As I place the potato kugel into the oven, tears well in my eyes.

“I’m alive! I’m here, making kugel in my kitchen for the first time in a year. I’m so, so lucky!”

Two hours later, my older son Doniel nearly knocks me down with a huge hug as he enters the kitchen.

“Kugel? Yum! Did you really make that, or did someone send it over?”

I laugh. “I made it. Can you believe I had the strength to make something for Shabbos?”

I wink at my two other kids, Uri and Tamar, who need a moment to pick their jaws up off the floor.

Tamar sits down and digs into her kugel. Around a mouthful, she announces, “Mommy is the best cook in the world! I missed this kugel!”

My heart swells. This potato kugel differed from the hundreds I’d made before. It had the same ingredients. But as I watch my family eating their steaming slices, I can tell that to them it tastes like love, normalcy, and safety.

Their mother is strong enough to cook their food.

Chapter 1: The Mountain Climber

Three a.m.

I awoke from a fitful sleep, moonlight trickling into my room. The house was silent, my family sleeping deeply. I didn’t feel tranquil. I was stressed about the campaign I’d be running in the morning. Oh, what a day I had ahead of me! My thoughts turned automatically to the marketing launch I’d be rolling out to my team in just seven hours. I still didn’t have a hook.

Wait… seven hours — that’s it! I grabbed the notebook next to my bed and started drafting an idea about 7.34 hours of sleep, the average amount sleep an American adult gets. It was a brilliant angle that would dovetail well with the baby sleep series we were about to run.

“Batya?” Moshe’s groggy voice jolted me out of my flow. “Are you working? Now?” Even half asleep, his disappointment was clear.

“I — umm — was just getting back to sleep,” I confessed, embarrassed that I’d  been caught in the act. Again.

In the early years, while Moshe learned, I went from job to job trying to find something that paid the bills — and that I was passionate about. Then, after struggling with a non-sleeping baby and unsatisfactory resources, I opened a baby-sleep-coaching business. I was drawn to helping other mothers manage better and regain control of their lives. Baruch Hashem, it took off. By the time I had Adina, beautiful baby number five, I was juggling dinner and bedtime with marketing funnels and sales strategies. I prided myself in getting the job done. I saw what I wanted, figured out the way to get there, and pushed my way toward it. The balancing act was very challenging, but I rolled up my sleeves and made it work.

I had tens of clients, managed a team, worked with business, mindset, and performance coaches. Some days I didn’t eat lunch, and I barely had time to use the bathroom. I convinced myself I was living the dream, that this was what I truly wanted.

It was two-fifteen p.m., and I was on my last call of the day. I’d just hired Katie and wanted to put her straight to work. Suddenly I heard the door slam shut and an annoyed, “Mommy? Where are you?”

Huh? How was it three o’clock already?

“Hang on just a second,” I said into the phone.

I zoomed upstairs from my basement office  and gave three-year-old Adina a huge hug. I adored this energetic, freckled little girl, and when I managed to put my work down early enough, I loved the 15 minutes we had alone together. But usually, I wished she’d play quietly so I could finish up. Right now, I was in the middle of something that could be a gamechanger for my business. After setting Adina up with an apple, I went back to the phone.

By the time I hung up 20 minutes later, Adina was having a full-blown meltdown, and Goldy’s carpool had arrived.

They both followed me into the kitchen, each trying to yell louder than the other to be heard. I realized I had forgotten to make supper. Bad mother, the voice in my head started. Why didn’t you plan for this?

Later, things finally quieted, the other kids were somewhat settled. My head was in the cupboard searching for some ingredients when 12-year-old Uri entered the kitchen with a storm cloud. “Hi, Uri, honey,” I said with my back to him, trying to keep my voice upbeat, though my body tensed.

He grunted a reply. He was on a month-long campaign to convince us to let him get a smartphone. Give. Me. A. Break. I couldn’t believe a child of mine wanted something so ridiculous. Where had I gone wrong with him? I could hardly talk to him without setting off an explosion. I served him hot chocolate while my mood plummeted, feeling that I just didn’t know how to get it right. I knew I should sit with him and try to connect, but I also had to get supper ready.

Half-an-hour later, the front door opened again. Moshe walked in, humming. He headed straight for the kitchen, where I was doing homework with Doniel.

