rebbe know about the craziness in my life, the binding relationships that should not exist at all? I had my husband call. His rebbe gave me an unexpected heter*.

All right, I said.

A year later, when I was pregnant with our first child, toward the end of my pregnancy I found myself covered with the unspeakably awful rash that some women get while pregnant—they call it PUPP, which probably stands for something specific, but I came up with a different name every time. Perniciously Unpleasant Pregnancy Pustules. Plague of Utterly Putrid Putrescence. And so on. To say it itched would be failing to even hint at the utter collapse of mental balance, the unrelenting misery, the 5 AM hysteria. It was awful. Lotions and showers and oatmeal baths helped some—and it was almost Pesach, with four days of yom tov plus Shabbos.

I called his rebbe. When I got off the phone, an hour later, and showed my husband the list of notes—I could take a hot bath on yom tov, I could knit chol ha’moed—my husband’s mouth fell open in wonder. “The only thing you can’t do when you’re pregnant,” he said, “is play video games on Shabbos.”

I had that baby, after a long and difficult labor. I didn’t get my period back for a year, and then got pregnant and miscarried twice in quick succession. Already well into my thirties, with only one child to show for three pregnancies, I worried. Would I ever have another?

Another month went by with no pink line. And another. The next month, when it was the day to make a hefsek tahara, I knew I had to get it right—the next week we were going to visit my husband’s parents, in a town with no mikva. I wouldn’t come home until well after I’d ovulated. I had to go to the mikva the night before we left, or I would miss the month.

What happened? My daughter, sixteen months old, had a bad day—a cold, a tummyache, I don’t remember. One thing got on top of another and the next thing I knew, it was five minutes past shkia*. I cried.

“You could call my rebbe,” my husband suggested.

I wanted to hit him. Your rebbe can’t turn back the clock or make the sun go back up in the sky! But I called anyway. I explained. There was a long silence. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I feel terrible.” We talked about fertility, the miscarriages, my worries. Gam tzu l’tova, I kept saying. “A month is gam tzu l’tova*,” he said. “Two years is not.” But I had gotten pregnant three times, carried to term once. It would happen. I got off the phone feeling better, angry at myself but resigned.

A little while later the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID, surprised. “Hello?”

“I thought of something,” he said. “Can you tell me...” and he asked me some questions. I answered them. Pause. “I want to look something up,” he said. “Are you going to be home tonight?”

Throughout the evening, a few times, the phone rang. More questions. More long pauses. Did you look at the toilet paper? How deeply did you wipe? When? What were you thinking? Did you look to see if there was blood? Did you even glance? I answered, he paused, he asked another question. I hung up. An hour later, the phone would ring again.

At almost midnight, the phone rang. I picked it up. “It’s fine,” he said. “You can count day one tomorrow.”

I didn’t know what to say. I’d missed my hefsek tahara. I’d totally forgotten. How could it just...be okay?

”Are you sure?” I asked, immediately feeling like a complete jerk. “I’m so sorry. Of course you’re sure. I just...okay.”

I counted one the next day, and a week later I went to the mikva. And do I even need to tell you what happened next?

He’s seven months old. He has blue eyes and brown hair and smells so good. And he is named for someone who had faith in Hashem and walked into the water, because that’s what Hashem told him to do.

~ Anonymous

Anonymous is a thirty-something mother of a daughter and a son, who is unafraid to walk into the water.

===

* kibud: honor
mesader: short for “mesader kiddushin” – the person who officiates at the wedding ceremony
bracha: blessing
bracha acharona: final blessing (at the wedding ceremony)
chassuna: wedding celebration
heter: halachic dispensation
shkia: sunset
gam tzu l’tova: “There is a reason for everything” (lit. “This is also for good”)

Hirhurim has had some interesting posts recently on what is often called "halachic" or "Orthodox" inferility -- the infertility that results when an observant woman ovulates before the end of her seven "clean" days.

