
It doesn’t take much to transport me back to that winter morning, Chanukah 2011. The ambulance was speeding along, its sirens wailing, as it navigated snarled traffic en route to the hospital. I was alone in the back with only the Arab attendant, my husband waiting for me at the hospital.
I was petrified, my hands shaking as I sat on the stretcher and I gripped its sides as the ambulance swung in a tight turn. I was only in my eighth month and already in labor. Hurry! Hurry! I pressed my feet against the floor as if I was flooring the gas pedal.
I can’t lose this baby. I can’t. Baby! Baby, I’ve carried you and loved you and please, hang on a little bit more. You’re going to be fine. Please, baby. Be fine.
Then I was there, my husband waiting for me, and I was rushed into an emergency birth. I got one quick glimpse of my precious boy before they whisked him up to the NICU… ruddy cheeks, dark eyes. My baby. He was alive.
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