“Hey,” Moshe smiled at me, turning on the coffee maker. “Rough day?”

I shrugged, watching Doniel write. “I’m still doing my day.”

He poured his coffee and nodded. “When you finish with Doniel, let’s take a quick walk, spend a few minutes together.”

I rolled my eyes inwardly. He always wanted me to go on a walk with him, catch up about our day, but it was such bad timing.

“Not sure, Mo. I’m still busy with the kids.”

He sipped his coffee. “I know. You work really hard. But you know it’s important for us to connect and also for you to step outside a bit.”

I heard Adina calling me from upstairs.

“Seriously, this isn’t a good night.” I pushed my chair back.

“Five minutes, Batya,” my husband pressed. “It’ll be good for you!”

I was already on my way out of the kitchen to see what Adina needed. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” I made myself say, despite my irritation, “but I can’t go out right now, and I have a ton of work still left tonight.”

As I climbed the stairs, I heard Moshe address the empty doorway: “This isn’t healthy, Batya. I’m just asking for five minutes.”

I sighed. A few days earlier he’d tried to get me to go roller blading. He was always trying to get me to have fun with him, but I didn’t have the time!

I got everyone to bed. I knew Uri wanted to spend more time with me when I tucked him in, but it was 9:30 p.m., and I had at least two hours of work waiting for me.

I made myself a cup of tea and reentered my office. I was exhausted, but excited to finish what needed to be done. Finally, at midnight, eyes burning, I turned off my computer and went upstairs.

There were dishes everywhere from snacks the kids had made before bed. Someone had spilled a bag of pretzels, and I could see mounds of salty sticks sticking out from between the creases of the couch. The state of disarray in my kitchen belied any cleaning I’d done that night.

I was overwhelmed, an all-too familiar feeling. I whispered to myself, so quietly  I almost couldn’t hear it, “It’s too hard sometimes.”

Chapter 2: The Beginning

I love the early stage of pregnancy, when the wondrous news belongs to just me and my husband. This time was even more exciting, as my youngest was already three. My news gave me vitality when I was working hard and strength to push through my days. It put a new bounce in my step as I served dinner.

I had the next nine months planned to a “T.” I had a launch date for a new product — an online membership portal  — that would allow me to scale back as I prepared for the new baby, a start date for my maternity leave, and a seamless plan in place for continuing toward my financial goals while “taking it easy.”

It happened during my last major online launch. I had about 500 women watching my sales pitch livestream, and I was on fire. I was at the climax of my pitch, where I clinch the deal and get the maximum number of women into my paid membership — when I almost fainted.

I was hemorrhaging.

I felt dizzy. I knew I should stop my presentation, but I’d worked so hard to prepare for this! These last 15 minutes were what really hooked my clients, and this was my favorite part.

I inhaled deeply, chugged down some water from the bottle on my desk, and silently begged Hashem to let me finish this and make it successful.

I made it through my last slides, but I was feeling faint. Ignoring the frenzied messages from my team, who were concerned about my pallor, I rushed through our well-planned ending, skipping the questions from my eager audience. There was no graceful and powerful conclusion.

Finally, I turned off my computer and allowed myself to panic. I thought I was having a miscarriage; I didn’t know that if that was it, there was no need to rush to the hospital.

I rushed.

After a few rounds of bloodwork and ultrasounds, I was told to go home and take it easy. Baruch Hashem, I was still pregnant.

Back home, though, I was in a lot of pain. I spent the next few months commuting back and forth to the emergency room as we tried to get to the bottom of my pain and continual bleeding. I was given meds for the pain, but they made me tired and foggy. I spent the days sleeping and crying, too dizzy and uncomfortable to move unless it was absolutely necessary. My team took over, so at least I didn’t have to worry about the business.

The only thing that got me out of my pain was images and memories of who I used to be: Music I’d written way back when I had time for that, songs I used to like, the hours I had spent dancing with my friends when we were spirited teens, the early days when Moshe and I met, and I fell in love with his zest for life.

Now, I lay on the couch in front of our main window in the living room. From there, I could look out onto the street and watch the action happening  on the other side of the glass. It was summertime, and I saw neighbors strolling outside, continuing their normal activities. I had recurring daydreams of running in the sunshine, in neon pink sneakers, music pumping in my ears. In control, as always.