The posts (here and here) are based on a media controversy that began in the Israeli religious Zionist publication HaTzofeh. In a March article, Rivka Shimon, a kallah teacher who advocated the abolition of the seven "clean days" in a Maariv article two years ago, interviews Dr. Daniel Roznik, a religious gynocologist whom she evidently persuaded. Subsequent articles by Rabbi Benjamin and Noa Lau and Rabbi Yoel Katan argued that abolishing the "clean days" is not halachically feasible, and that halachic infertility should be addressed on a case-by-case basis. (The controversy is summarized in this Haaretz article, though with a somewhat anti-Orthodox bent, IMHO.) Rabbi Chaim Jachter subsequently took up this position in the Jewish Press.

Orthodox rabbis currently have certain limited means of addressing the problem at their disposal. First, there are the halachic options. Women who ovulate early may be given a heter to shorten the mandatory five-day period before hefsek taharah -- but of course, this is only effective for women with short periods who can produce a clean hefsek. Additionally, rabbis may be lenient regarding bedikot and stains during the "clean days" -- but this only limits the "clean days" to the prescribed seven; it does not help women who ovulate very early. Secondly, there are medical options. Women may use hormonal treatments or (questionable) herbal remedies to delay ovulation, or they may resort to artificial insemination (with their husbands' sperm) prior to tevilah.

Dr. Roznik is clearly a learned Jew, and he advances a number of halachic and hashkafic objections to maintaining a chumrah (stringency) that results in suffering and reduces the Jewish birthrate. He also objects strongly to the use of medical treatments for addressing a halachic problem. When Shimon asks him about hormonal treatments, he responds (my translation):

I'm shocked at this question! Where do we find that one must take medication in order to fulfil a commandment? One must realize: we are talking about hormonal treatments that definitely have no benefit for the body, and may even cause severe medical damage in time.

There may be a philosophical impasse here. For those who view rabbinic law as the human manifestation of God's will and who maintain that established Jewish custom has the status of halachah (if not a higher status), the issue is moot. The rule may be inconvenient, or even cause suffering, but if so, that is God's will. Halachah is halachah is halachah. For those of us, on the other hand, who view the sages as merely human beings (albeit holy and learned human beings with the weight of tradition on their side), the idea of halachic infertility is deeply troubling, and the idea of using medical treatments to circumvent it is, in fact, nothing short of shocking.

What can I say? We have different worldviews. Let's just hope that this remains a machloket l'shem shamayim, an argument for the sake of Heaven.

As I mentioned earlier, I recently had to start using a diaphragm because a medication that I'm taking interferes with horemonal birth control. What I didn't mention is that I continued to take the pill at the advice of the nurse practitioner who fitted me for the diaphragm. I gathered that this had something to do with the fact that diaphragms are only 80%-90% effective, and that it isn't a great idea to get pregnant while taking medication. This didn't strike me as an entirely satisfactory explanation, since the drug is class B, which means that I could stop taking it at the first sign of pregnancy with a very low chance of ill effects. I rarely argue with medical experts, however, so I took my two prescriptions -- one for a diaphragm, and one for birth control pills -- and left.

I filled the diaphragm prescription right away, but I still had a pack of birth control pills plus a few extras, so I set the pill prescription aside. I decided to give myself some time to decide whether to keep taking the pill, and maybe get a second opinion from my GP. So I put off filling the prescription until the last minute, and then I couldn't find it, and then I ran out of pills and it was Friday afternoon and I decided, to hell with it, I had a diaphragm anyway.

That was my first act of idiocy. My second was ignoring Avigayil's advice and looking at the diaphragm when I took it out yesterday morning. There was blood on it -- real blood this time. I emailed the new rabbi (more on her later) and quickly filled my prescription, but it was to late. I am still bleeding, so in accordance with her instructions I will have to consider myself niddah, barely a week after my last mikvah visit.

I couldn't bear to tell my husband that these seven extra days of celibacy are my fault for going off the pill in the middle of the month, so I told him that the spotting was probably the result of the new meds interfering with the pill. Now I feel doubly crappy -- I never lie to my husband. Maybe I'll tell him the truth when he comes home. Or maybe he'll read this post. Either way, it won't make the situation any better.

