Hope.

Three miscarriages. She refuses to give up.

"The baby is going to die."
....
It sucked hearing those words. It hurt, it physically hurt me when I heard them.
This wasn't the first time, either.
This is was my third miscarriage.
And by this time, I had almost given up all hope.
...
Jason had only been a good husband. Sure, he wanted kids, but after the second miscarriage, he gave up. It had dawned on him somehow that I was just incapable of being a mother. And he accepted it.
But I didn't.
...
I wanted to have children. I wanted to have a little daughter whose hair I could tie before she went to school, and teach her stuff about the world, hold her hand as we crossed the road, buy her her first bra, welcome and celebrate her first period with her, meet her first romantic partner.
I wanted a son, to teach, to love, to care for.
I wanted to be a mother. I wanted babies.
And yet, every single time we tried, the universe mocked me and shattered all my hopes and dreams.
...
Jason was getting tired. So was I, honestly. But I didn't want to give up. He did.
"Christina, this has to stop. How long will you keep trying? You have to accept what is!"
But it wasn't. I was made to be a mom. I wanted to be a mom. And I wanted kids for him too.
"Enough is enough. I can't see you go through that same pain over and over again. And I can't bear it either," he said, barely a whisper.
It hurt.
...
One night, he found me crying, sobbing uncontrollably into my pillow. I couldn't stop, I was terror-stricken, I couldn't understand what I had done wrong. I wanted children. I deserved children. What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I bear a child?
It all broke down on me. That night was terrible. I couldn't breathe, I was crying so much.
And then Jason said he was going to give it another, last shot.
...
I got pregnant for the fourth time. My friends were incredulous. They said, "Wow, Christina, you must be desperate."
And I'd reply I am, because well, that was the truth.
...
I promised Jason, that if this one was a failure, I would give up for good. I hoped, with all my heart, that after those months, I could have a beautiful baby in my arms.
After three failed attempts, this baby was my hope. My life. As I gingerly patted my large tummy, there was a response. My baby and I were talking. I loved it. I loved my baby. More than ever, I wanted the baby.
And deep down, both Jason and I knew, that if this baby was a failure too, forget trying again, I would probably not be able to survive.
...
On the eve of 29th February, my waters broke. It was heart-wrenchingly painful, but I didn't shed a tear. I was doing it for my baby. I was doing this for my Hope. And I was doing this for Jason.
The doctors were worried.
By that time, I had learnt something.
Doctors might be good people at heart, but even they can't perform miracles. You have to have faith, and you have to have hope.
And I treasured those two things from the core of my heart.
...
They were telling me to push.
Jason had my hand tightly clasped in his own, and he was bathed in sweat.
It hurt. It took every ounce of energy my frail body had to push my baby out and bring him or her into this world.
At exactly 12.01 am on 29th February, a white, gorgeous head greeted me. A small, miniscule little baby, my baby. A gorgeous baby girl. My world. My Hope.
As they gave me Hope, and I took her in my limp arms, there was a faint undernote. Everyone was waiting. Jason was crying profusely.
But my baby wouldn't utter a sound.
_What happened?_
I didn't have the energy to voice what I felt. A plethora of emotions washed over me. Anger, despair, hopelessness, shock.
I did not let it get to me.
I nudged my baby and kissed her beautiful head. There was no response.
One of the doctors had already started shaking her head. I sent her a look of pure resentment, and held on to my baby.
My precious, priceless baby. My Hope.
She had to be alive.
Beside me, Jason was...well. It was painful to look at Jason. That heartbroken look on his face. His pale face, his tired, once handsome face, completely shattered.
It seemed as though everyone had given up.
...
I hadn't.
I nudged my baby. I kissed her again.
She had to wake up.
I kept kissing her, patting her, hoping for some response. I was crying, without even realising it. I didn't care. I wanted my baby.
The doctors looked pained too. And my poor husband.
At exactly 12.09, as they told me later, my baby started crying.
My Hope. My baby. Crying in my arms.
I was a mother.
I looked up and smiled at no one in particular.
My prayers had been answered.

Author's Note

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