My wife Nava and I were married 25 years ago. Shortly after our wedding, we found out that we were expecting our first child.

At the end of the sixth month, complications arose, and Nava had to go to the hospital. The baby, a girl, was born, but lived for only an hour.

We returned to our empty home and tried to deal with the loss. We decided to try again for a healthy child.

The next time around, the pregnancy seemed to go normally. After nine months, we found ourselves traveling once again to the hospital, our lips uttering words of prayer that things should just go well.

The doctor came out of the delivery room with a solemn expression on his face that sank my heart. “Not again,” I thought to myself despairingly.

The doctor informed me that I had a baby boy, alive but with many health problems. The joy that the baby was alive made me forget the complications for the moment – a very brief moment.

My wife sat near the baby in the hospital, day and night. For four harrowing months, she hardly came home. It’s difficult for me even to recall that horrific time.

In the physical sense, our prayers didn’t help. After four months, my wife returned home without the child. He did not make it.

This was even harder than the first time. I felt that I was about to explode. Friends and neighbors looked at me with absolute pity. I could read their minds: “Look at that poor man; he has already lost two children.”

My wife traveled to the Lubavitcher Rebbe to receive his blessing. She burst into tears and asked the Rebbe for a blessing to have children. She said that she couldn’t take it anymore, and she wanted a living and healthy child.

The Rebbe merely looked at her with kindly eyes, but said nothing.

The third pregnancy was a repeat of the previous ones. The hopes, the prayers, the expectations, and the great disappointment. This time, the baby lived for six months before passing away. The baby was interred next to his other siblings.

From then on, it had already become a grim routine. My wife would become pregnant, go to the hospital... and give birth to an unviable child. We would go back home and recuperate, but we remained unbroken – until the next time. Five, yes, five more agonizing times – our hopes and anticipation ended in grief and bitter frustration.

My wife wrote many times to the Lubavitcher Rebbe requesting a blessing, yet the Rebbe did not respond.

During Nava’s ninth pregnancy, the doctors revealed that she was carrying twins. This led them to draw two conclusions: First, it was imperative for Nava to remain under observation from the fourth month, and second, in light of her previous history, she must abort one of the fetuses, as giving birth to twins would endanger her life.

It was 1993, after the Rebbe had suffered a stroke, and the Rebbe no longer spoke nor responded to letters personally. The new order was that the secretary went in and asked the Rebbe to reply with a nod or a shake of his head.

Nava wrote to the Rebbe –again. We are believing Jews, who know the power of a tzaddik. Two days later, we received a call from the secretary. The Rebbe had indicated that she should not go to the hospital for observation; rather, she should arrange for a personal attendant to help her until the birth. After a few days, we received a letter in the mail. The Rebbe had sent Nava three dollars, apparently for her and the twins.

The doctor at Long Island Jewish Hospital, an observant Jew, opened his eyes in shock when we informed him that Nava wanted to check out of the hospital and spend the pregnancy at home. “Do you understand what you’re about to do? Do you understand that you’re endangering your wife because of the advice of some rabbi? What does a rabbi know about this?”

Of course, they wouldn’t release us from the hospital until we signed a form declaring that we accept all responsibility for whatever happens. Only after we signed did the doctors agree to release Nava.