My day begins with a flash of light. A flash of light that lasts for 14 hours straight. I feel like it’s never going to end, like I’m going blind and this is the only light I’m ever going to see. I reach the end of the tunnel and the light is coming closer. But then it hits me like a tornado. And the rest is a blur.

 

               I woke up with a fright. I must’ve blacked out for a minute I thought to myself. All I hear is crying and screaming. “Give me my baby,” I yell. So loud I feel my bed shake, but that could also be my legs banging against the bed in frustration.

 

               My baby cries even more. Why is my baby crying, I think to myself as my heart starts to race. It’s racing so fast I think I might puke. I look down at my hospital gown – chunks of a greenish-whiteish mixture are dried out on my chest. I guess I already did puke.

 

               People were running back and forth passing me from person to person, like a football – left, right, up and down. I have no idea what’s going on. All I know is that I am cold, tired and hungry. I don’t want to be cold, tired or hungry. So I try to get someone’s attention. I speak. I scream. And I yell. But nothing. Why can no one hear me. Or maybe they can hear me but they are choosing not to listen. I try to look up but all I see is a blurred image. I scream some more, still – nothing.

 

               I’d never seen so many doctors move so quickly in my life, what were they doing to my baby!? It’s like my baby is the only watering hole for all the animals in Africa and the doctors are the animals. They place my baby girl on the examination table, and they bring out a pink blanket.

 

               Ah finally some warmth, I thought to myself. Although I don’t exactly know what they’re placing on me. I feel all bundled up, but still something isn’t right. I squirm to get out and try to get someone’s attention again, but no one responds. Why can’t they understand me!? All of a sudden something lifts me from the table and places me somewhere new.

 

               They’re finally bringing her to me. I start to cry. I can’t contain my excitement.

 

               And at once everything makes sense. I look up at her, I smell her, and I stop crying as I nuzzle closely into her chest. It’s my mom.

 

               I look down at her, and smile through my tears.  My life is officially complete. The doctor asks me, ‘what are you going to name her?’ I reply confidently, “Emma.” As her name slips from my lips, Emma’s eyes open as if she knows I said her name.

 

               It’s my mom.