Why did this have to happen to me,  a healthy 34-year-old woman who has had five healthy pregnancies, was running a successful business, and had a great marriage? I asked Hashem. Why me? My life was fine!

Chapter 3: Life Is Beautiful

Toward the end of my fourth month, the bleeding subsided. No more emergency room visits, no more blood-loss dizziness, and please G-d, a normal pregnancy and a normal life. I emerged from my fog, and the world I found was beautiful.

One Sunday afternoon, the wind was deliciously warm, the sunshine felt like a kiss, and the colors were brighter than usual. All I wanted to do was sit outside and enjoy spending time with my family. Four months ago, I would have crafted plans to ensure that each kid would find the day as exciting as I wanted it to be. But today there was no pressure. My husband mowed the lawn, my kids rode bikes or rollerblades, and I sat outside munching on an apple and watching.

This new feeling of peace was foreign, but I embraced it. I was ready to be this new, healthier version of myself — still a powerhouse, but calmer.

And because I was happy, my family was happy. They mirrored my serenity, and it felt good. This was a new kind of power.

All that evaporated at my 20-week ultrasound.

As we started the ultrasound, I inhaled deeply. I was finally on the other side of the nightmare with which this pregnancy had begun. I’d suffered physical pain, sorrow at the thought of losing the baby, loneliness in my struggle, doubt… and here I was, stronger because of my challenge. I was proud of myself.

The technician began the scan. “Oh look,” she said, “Here are the fingers… here is the stomach… here is the heart.”

As I always did, I used this time to daven. “Please, Hashem, let my baby be healthy, let everything be alright.”

“It looks like a perfectly healthy baby,” the technician proclaimed. “Congratulations!”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Suddenly, the technician’s face took on a worried look, and she scurried out of the room.

I held my composure. After all, the baby was healthy, so whatever it was, I was sure I could handle it. I’d just survived months of stress. I felt strong. I felt blessed. I felt close to Hashem. I drew in my breath, put on my Powerhouse Batya face, and straightened my shoulders, ready for anything.

A mature, icily calm doctor with gray eyes and a jutting jaw entered the small room. Before she opened her mouth, I knew something was not right. After what felt like hours, she looked up from the screen. Finally, her eyes met mine.

“Your baby will probably be fine. I mean, your baby is healthy,” she informed me weirdly.

She was fidgeting as she said, “It’s you we’re worried about.”

She began to tell me about the serious condition I had: Placental Percreta, when the placenta grows through the uterus and into the surrounding organs. She went on to explain things like, “When you go into labor, your life could be in danger, the pregnancy is high risk… you’ll lose a lot of blood…. need a complicated surgery… may not be able to have more children….”

The world crashed into pieces around me. I thought I would vomit, or faint…. Maybe I misheard?

I tried to breathe — and choked.

A nurse asked if I was alright. I waved them off and rushed out of the room, sure I would throw up on anything that moved. Maybe it was a mistake. I must have misunderstood. Maybe they can fix it.

Somehow, I found myself sitting in my car, gripping the steering wheel. Paralyzed with fear, I cried like I never had in my life.

I can’t die. My children need me. My husband needs me. I have too much to accomplish in this world!

I pleaded with Hashem, grasping at straws to get back in control. “Please, tell me what I need to change in my life. I’ll work on it now! I’ll do it! I’ll change it! I promise!

“Let me be okay, let my baby be okay… I promise to say Krias Shema with a brachah every night sitting up, with the lamp on…. I’ll never yell at my kids again…. I’ll never speak a word of lashon hara…. I’ll thank You every second I’m alive. Please, Hashem.”

Amidst the tears and confusion, the bargaining, I held on to the hope that it was all a mistake. A misunderstanding. I couldn’t really be in danger of dying!

Once home, I did what any information-seeking person would have done. I put “Placental Percreta” through Google… and again almost passed out. I read about high mortality rates, complicated surgeries, bleeding to death, babies born too tiny to survive; others, the lucky ones, with long stays in the NICU. I spent hours in front of the computer until I was shaking with fear. I read that the only way to save the mother’s life is to do an invasive surgery that can affect multiple organs — a surgery that could cause a woman to lose too much blood. Placental Percreta, Dr. Google informed me, carries an almost ten percent mortality rate.

