Three women share their stories of losing a loved one after a prolonged period of pain, and grappling with the feeling of relief that accompanied their passing
I
was in my mid-thirties, my oldest 12, and my youngest only 11 months when our little boy was born at 23 weeks, after a pregnancy that had mostly been spent on bed rest.
I was already in the hospital due to a problem that had arisen, when labor set in. I was terrified. I begged the doctors and midwives to do whatever they could to halt the contractions, but they refused to intervene, as it was against protocol. When the baby was born they discovered a clot inside me that was so large, it weighed more than the baby himself, and had posed severe danger to my health.
That miracle would turn out to be one of the many we would experience throughout the month our baby lived.
In the beginning, we were hopeful, believing our son had a chance. Yet as the days progressed, so did the complications and the dire prognoses. Every day brought with it a brand-new fight. I was exhausted from the pregnancy, from the birth — I’d had six blood transfusions — not to mention my five kids back home who needed my care, including my not-yet one-year-old.
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