“I’m sending you to the hospital immediately.”

“But it’s Shabbos Chanukah tomorrow night. I can’t go anywhere today.”

My doctor raised her eyebrow. “Babies don’t take that into consideration. I don’t like your blood pressure or the monitor results. I’m calling an ambulance.”

“I don’t need an ambulance. I just need a nap. Please! I’m not due for another month.”

“Exactly. That’s why we’re going to get you to the hospital where you and the baby will be safe. Call your husband.”

I looked blankly down at my empty hand. “I don’t have my cell phone. I gave it to my kids. They went to Yerushalayim today.”

She handed me her phone.  “Call your husband right away.”

But my husband was in the middle of seder and didn’t answer the unfamiliar number. After all, I had weeks to go. Why would he anticipate an emergency?

Before I had a chance to comprehend the seriousness of the situation, the room was filled with EMTs and nurses.

“I can walk,” I insisted as they rolled up a stretcher.

“Insurance policies.” They wheeled me out of the office to the waiting ambulance.

This is so embarrassing. I don’t know how I had the headspace to think of that as I lay outside on the bustling thoroughfare. But within a few moments, all rational thoughts vanished. My doctor was right on target. I felt my body changing. Things weren’t good.

My breathing became restricted as the ambulance revved up. “We’re trying your husband constantly,” a kind EMT reassured me. “And we’ve got an emergency team waiting at the hospital.”

“But what if we don’t get there on time?”

“Don’t worry, we’ve delivered babies before.”  But I caught the glances they gave each other. My baby was in danger and needed the hospital. These technicians couldn’t help me.

With a wail, the ambulance sprang into action. Its siren rose and fell as it wove through traffic and climbed curbs, speeding its way to Yerushalayim.

The swiftness did nothing to abate my fears. I sensed the tension among the crew, the need for haste, the urgency. All around me monitors were beeping, the rhythm of the sounds echoing with the terrifying beat of my heart. I was all alone within the world of modern medicine. No one in that ambulance could help me.

“We’ve reached your husband; he’s on his way.” The EMT handed me the phone but my hands were shaking so badly that I could hardly hold it.

“Someone needs to save the baby,” I choked out.

“Five more minutes. We’ll get you there, geveret.”

But five minutes didn’t seem short enough for this baby’s life. He was counting on me.  I had protected him for eight months but I was powerless to help him now. So alone. So helpless.

So not.

My thoughts reached beyond the noise and fear, beyond this race against time. Hashem, don’t let me lose this baby. He deserves a chance in this world. A Chanukah miracle. Please!

One in the hands of many, but really only in the Hands of One.

We screeched into the parking lot of Shaare Zedek where the ambulance was met with a waiting team who rushed me inside. Despite the speed, time seemed to stand still. Machines beeped, doctors barked orders, bright lights shone.

“It’s a boy!” I grasped his tiny hand and held on tight. We’d made it.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 620)