Chapter 4: Big Wakeup Call

A few days later, I was back in the hospital, 15 medical personnel surrounding my bed in the emergency room, trying to stop my severe hemorrhaging.

This was it. My life would end at 34.

Across the room was my husband Moshe.

Moshe had driven me to the hospital, doing 95mph on the shoulder of the highway during rush hour. He had called ahead so that a wheelchair and a team of doctors awaited us. Now the room was too full of emergency personnel for him to get near my side. I’ve never seen him so nervous, not before and not since.

I was shaking, and I could barely breathe. A nurse came over, grabbed my hand, and stroked my face. She brought out her cellphone and played calming classical music beside my ear. “Just focus on the music,” she said. “You’re going to be okay… just listen to this and take deep breaths.”

I think of her often, though I never saw her again. I couldn’t calm down at all, but it meant the world that she cared about how nervous I was and was present with me in my fear.

I was desperately trying to stop hyperventilating when I heard one of the doctors mutter under his breath, “Oh. My. Gosh. This is a lot of blood.”

I closed my eyes and begged HaKadosh Baruch Hu for my life. “Please, Hashem, let me live. Please don’t let me die right here, right now. I’m sorry for everything I didn’t understand, for everything I thought was real in this world. Please let me live.”

I thought of what they’d say at my funeral. “She ran a great business. She was a great mother and wife, but her work was really her passion.”

Memories rose up before my mind’s eye, memories of a life so wonderful and rich with blessings that I hadn’t seen. I had five healthy children. I had a husband who loved me…. I felt the deep remorse of missed potential. I couldn’t believe how much energy I’d wasted being overwhelmed and busy, when there was so much happiness, connection, and love right at arm’s reach. What if I died right now, before I finished what I was supposed to do? What if I died without appreciating each breath?

I didn’t want my last moments to be depressing, so I reminded myself that Hashem is a loving Father. He was proud of all the good things I had done.

I was pulled back to reality by doctors calling my name.

“We were able to slow the bleeding. You’re going to be okay. But we may need to remove the placenta…. We need to decide what to do with your baby.”

So I wasn’t dying yet.

I looked over at Moshe and saw his shoulders ease. He wiped sweat from his forehead and breathed.

“Your baby…” the doctor repeated.

Why was he asking me about my baby? I was 21 weeks pregnant. If they performed surgery now, it wouldn’t survive.

But that’s what they wanted to know. Should they try to resuscitate the baby, even though he would have severe medical problems?

This was out of my league. The only thing my mind had room for was whether I was going to survive the day. I gaped at Moshe, who rushed out to call his rav.

The stale air hummed with anxiety. The nurse did not let go of my hand. I think she was breathing heavier than I was. The doctors were nervous and grim as they connected me to IVs to prep me for possible surgery. They were hoping to minimize blood loss, but I would mostly likely lose the baby. We would then proceed with major abdominal surgery that would remove  my invasive placenta but would not leave all my organs intact.

My husband reappeared with instructions to resuscitate the baby and do everything in our power to keep him alive.

Meanwhile, my three doctors had stepped into the hallway for an intense discussion. Now they reentered my room. “We were able to stabilize the bleeding,” one announced. “We’re not going to deliver the baby right now.”

The whole room breathed. Moshe made his way over to my bed. “Sheesh!” His voice was shaky. “You’re okay! We’re gonna be okay. It’s okay now.”

I closed my eyes in disbelief. I was still trembling, and I let out a huge, shaky sigh.

“Thank You, Hashem. Thank You, Hashem. Thank You, Hashem.”

I was transferred to Henry Ford Hospital in downtown Detroit, where I was told I’d need to stay until the baby was born. I would have access to more experienced surgeons, a larger blood bank, and a state-of-the-art NICU that could offer my tiny baby a better chance at survival.

Chapter 5: Emilee, My Guardian Angel

I was concerned I would die. Even as the doctors tried to reassure me, I couldn’t believe them. Moshe repeated that we had the best team possible and that everything would be fine, and I tried to remain composed, but through every medical procedure and meeting with the doctors, my fears intensified.