If you've ever had warts, you know how they come and go without warning, usually in groups. A while back, I had a crop of warts on my hands. I visited a dermatologist, who sprayed them with liquid nitrogen. Blisters formed, some clear, some black. A few of the black ones burst at various points, leaving my hands covered with blood.

Needless to say, the blisters elicited more comments than the warts. "Are you okay?" "Did you hurt your hands?" For a cosmetic treatment, it wasn't very pretty.

When the mikvah lady asked about them, I apologized and told her that I'd washed them as well as I could.

"That wasn't what I meant," she said. "Do they hurt? Are you seeing a doctor?"

I was relieved, but also annoyed, though not at her. I didn't feel like explaining that a doctor had given me the beauties.

Eventually, the blisters dried into scabs and then went away. No sooner had they healed, however, than a new crop of warts appeared in their place. I had my hands sprayed with liquid nitrogen a second time, and then a third. Finally, I switched to an over-the-counter salycilic acid treatment. This had the advantage of not causing blisters, but it didn't get rid of the warts, either. When the treatment ran out, I decided to simply leave them alone.

Some time later (it might have been weeks or months, I'm not sure), I noticed that the warts were shrinking. And then they were gone.

Time went on, and I got used to having wart-free hands. Then, one morning, I noticed a Thing on my right hand where one of the warts had been. It was roughly the size and shape of the wart, but it was black and didn't rise above the skin. I showed it to my husband, who shrugged. Not eager to see the dermatologist again, I decided to wait a while and see whether it went away on its own.

By the time I had to visit the mikvah, I had gotten so used to the little, unobtrusive thing that I almost forgot that it was there. After my shower, a young, friendly attendant escorted me to the mikvah and introduced herself.

"I'm new," she said. We made a little bit of small talk, and I showed her my hands.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Um, I don't know. I just woke up one morning and it was there."

She smiled nervously. "Isn't it funny how your body just does these weird things?"

I smiled back, not sure what to say.

"Did you try to get it off?"

It had only been there for two or three weeks, but I was already so accustomed to its presence that I felt like I was being asked whether I'd made a good faith effort to remove my nose.

"Um, I washed it," I said lamely.

"Hmm, well," she said, "let me ask [the head attendant]." She smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. I just wouldn't want your tevilah not to be kosher."

She was so kind, and so apologetic, that as she left the room I thought to myself that it would be nice if she were my attendant next time. At the same time, I was annoyed and a little bit nervous. I couldn't imagine that the Thing would be declared a chatstista, as it was obviously under the skin. But then, if I was so sure, why wasn't she?

The young attendant returned with her supervisor, who took my hand and examined the Thing.

"Did you rub it?" she asked.

"Yes," I responded, not sure whether or not I was answering her question.

"Could you rub it again. With the robe." It was more of a command than a question. I took the corner of my robe and rubbed the hapless Thing.

"If it doesn't come off, it's under the skin," she declared. "No problem." And that was that.

This was months ago, and I'm still not sure what I think of the whole affair. Intellectually, I realize that it's not worth getting hung up on. The mikvah attendants did their job, I did mine, and we all lived happlily ever after. Still, the incident has left me with a vague sense of irritation at the System, a System that turns every bodily blemish into an issue. There is a positive side to this, of course; the more attention we pay to our bodies, the more likely we are to become aware of any medical condition before it becomes serious. And yet. . .

I haven't seen the young mikvah attendant since that night. I'm sure that this has nothing to do with me, but I sometimes wonder why she didn't stay (or, if she did, where she's been hiding). As for the Thing, it went away as suddenly as it appeared.

All my menstruating life, I've had irregular periods. I've gone as long as 8 months without a period (I wasn't ovulating), but generally I fall in the 35-45 day range. In fact, over most of my married life, I've had a 33-38 day cycle averaging about 35 days long. Even after my pregnancies I reverted back to my predictable irregular/long cycle.

I have gotten use to it; it has it's pluses and minuses.

Plus - I only get my period about 9 times a year. I have a long Tahor time. I have trouble remembering the harchokas because of it. I usually feel free to not have to worry about is my period coming? Do I need to wear a black skirt just in case?

Minus - I only ovulate about 9 times a year. I have a lesser chance of getting pregnant because I'm ovulating less. Right now, while on birth control, this is not such a big deal.

