The room was filled with alarms, whispers, and a fear so thick it felt impossible to breathe. My mom had gone into labor weeks too early, and nothing about that day went the way it was supposed to. One moment we were rushing to the hospital, telling ourselves everything would be fine. The next, doctors were surrounding her bed, speaking in low voices, avoiding eye contact. I remember holding her hand as she tried to smile through the pain, promising us she’d be okay, even as her body was clearly giving up.
When my baby sibling was finally born, there was no celebration. No happy tears. Just exhaustion and terror. The doctors pulled us aside and said the words that still echo in my head: they didn’t think she would survive the night. Complications had taken over too fast. Her lungs were failing, her blood pressure was crashing, and there was nothing more they could do but keep her comfortable. I watched my mom’s chest rise and fall through an oxygen tube while she asked if her baby was safe.