One morning, the hospital social worker poked her head into my room. “Listen,” she whispered, “telling you this violates every HIPAA law, but there is a woman upstairs who had the exact same condition as you. She had surgery six days ago, and she’s being discharged now. It’s too much of a coincidence that two women with this rare complication are in this hospital at the same time. Would you like to meet her?”

Yes! No! It was a terrifying offer. I raised my eyes to meet Moshe’s; he was nodding.

“Okay,” the social worker whispered a few minutes later. “Her husband is going to wheel her down, and then we’ll leave you two alone.”

I thought I would throw up. Could she not walk?

A woman in a wheelchair pulled the curtain aside and wheeled herself over to me. Her forearms were black from bruising and there were dried blood and stitches above her collarbone. I started panicking, but then I caught her eyes. They radiated the gracious strength of a person who pulled through an ordeal.

Her body had clearly been broken. Yet she was here. Was she in tremendous pain? What was the surgery like? Had she really had the same thing as me? Was her baby healthy? Would she ever walk again? The questions rendered me mute and overwhelmed.

The woman, whose name was Emilee, grabbed my hand and looked straight into my eyes. “You’re going to be fine. You’re going to live through this. You will survive.”

Tears flooded my eyes and slowly ran down my cheeks. This complete stranger understood.

She told me about the surgery, where she’d lost ten liters of blood (an adult body contains about five) before they were able to stabilize her. It was a very close call: losing more than twice your body’s blood volume could cause severe complications, if not death.

They kept saying she was the worst case they had ever seen. That actually comforted me. I thought, “I have to end up better than her, and she’s alive and well!”

“I know G-d had us meet for a reason,” Emilee proclaimed. “Nothing is coincidence. We were meant to give each other strength.”

As her husband came in to take her home, her crystal blue eyes bore into mine, searching for, and finding, hidden strength.

“You. Will. Be. Fine!” I felt her words as a physical sensation. “I promise. I’ll pray for you.”

Two weeks of living in the hospital had already begun to feel like months.

“Stay boring,” the doctors said.

Family and friends visited and sent packages, chocolates, and activities. The outpouring of love was powerful, and I felt deeply fortunate to be part of Klal Yisrael.

A woman I know only from carpool came one day. I was thankful but nervous. I wasn’t looking forward to being drilled about my condition and prognosis.

But she didn’t ask any questions. She had simply come to alleviate my boredom and loneliness.

“I know what it’s like to be on bed rest,” she said.

She’s so naive, I couldn’t help thinking. She must be aware that her condition hadn’t been life-threatening. Did she understand that I’d nearly died? That I needed a surgery that would, at the very best, rob me of my ability to bear children?

As she left, she handed me a gift-wrapped package. Curious, I opened it, and found a pair of super sparkly, teal-colored slippers.

“These are outrageous!” I giggled, putting them on.

She laughed with me. “Seriously, where else would you wear these? I say, if you can’t have fun like that here, you’ll never get to!”

I wore those slippers every single day for months. They represented so much to me: kindness from a near-stranger, the good in others. I wanted to live in them for as long as I could.

Back home, my kids were really suffering. And in the hospital, I felt it keenly. From four p.m. on, when my kids were home from school, I was a tense mess.

We set up a rotation to bring a different child to visit me every day, but it didn’t always work. When someone missed their turn, they were devastated. Either way, seeing each kid once a week was not enough.

“Mommy,” ten-year-old Tamar would tell me over the phone, “our house is so dysfunctional! Adina won’t take a bath, Goldy won’t go to bed, no one is doing homework, and nothing is working!”

I knew there was food, clean laundry, and tons of help — Moshe and our mothers had everything under control — but there was no mommy to nurture my kids in the way that only I could. I was struck by how a mother’s love and attention is irreplaceable.

One afternoon, my mother brought Adina over. Her visits were the easiest because she didn’t ask difficult questions about when I’d be coming home. She brought stickers and paper, and we glued sparkles and sequins together. When she had to go, she cupped my face in her hands and told me, “Mommy — I miss you a lot. But it’s okay, you’re a good mommy.”

I teared up and hugged her hard.

How powerful the validation of a three-year-old.

Chapter 6: Impending Doomsday

After about five weeks with no bleeding, Dr. Shaman strutted into my room.