So I made peace with the whole long/irregular cycle deal a long time ago. G-d and I made a deal - he'll let me have those babies (even with an infertility issue) and I won't complain about not ovulating so much.

But G-d is screwing with the deal now. The last 3 months my cycle has come the day after my benoni or chodesh. That's right. I've got a flipping 30 day cycle now. This is not okay G-d. This is definitely a violation of our deal.

I am not used to this. I've never had a cycle this short in my life. I feel like I barely got home from the mikvah and boom, I'm niddah again. How do people deal with this? Or people with 28 day cycles who can never seem to make hefsek until the seventh day (or later)?

I don't want to try and mess with "nature", I'm taking enough meds as it is, but I would like to try and figure out a way to make my period longer again. I've been menstruating the same way for 15+ years and this is a big change for me.

My husband hates it.

Unfortunately, using a diaphragm is our only option without having a halachic or medical issue. I'm terrified of an IUD, and hormonal birth control (pill, norplant, seasonal, etc) are contra-indicated because of a medical condition (not to mention the fact they make me NERVOUS). And my husband is complaining because he can "feel" the diaphragm.

So I have a conondrum - I am using the diaphragm on mikvah night and in that first week when I know I'm ovulating. And so far, I've been using it the rest of the time, but I'm beginning to consider not using it towards the end of my cycle. BUT! that puts me at some risk - because my cycle is irregular, without a ovulation kit or a sonogram really, I don't know if I'm ovulating at the time we're together. So there is a chance, no matter how small it is.

But the percentage of that chance is about the same as the percentage of me that secretly wants to get pregnant again. But my marriage can't handle another pregnancy right now.

My husband says he is willing to use a condom (!) but that I'm the one that has to ask the Rov (he's too embarrassed). I don't feel like I can do it.

To this is what goes through my head about this whole thing:
Does this make me a bad Jew because I am using birth control? Does this make me a bad mother because I can barely take care of the kids as it is and now I want another one? Does this make me a selfish woman because I want to be pregnant? Does this make me a weak person because I can't be "man enough" to ask the Rov such a shayla?

I can't afford to get pregnant now, even though I want to. My body, mind and soul can't handle it. But I really, really, really have the baby fever, bad.

Surgery is a pain, literally... and even more so when it has to do with female areas. You already have to get over the fact that doctors are involved in every aspect of your cycle when you go through infertility, but walking into a cold room and positioning yourself on the operating table (complete with stirrups I might add) you start to feel like you no longer have any "private" parts.

All this aside, I'm finding myself in a weird place after having this surgery. I confirmed with my doctor repeatedly (actually my husband did since I was still "out of it"), that absolutely no uterine blood was shed during my surgery. So the blood that I am seeing is from other areas, and is not blood that will make me a niddah. The doctor said no intimate contact until the next visit, so I am finding myself in the position of being "allowed" to my husband via taharat hamishpacha, but "forbidden via doctors."

I've had "non niddah" spotting from other procedures before, but never this strong or for this long... and they haven't forbidden relations until now. I guess I'm starting to see how the harchochos are supposed to help us. The first few nights my husband slept in a separate bed so he wouldn't jostle me, and last night he slept in the same bed with me. It was easier to resist wanting to hug and cuddle with him when he was not right there next to me. Even knowing that if he were to hug me and accidentally hit my suture area it would SMART (which it did) didn't keep me away.

Still, I sort of feel like I am living in a parallel universe for a little while. It's weird to change a maxi pad and then go off to hug my husband. It's reminding me a little of my first marriage (where I did not keep taharat hamishpacha), and I am deciding definitively that I like life with the practice — despite all the rules and hurdles — much better than my life without it. Maybe it's just me, but day-to-day life seems more spiritual that way.

I guess this experience is helping me to appreciate what I have, by comparing it to what it could be... so I hope that next time I actually am bleeding niddah, I won't be so bothered by having to be separate from him. We'll see...

Life has been a little hectic lately, but I was able to take the time to attend the Nishmat’s Women’s Health and Halacha Day this past Sunday. Sorry Persephone, but I opted for a semi-coherent post today rather than an incoherent one yesterday.

