We cry out and He responds

Seated on a couch in the doula’s living room, one of a dozen women shifting uncomfortably, I wondered who it would be. Shulamis, the birthing instructor, had just dropped a bomb of a statistic for us first-timers: “One in ten women will have a caesarean section, whether due to fetal distress, lack of progress, maternal danger, or other causes,” she declared.

I tried to maintain an impassive face while smugly scanning the room, deliberating over who this unfortunate woman would be. Perhaps the nervous girl in the corner who, for the duration of our monthlong course, appeared to be on the verge of a panic attack? Or the petite little thing who looked too young to be having a baby? One thing was certain: It would not be me.

Three weeks later, in the maternity ward, the pain too intense to talk, I struggled to catch the attention of the nurses chatting opposite my post-C-section room. To no avail. My voice refused to amplify above the faintest murmur, and the call button seemed to have quit from overuse. It was just me alone with pain so intense it radiated to every corner of my curtained cubicle.

I thought of my fragile baby boy tucked away in the NICU, a three-and-a-half-pound bundle alone in his incubator. How would I ever muster the strength to visit him if I was too weak to articulate above a whisper?