"I did not want the children to come home and see a sick mother in bed"

Hani Gross (40), a calligraphy artist from the settlement of Nitzan, remembers well the moments when her body began to signal that something was wrong. "At first it was strange, not scary. I felt a change in my vision, but I was told that everything was fine," she recalls. "Later, my left leg started to go numb. It didn't hurt, so I didn't attach importance to it. My right leg joined in, and then my hand.

Slowly, I turned from an active teacher who never stops moving into a woman who calls her husband to come pick her up from work because she can't walk five minutes to the house." Hani says that the best way to explain the feeling is to imagine that the leg is made of concrete. "Every step felt like lifting a heavy block. In the summer, I felt as if my legs were burning."

Gross grew up in Har Nof in Jerusalem, the daughter of parents who immigrated to Israel and became religious. After her national service, she studied graphic design and teaching at the Emuna College, where she was first exposed to the world of calligraphy. "It was just a small spark. I didn't know then that it would become such a significant part of my life."

"When the results arrived, there was no longer any doubt"

After her marriage to Ariel (41), who works in information security and is one of the evacuees from Gush Katif, the family lived for almost a decade in Kiryat Arba, where Hani worked as a teacher for 11 years. "My last school year there was a particularly difficult year, with a non-stop wave of attacks. My students lost family members, and people I worked alongside were also murdered. When we arrived in Nitzan, we felt that we needed a new beginning. Just then our youngest daughter, Reshit, was born. It was a new beginning in our lives, with hopes and dreams that every young couple has when they enter a new home."

However, at the same time, and without realizing it, Hani's body began to send warning signs. "Today I know that the first sign was actually in the eyes," she says. "I felt that something had changed in my vision. It didn't hurt, I didn't see blurry in a dramatic way, I just felt that something was different. I thought it might be related to the fact that I wear glasses. I went for a check-up at an optician, I was told that everything was fine, and I returned home calm. I am not one of those people who argue with professionals. They said everything is fine? As far as I'm concerned, everything is fine. Only years later did it turn out that even then the optic nerve in my left eye was damaged."

After a series of tests, Hani was referred to a neurologist, who raised the suspicion of multiple sclerosis. "I didn't search for information on Google. I only heard that I needed to do an MRI, and I understood that it wasn't something simple. When the results arrived, there was no longer any doubt. It was also immediately clear that it was the more difficult type of sclerosis, progressive sclerosis."

First reaction

"I cried, and a lot. I gave space to the pain. I think it's important, and in retrospect, I would have done exactly that. I didn't try to be strong by force. First of all, it hurt."

Unlike many who choose to hide their illness, Hani chose to share. "After the big cry, I started to share. From the first day, I called my mother, my sisters, and with each of them, I had a conversation. I told friends. I wasn't ashamed, on the contrary. I discovered that the more I talk, the more I process what I'm going through." Very quickly, according to her, this choice proved itself.

"That same evening I also spoke with my psychologist, who was already accompanying me, and she told me that the choice to talk is the best thing I am doing for myself. Later, when I told people around me about it, maybe for the first time I was a little embarrassed and used the word 'treating'. But I opened up, and I saw that it is very appreciated. Really, within a short time from the moment of diagnosis, people started turning to me. Women dealing with illnesses, mothers in crises, people who were looking for hope. I understood that my story no longer belongs only to me."

"I didn't ask why me"

In terms of faith, she says, there were many conversations with the Almighty, but there were almost no questions of anger. "I wasn't in the experience or thought of 'why me' at all. I asked more: what now? How do we continue from here? What is happening here? I understood that if I start searching the web for what the future will look like, I will only be afraid. No one knows what will be tomorrow. Not me and not my neighbor. Therefore, I decided to deal with what is in my control, how I progress, and what I can do."

What did you do in terms of employment? Did you have the option to continue working as a teacher?

"Unfortunately not. The disease forced me to leave teaching. My vision was damaged, my memory was damaged, I had balance problems and endless fatigue. I understood that I was simply unable to continue. As part of what I did to promote myself and not sink into self-pity, I turned to rehabilitation. At the same time, I continued to receive dedicated support from the neurologist who diagnosed me with sclerosis. I found myself in physiotherapy, hydrotherapy, and occupational therapy treatments, and I do all of them to this day. It's hard, exhausting, but it brings back my abilities. Thanks to this work, I stopped limping, which was in a really bad state at the beginning."

She also told the children about the disease from the beginning, and they gave her a lot of strength and confidence. "I told myself that I don't want them to come home and see me in bed. I got used to resting after dropping them off at educational institutions, so that when they return I will be present. Always dressed carefully, functioning. True, I can't run a marathon with them, but I am here."

Her husband has been by her side in the struggle from the first day. The challenge for the two took another turn when Ariel was drafted during Simchat Torah 5784. "Suddenly I found myself alone in front of everything. But even the older children understood that there is a mission here. They would tell the little ones: Dad is not here and Mom has sclerosis, so we are all pitching in."

Precisely out of the difficulty, Hani began to lead the support system for the families of the mobilized in the settlement. "If I had stayed in the place of self-pity, I would have just whined. Instead, I chose to help others. Today we take care of cakes for Shabbat, activities for children, and small things that remind families that they are not alone. At first, there were a lot of volunteers, but naturally, after the initial enthusiasm, people return to their routine and it is difficult to maintain it. Therefore, I took the reins, and I am of course doing everything possible within my capabilities and taking care of myself."

"Sclerosis taught me to see gifts"

Today, five years after the diagnosis, Hani gives a personal show in which she tells her story. "I don't hide the pain. I tell everything, but in the end, I say: we don't choose our challenges, but the way to deal with them. True, the sclerosis stopped me, forced me to slow down, but it also taught me to see gifts. I am grateful for my right hand, which allows me to continue creating. I am grateful for my children, for my husband, for everything I have. For the fact that I chose art, which also allows me to continue working and also frees me. This is not the gift I would have chosen to receive, but I choose every day anew what to do with it."