The day opened with an address by Dr. Deena Zimmerman which served as an overview of the various ways in which women’s health issues and halacha intersect, specifically highlighting the areas in which yoatzot can be most useful. The backbone of her lecture was sample questions from the “Ask the Yoetzet” website, some that have been posted on the site and some that have not been. She presented the issues in a kind of chronological order, from the kallah to menopause and from hymenectomy to hysterectomy. She emphasized that much of the frustration experienced by who observe Taharat ha-Mishpacha comes from a lack of education and unnecessary stringency. In her view the yoetzet serves an educational role, helping women in sometimes complicated situations to elucidate the issues in order to know what to ask. Most interesting were the things she has learned as a yoetzet that she would occasionally interject. One thing she was said is that she was astounded by the number of women who have admitted to her that they have slipped up and had sex while in niddah. To her there is sound reason for harchakot. I was amazed at the number of women who practice niddah based on misinformation.

After lunch the program broke up into four sessions. I chose the one on “Intimacy and the Married Couple” since I have never attended any type of lecture on the subject (though in light of the recent discussion on this site I would have loved to weigh in on what was said at the “Infertility and Orthodoxy” session.) Bracha Rutner, a paid yoetzet at Riverdale Jewish Center, went through various sources showing Judaism’s positive attitude toward sex and sexuality. She went further to show how Judaism views not as a means of receiving pleasure, but rather as a way of giving to your spouse. When this is done, sex is a balance of the physical, emotional, and spiritual, and of the highest level. The second half of this speech was given by Esther Feuer, a bubby-type woman who is an OB/GYN Nurse practitioner and sex therapist in Brooklyn. She went through female sexual dysfunction, showing that painful intercourse is never normal, and should be examined for either medical or psychological causes. She really was wonderful, and it is nice to know that there are people like her out there, helping even the most right wing among us.

I was not able to stay for the next round of sessions, so I apologize that the recap is incomplete.

Looking back, I’m glad I attended. While a lot of the information was not new to me, and there wasn’t so much by way of discussion because of time constraints, I’m happy I was able to support a conference on this topic. Walking away, I felt good to know that something that is so central to my life is like that for other women too, and that open dialogue on the subject will only serve to better the lives of observant women. So let’s do that, okay?

For those of you in the New York area, Nishmat is hosting "Women’s Health and Halacha Day" this Sunday, May 15.

There's info here: http://www.yoatzot.org/healthday_LI.php

This is appropriate to Mayim Rabim:

Opening Session: “Scenes from a Jewish Marriage:
Taharat HaMishpacha from Chupah to Menopause".
Deena Zimmerman, M. D., Yoetzet Halacha

This intrigues me:

Infertility and the Orthodox Couple.
Matthew A. Cohen, M. D., Dassi Jacobson, Ph. D., Zamira Ostrowski, Yoetzet Halacha

Has anyone noticed that infertility is the hot topic among Jewish organizations these days?

And this was just funny:

"Baby is available from 10:30 a.m. through 4:15 p.m."

Hmmm... for rent or purchase? ;)

primal waters of
soul stirring live drown the howls
from my empty womb

For those of you playing along at home, I thought I'd post a quick follow-up to this post. I was not niddah at the second Seder, so tricky wine issues were avoided. This morning, my reproductive system was kind enough to react properly to the progesterone withdrawal. It's been so long since I was niddah...I was almost convinced that I would miss it.

Nah. I'd still much rather go home and cuddle with my husband tonight. Oh well.

As you may recall, my first go at progesterone-induced menstruation didn't work so well. Shortly I went back to the doctor, got a prescription for a stronger version of the hormone, and was told to start "whenever." I carefully counted days in the calendar; it wouldn't do to have my tevila fall out on any of the festival days of Passover (first two or last two) if it could be avoided, particularly since for the first days we would not be within walking distance of a mikvah. It would also be preferable not to have to make a hefsek on first days (nowhere near a rabbi I trust to ask a shailah if necessary), and my husband will be away for chol hamoed (intermediate days of the holiday) so I shouldn't go to the mikvah then, and on such-and-such day in early May we already have evening plans with a big group of friends and I can't gracefully bow out so better to time the mikvah for later than that...