“Well, young lady,” he chimed. “How would you like to spend the remainder of your pregnancy at home?”

How would I like it?! Sleeping in my own bed! Reading on the couch to Goldy and Adina! Being in the house with the people I loved!

Early Erev Shabbos, I sat on the couch, waiting for my kids to come home from school. They didn’t know I would be coming home.

Adina burst in first. She froze, confused, and then ran to me, yelling, “Mommy!” I hugged her and cried. Then Goldy walked in. She also froze in shock before running to me and shouting, “Mommy!” I cried again. Doniel, Tamar, and Uri each had the same reaction. I cried each time.

The kids fought over who got to sit next to me at the table, who would bring me water, who missed me the most. I thought everything they said was the cleverest, funniest, most heart-warming things I’d ever heard. I even kvelled when Goldy asked me why I’d gotten so fat. (Answer: pizza and milkshakes, plus bed rest.)

I finally had time to spend with each kid. We read together and talked about everything. No one took them away from me at the end of a visit that was too short. We laughed and joked. I hugged them and held them and had no doubt that I was the luckiest woman alive.

I was home.

I wish I could say that the next few weeks were bliss, basking in the beauty of the brachos I had, living on a high of gratitude for everything I had missed.

But they weren’t. I was a living time bomb.

It was starting to snow outside, and I felt my world freezing over inside of me. The more I interacted with my family and appreciated being there for my kids, the more my anxiety grew. I couldn’t believe that the miracle of life growing inside of me could so threaten the welfare of my existing family. I’d  glimpsed how much they truly needed me. Now I was paralyzed by the fear that they may soon be orphans.

I began to wake in a cold sweat every night.

At this point, I had to make some decisions. If I was going to die in six weeks when the baby was due, I wanted to live as much as possible while I was here. I tried to make some headway at work, but it no longer seemed important. (Eventually, I found that I couldn’t connect to my work in a meaningful way, and I closed the business for good.)

I needed a creative outlet that would help me escape my morbid thoughts and connect to my own vitality and to my family.

Well, there was Uri’s bar mitzvah to plan, even if I wouldn’t live to see it. His birthday would be three months after my surgery, and if I didn’t plan it now, he might not have a party. I wanted him to have a party. I got to work. I ordered invitations and began creating spreadsheets. I met with the caterer, chose the menu, and even picked out the tablecloths.

I was flipping through photos of centerpieces one night when Tamar plopped down next to me.

“Having you home is the best thing ever,” she said shyly. “We’re not, like, dysfunctional anymore…. It was hard, Mommy, really, really hard.”

I pulled her tightly against me and kissed her. “I’m so happy to be here with you now.” I said, adding a silent thanks to Hashem for giving me this time with my children. I managed to stay there with her, not allowing my thoughts to drift to the inner space of terror.

Sometimes late at night, I stopped fleeing my worst fears. I cried and cried, picturing my kids growing up without me: their weddings, their lives, their own children. I wondered whether Moshe would remarry. I wondered if I’d get to go to Olam Haba.

Finally, horribly, it was my last night at home. The next evening, my precious, beloved children would be sleeping at their grandmother’s, while I would be leaving for the hospital. I couldn’t fight back the tears as I put them to bed. I loved them so much it sucked away my breath. I loved my life so much. Oh, how I wanted to stay in this world! I could hardly breathe.

I went to sit beside Moshe on the couch. Through my love and fear, I felt comforted by Hashem in a way I never had before. I was at peace. Finally, I knew that I was in His hands completely; nothing was in my control.

Chapter 7: Game Day

Two hours into surgery is an eternity for those waiting. Drenched in sweat and exhausted, Dr. Swain, Dr. Attali, and Dr. Hannah finally stepped out to speak to my husband and mother. For a moment they just stood there.

“First of all, congratulations,” Dr. Swain finally addressed Moshe. “You have a healthy, beautiful baby boy. His vitals seem stable.”

Relief. But—

“And Batya? What’s with her, what’s going on? Why is everything taking so long? Why didn’t anyone come out and update us?”

The doctors looked grim, and for the first time, my husband began to fear the worst: that I would actually die. “Am I going to go home with a baby and not a wife?” he demanded.

