Just as Debra’s water broke, I received a call from my mother’s nurse, Marla. My heart sank as she told me my mom was dying. Torn between my wife in labor and my mother in crisis, I faced an impossible decision.
Debra and I had long awaited this moment, finally pregnant after countless fertility struggles. We had promised to be amazing parents, and now, as we prepared to welcome our child, chaos struck.
I rushed to Debra’s side, panic flooding over me when she whispered, “Take me to the hospital.” I quickly started the car and then my phone rang. It was Marla.
“Your mom had a heart attack. There’s little hope. You should come,” she said, her voice heavy with urgency.
Devastated, I shared the news with Debra, who insisted I go. “Call a taxi. Your mom needs you,” she urged, despite her own pain.
I called a taxi for Debra, my heart racing with fear and grief. Arriving at the hospital, I found Marla waiting. “The doctors aren’t optimistic,” she said softly.
After what felt like an eternity, the doctors emerged. “We couldn’t save her,” they said, and my world shattered.
Suddenly, my phone rang again. “We had a daughter,” Debra’s voice broke through the fog of my sorrow. I managed a smile through my tears.
“Mom’s gone,” I replied, but Debra reassured me, sending a picture of our baby girl who looked just like my mother. In that moment, I understood: life and loss intertwined.