Whew, OK. Started the progesterone this past Sunday evening. It means that this cycle, my first off of birth control, is going to end up well over one hundred days. I kind of miss my period (though I'm not sure I miss actually being niddah). It will be nice to see it again.

I checked the calendar again last night. If my body reacts to this stronger progesterone now the way it did when I used it years ago, I should start bleeding on the third day after the last pill. Which is...Sunday. Before the second Seder. And, of course, we will be at another family's home, at a meal with twenty people, where the minhag (custom) is to pour each glass of wine for the person sitting next to you, of course. And I will sit next to my husband.

Of course.

I still don't know whether I am niddah. As of when Shabbat started, there was still only a little bit of spotting. Late Friday night I got frustrated and did a bedikah, thinking that it would probably be red and I could at least have the closure of knowing my status. Nope...brown, and not clearly a particular yellowish-brown shade that I know is okay. No particulary reddish spots either, and a few bits of very dark brown that could be problematic. So...we slept on separate beds, but in the morning we still exchanged a brief kiss. I did another bedikah (don't ask me why, since there was no reason to do so that I can see) and it was just as confusing as the one from last night. The spotting was practically nonexistent during the day, and we hugged a couple of times, though we did nothing more than that. At no point did I say to mysef or to my husband, "I am niddah." Shabbat is over and I'm still getting only little bits of brown dribbles. If I hadn't done those bedikot, I coud probably conclusively say that I'm not niddah...but I did them, they're there, and I have to deal with this in-between-ness now.

I don't generally bring T"H shailot to the rabbi of our shul; I've heard through the grapevine that he's not the best person to go to with those things, and besides I prefer to keep this area of my life separate from my shul life in general. We are privileged to live in a community where that separation is possible (multiple rabbis in our city), but of course the rabbi I usually go to with these questions was not easily reachable on Shabbat. I couldn't get in touch with him shortly after Shabbat this evening either (I don't have his home number....hmmm....maybe time for a new T"H rabbi?) so I'm still unsure of my status. And mad at myself for (what feels like) squandering my ast few days of not being niddah. And frustrated with my indecisive uterus.

UPDATE as of Sunday noon-ish: Asked a shaila. I'm not niddah. I shouldn't have done the bedikot, but they were OK anyway. Got a bit of conversation out of it too, some of which I appreciated (explaining why the bedikot were OK) and some of which I smiled politely at (stories about women who were told by their doctors they couldn't conceive and then did, stuff about Chana's prayers being answered, etc.). I truly appreciate that he took the time to sit with me and that he was trying to make me feel better, but really all I wanted to do was run back out to the car and kiss my husband.

Heh. That has the possibility of becoming the most popular post title around here. It's exactly how I feel right now, though. My husband and I have had sex once in the past two weeks (and it was about a week ago, I think). We've both wanted it, but there was always some reason...I was tired, he was tired, we needed to clean up for Shabbat dinner guests, we needed to set up for Shabbat lunch guests, we needed to clean up after Shabbat guests, I was sleepy from an after-work cocktail, he had a headache from fasting...

Now, I'm spotting. Maybe. I'm not looking for it, of course. I'm wearing my nice dark underwear, and I haven't felt a hargasha (does anyone?), but there is definite dark stuff and some external wetness. I took my fifth daily progesterone pill last Saturday. It's supposed to take seven to ten days before my period arrives, but what's twenty-four or thirty hours between a girl and her uterus? I can't really complain, medically speaking. Maybe it's the herbal supplements I started taking last night to help regulate my cycle. Maybe it's the raspberry leaf tea I started on again when I had my first twingy cramps two days ago. Maybe it's because I fasted yesterday. Maybe it's just my body overachieving, reacting to the progesterone drop just a tad sooner than expected, just to show me that it can.