“Your wife is giving us a very hard time,” answered Dr. Swain, hesitantly. “We can’t stop the bleeding. Err… we’re  trying to stop the bleeding. It’s not easy.”

I’d lost more blood than was safe, and my body was rejecting the transfusions: the blood being pumped in just bled right out.

“Now is a good time to pray,” Dr. Attali said. He patted Moshe compassionately on the back, and the three swiftly returned to the OR to continue the battle to keep me alive.

Rapid text messages and emails circulated, first among our friends, then our community, then around the world. Everyone knew that Batya Sarah bas Shaina was in tremendous danger. Prayers were being put out everywhere.

I, wherever I was, felt so protected and safe, sheltered by a wonderful umbrella of prayer and love. While physically on the operating table, my spirit floated in a place where there was only love. I felt everyone’s prayers shielding me from harm and gently comforting me as I waited, calm and at peace, for what would come next. From my vantage point, I saw with beyond a shadow of a doubt clarity that the only thing of value in this world is connection: seeing the light in those around us and the light in ourselves, being a kind human being connected to myself, friends and loved ones, and the Creator. That’s what life is — not the distractions that confuse us and hide this love. There was a regal sense, like I was in a palace, and each act of giving and kindness on Earth was a precious jewel.

An hour or so later, a significantly calmer Dr. Swain emerged to find my mother nervously pacing the room, and Moshe bent over his Tehillim, crying out to the Master of the World.

“Batya lost a tremendous amount of blood,” he told them, “but the prognosis is better now. We feared the worst for a while. Her heart actually stopped beating, but we resuscitated her, and she seems to have stabilized.”

In total, I lost 25 liters of blood.

“Will she have brain damage?” Moshe blurted. “You know, from everything that happened.”

“It’s too soon to know anything,” Dr. Swain said. “We’ll continue pumping blood in hopes that the bleeding stops completely. That’s all I know right now.”

My mother collapsed on the floor. “Moshe,” she managed in between sobs, “Do you think she’s already in Shamayim? Is she with my parents?”

My life was swinging in the air. All they could do was hope and pray.

Moshe cupped his hands over his wet face and swayed back and forth, begging the Creator of the world, Who can make miracles, Who gives life… to please let his wife live.

At that point, the head NICU doctor came out. Trying to be helpful, he asked whether Moshe would like to see the new baby.

“No. I wouldn’t like to see the baby. I want my wife to be okay.”

My surgery had started at 11 a.m. At around four p.m., a small crowd of visibly relieved and very exhausted doctors entered the waiting room, still in full surgery gear. My mother and husband jumped up and tried desperately to read their body language.

“She’s okay. She stopped bleeding,” Dr. Attali announced. He smiled triumphantly. “We didn’t lose her.”

The surgery wasn’t complete; they couldn’t finish until they were sure the bleeding had really stopped. I was transferred to the ICU where they bandaged me up and waited.

During that 24-hour period, thousands of people prayed. Minyanim were arranged at the Kosel, and people said Tehillim around the clock. Community members took on special mitzvos in my zechus.

Numerous people went to Rav Chaim Kanievsky for a brachah that I should be able to go home to have normal life. Later, we found out that Rav Chaim asked one of his gabbaim, “Nu… how is Batya Sarah bas Shayna?”

And I? I could feel the outpouring of tefillos enveloping and protecting me like the deepest, most glorious hug that seeped all through my being, into my neshamah.

Chapter 8: Near-Death Experience

Heavily drugged, I wandered in and out of consciousness, drifting in and out of that space of love. When awake, I was very confused and in a tremendous amount of pain, but I had no fear. I felt loved and safe. Moshe was always by my side; I was grateful for his grounding presence.

After 24 hours, they confirmed that the internal bleeding had stopped. I remember being wheeled into the OR again. I felt like I was suffocating as they reconnected my breathing apparatus to a new machine. I looked up, and the kind nurse told me to relax, so I wandered back into that place of euphoria and peace.

The fear that had me in its clutches for months loosened its grip. I felt at ease. There was a new feeling, too. Anticipation of more to come. I wasn’t done. I had more to accomplish in this world — for my family, for myself, for this new baby.

