Featured in 2015 Spring Issue of Rambunctious
By Aastha Thakar, ’18
I felt like a soulless body. I was so excited about my child. I spent every night and day imagining me with it. How I would feed it, play with it, sing it lullabies until its eyes got heavy and drifted off to sleep with sweet dreams. My hopes and dreams were almost shattered. I still had a little bit of hope left. My life seems meaningless. I wish that this was a nightmare. When I wake up, everything will be back to normal and my child will be okay. The reassurance fails, and panic and sadness takes over. I feel helpless. What did I do to deserve this? Why did this have to happen to me? Now I sit on the edge of the bed, I had to make a quick decision. A decision involving a risk as great as death. I chastised myself for not being careful on the stairs. I tripped and tumbled to the floor, resulting in intense pain.
“I’m sorry,” said the doctor. “But we have to make a quick decision. The chances of both mother and baby surviving are very slim. So only the mother or child can be saved.” I felt like the world ended before it even began. Even if the doctor was talking to my family the decision is mine. I want to see my child in this world. It can’t end like this. My child is another reason to live. I had so many hopes and dreams for it. I have faith that my hopes and dreams will come true. I have faith that me and my child will both overcome this obstacle and live life together, happily. It was going to be either both of us or neither.
“Doctor,” I said, “Save us both.”