Technically, I'm not niddah yet. It's just a little spotting, and I'm under no obligation to do a bedika. I'm torn between declaring myself niddah so I can start the count today, and pretending I don't notice so I can give my husband a proper hug and kiss when I get home this afternoon, before we rush out again before Shabbat. Sex tonight is right out, of course; intellectually, I know that I'm spotting, and besides I'm likely to have a steady flow before we get home from what is shaping up to be a very long dinner.

It'll be a nice break from the pressure to have sex (not that we had much of it in the past month or so...a 70+ day cycle can do that to you). But I'm just not ready for separation. I jumped out of bed at five o'clock this morning to make the very first local minyan, so I could hear Megillat Esther before work...no early-morning cuddling for us. I came home to have my se'ueda (nothing too special) and gobbled it down in front of the computer after the obligatory chag same'ach phone calls to relatives in other time zones. My husband, meanwhile, was still slowly waking up. I gave him a quick kiss as I rushed out the door, leaving my "insurance policy" (a Gladrag) on the dresser. I knew I should have gone back to stuff it into my purse.

I'm crampy and cranky and hormonal and the last thing I need right now is more indecision.

11:30 Saturday night. My husband gets home, sees the envelope on the kitchen counter with my name on it, grabs it, slams the door behind him. Doesn’t wake the kids. I sit in bed, reading, not reading, waiting for him to return. 10 minutes later, he saunters into the bedroom. “I dropped it off. In the rabbi’s mailbox. It’s late. He didn’t open the door.”

Midnight. Phone rings. It’s the rabbi. My husband answers. “No, it’s not too late. Thanks for calling. She’s right here.” I take the phone. The soft, soothing voice of my niddah rabbi on the other end. “Mrs. X? I’m not sure what the shaelah is.”

So I tell him that the last three periods have been weird, but he knows this already because I’ve called him so many times, dropped off stained underwear and not-quite-clean bedikahs, waited for the verdict, which was always that they were fine, I could keep counting, hold my mikvah date, wouldn’t have to delay our separation any longer.

Until tonight.

I tell him about the four days of dark spotting at the beginning. He remembers from my phone call asking whether I was officially a niddah. I tell him about my four days of bright red heavy flow, how I’ve never had that many before. I started craving meat and bought chopped liver for Shabbat lunch because my iron was so low. I tell him how I tried on day five, laughing all the while, to get a clean hefsek, but there was no way that was happening, and I tell him how on day six, erev Shabbat, I didn’t even bother because the bleeding was so heavy. Then I tell him about how I tried again on Shabbat, and I surprised even myself by getting a clean hefsek, and I tell him how later that night, the blood was back again and bright red, and that’s my question, that’s what he’s looking at on the pad that I stuffed in an envelope for his scrutiny.

The rabbi is quiet. He is thinking, maybe he is trying to find a way to make it not niddah. “It IS red,” he says. It’s the first time in nearly five years of marriage that he’s told me I had to start all over again, that I couldn’t keep counting down to the day when I could embrace my husband after the peace of the mikvah waters. He is quiet when he says, “Maybe you should go to your doctor, Mrs. X. I don’t want it to be fibroids or something.”

I’d heard urban legends of niddah-expert rabbis catching cysts, cancer, and other conditions from simply looking at a stain and talking with a woman, but this was my first time experiencing it. He repeated what my midwife had said when I called her, panicked, earlier in the week. I felt cold though the furnace churned in the basement.

I hung up the phone and went to my computer, clicked on a search engine, typed in “fibroids.” I had two precious babies upstairs, 19 months apart, whom I had no trouble conceiving, no trouble carrying, no trouble birthing. Would I now face fertility troubles like my sister, my friends, so many people I knew? My husband walked in. “Please,” he pleaded. “Please turn off the computer and go to bed. This won’t help. You’ll just scare yourself.”

I looked at him. Oh how I missed him, and it hadn’t even been that long. We were brazen with our together days, fighting and insisting it’s ok if we don’t hug tonight, we always have tomorrow. I remembered what my kallah teacher had said, niddah sensitizes you to the details of life. I never thought I’d care whether I could pass the salt to him or not, but I do.

I shut down the computer, went upstairs. Moonlight streamed through the cracks in my bamboo shades. I listened for my children’s sweet breathing, saw my husband’s darkened form, banished in his bed against the wall. His body lifted and released. He slept.