As I was pulled away from this place of peace, I felt the breathing tube being yanked out of my throat. It burned, but then I took a breath; the air was so fresh! The juice of life poured into my lungs, stomach, chest, head, eyes…. I was awake! I could breathe!

My mother held my hand, and Moshe pulled his chair directly next to me so he could look closely into my eyes. His face, filled with warmth and support, was the first thing I remember focusing on. His eyes met mine and then filled with tears of happiness and relief.

“The surgery was a success!” he told me gently, tears streaming down his face. “It’s over. You’re okay, and we have a healthy baby.”

I was still in tremendous pain. But I was thrilled that I was alive. I was here! I had gotten to stay! As I drifted back to sleep, my subconscious repeated: “Nothing. Else. Matters.”

When I was finally awake enough to comprehend what had happened, I realized that I had seen and felt truth in that other realm. Love, connection, and authenticity aren’t just lofty concepts, but practical truths that would guide me from now on. I realized I didn’t care about trivialities anymore. It didn’t matter that Moshe and I sometimes didn’t see eye to eye on issues, nor that that I sometimes felt inadequate or insecure. And it certainly didn’t matter if the kids weren’t fulfilling my expectations. The things that used to knock me over melted away in face of this one truth: The people we love and our relationships with them are our treasure. Diamonds. Nothing else matters. Though some of the experience was lost upon waking, I knew that my life would never be the same.

People ask me if I had a “near death experience.” I don’t know. But the clarity I felt in those few hours was overpowering. Like a bolt of lightning, I saw that we’re  in this world just to love, respect, and cherish each other.

It’s like I had been seeing life through dirty windows, and they were now freshly cleaned and sparkling; my heart and mind were open to the shining truth. It was only my own lifelong myopia standing in the way of joy. Now, gifted life anew — I’d see the vibrance in everything. I reflect love onto others. I’d live in a space where I’d could see the beauty and happiness that is always there; I’d live in it, breath it, become it. I saw now that nothing had ever been bad or wrong with my life, I had just been mistaking my blurred vision for reality.

“We don’t see things as they are, we see things as we are,” I told Moshe as I lay in the ICU.

This was what I experienced during my surgery, and the awareness that I drifted into every time I fell back into a drugged sleep. And in my waking moments, the feeling hung there, coloring the air with its promise.

Epilogue: Living with Daily Gratitude

AThome after Eliezer Avraham Tzvi (Abi)’s birth, I hold on to the clarity I gained during surgery. I let go of my old vision of who I thought I needed to be, freeing myself to live in the present and accept who I am in the moment. It takes deep honesty and humility for me to be able to say, “It’s okay not to be that ideal picture. It’s okay to be who I am right now.” Every single day, I stop and tell myself, “Hashem loves me the way I am. He’s proud of what I’m doing right now.”

I take two years off work, do some soul searching. I write about my experience, rebuild some neglected relationships, play and write music, and exercise to regain physical strength.

As my sabbatical comes to an end, I realize that I’ve found a profoundly simple joy in reconnecting with myself and those around me. I’m a completely different person on the inside. For the new me, being present is the goal, and loving connection is success.

I’m still passionate, still productive. I got involved in a start-up specializing in prenatal support, my marketing and sales expertise serving me well. In this new line of work, I’m not swallowed whole. It’s only an activity, a part of my day — together with meditation, coaching a young entrepreneur through a marketing funnel, and whatever else Hashem sends my way. Being present to those I love (including myself) is who I am.

When Moshe invites me to have fun with him, I don’t push him off; I value connecting over all else.

And when Uri comes home from yeshivah for Shabbos, all the tension and conflict are gone from our conversations. I’m genuinely interested in who he is, how he feels, and what he has to say. He so appreciates the unconditional love and support he’ll always receive from me, and our healed relationship is a point of great pride and pleasure for both of us.

Neighbors tease me about how often they find me sitting outside watching the younger kids ride bikes and scooters, obviously neglecting housework indoors.

“Who cares?” I often think. “Things will get done. Eventually.”

And they do. Sometimes I run around cleaning up the kitchen, putting up supper, and helping with homework. But it no longer stresses me out or pulls me under. Without a running to-do list screaming in my ear, I can enjoy life and those around me in a way I never would have thought possible.

And I do.

Batya can be contacted through Family First.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 838)