The next day, as twilight neared, my hefsek was clear. Clean white. I began counting. Although it was only two days longer that we were apart this time, the week ached as it crept along. I missed my husband. My bed was huge, an empty sea, a lonely raft. Still, I was amazed at how my rabbi, with no medical training, could predict a condition by the strength of his Torah knowledge. I’d been questioning, cynical, stopped covering my hair four months before. I was fed up with people around me meticulously checking lettuce for bugs but trusting their children to unlicensed, dangerous day cares because they were run by Jews. I judged everyone harshly, seeing people walk the legal line of Halachah but ignore its ethical mandates. I wished I could take my niddah questions to a woman, hated having to ask men for permission to keep counting. I kept hitting my head on this glass ceiling. It was everywhere. I didn’t want to be kept in a corner.

But my compassionate rabbi, he knew. It’s eerie how Torah has everything, is all-knowing, far-reaching. Where was God in all this? I hadn’t thought of Him in ages.

The week passed. On Sunday, my husband left on a four-day business trip. That night, with the children tucked into sleep and the babysitter sitting on my couch, it was the first time I went to the mikvah knowing I’d come home to no waiting arms.

There was a line at the reception desk, so many women needing to purify themselves. I paid my money, walked to room 13, took off my clothes and filled the tub. Forty-five minutes later, I descended into the warm water of the mikvah, got to the platform and turned toward the wall. I could hear my breath against the tiles.

Taking a deep breath, I submerged. “Do it again,” she said. No one had ever told me that before.

I focused on the shiny blue of the pristine tiles; the water gulped as I went under. “Go deeper,” she said.

Third time, my hands massaged the warm water, I bent my knees, buried myself in the water’s promise. When I emerged, the mikvah lady announced, “Kosher.”

A second time. “Kosher.” A third time. “Kosher.” Then she stepped out of the room as I had asked her to and left me alone for that minute that I treasure each time, my one chance to contemplate and connect with the Source. “Please,” I whispered to the tiles. “Set me straight. Remind me that You’re here. Help me connect with what is true. Please.” Then I turned, ascended each careful step until the cold air hit my warm, wet body. I burrowed into my robe and returned to the world someone new.

~ Leah

Leah is a 33-year-old ba'alat teshuvah living in the Midwest region of the United States. A follow-up visit with her doctor revealed no medical problems.

This cycle has been going for months. OK, only two months and change, but that's plenty. I know the body takes time to adjust after going off of hormonal contraceptives, and I was never regular before, but not having a "break" is starting to annoy me. It's not that I want to be completed separated from my husband. On the contrary, I love cuddling before I get out of bed in the morning and exchanging a kiss when he comes home at night. And he's not pressuring me for unwanted sex...but that pressure is in the air just the same. After a few years of the "get it in now while you can" attitude, I can't help but think of being tehorah as a race against a deadline.

It doesn't help that for the first half of this cycle we thought that I just might ovulate on my own, so we tried for conception at every opportunity for a few weeks...now we're just tired. After all, we met and exceed our Intercourse Quota for one tehorah-phase fairly early on, and putting that aside, every-other-day sex is a tough act to follow (so much so that starting up again feel like an unspoken vow to go back to that rate, and we'r enot up to the challenge just now.) I feel guilty when I drop off to sleep without even a half-hearted attempt for the sixth, eighth, or tenth night in a row (even though my husband does the same, though unfortunately not on the same nights). I feel unattractive and asexual, but I can't be bothered to get myself excited enough to put on sexy lingerie or plot a mini-seduction...it's useless anyway, since there's a good chance one of us will choose to prioritize sleep or housework or some other task. I never thought the sexual excitement could drop out of our relationship so quickly.

I just filled a prescription for progesterone capsules...a few days of those, a few days off, and I should be niddah again. There's a chance that this could kick-start my reproductive system, though the more likely possibility is another anovulatory cycle and a PCOS diagnosis. I hope, though, that this break will be just what we need to revitalize our sex life, because if there's a long road ahead, at least the journey should be fun.