Just One More Day!

 Just One More Day!

In a hospital, night never truly falls; there is only an anticipation of a beautiful new dawn. The sounds heard throughout the day gradually fade away, and the movement of people slows down. The lights in the corridors cast a glow of hope and faith against the darkness of the night.

Outside the doors of the maternity ward, one might occasionally hear hurried footsteps. Somewhere, a baby cries; elsewhere, nurses converse. Then, everything falls silent once more... Yet, even in such stillness, a doctor’s mind is rarely at rest.

That night, I, too, was far from calm. My thoughts were occupied by a pregnant woman. The baby growing within her was not yet ready to enter the world, but the amniotic fluid—which surrounds and protects the fetus—had begun to leak prematurely.

The pregnancy was at about twenty-eight weeks; the baby still needed several more weeks inside the womb. But sometimes, nature attempts to open the door before the appointed time. In such moments, a difficult question confronts the physician: should one try to keep the door closed and buy more time, or allow it to open? Both choices carry an element of fear, and there is no guarantee of success. That particular pregnancy was no different.

If the baby were to be born now, it would arrive prematurely. It would struggle to breathe. Swallowing and digesting milk would likely be even more difficult. If the baby could remain in the womb for a while longer, its body would have the chance to mature further.

But there was another concern. The amniotic fluid had already leaked out, which increased the risk of infection. In other words, waiting was not without risk—and there was no treatment that could guarantee the prevention of labor. That day, I felt less like a doctor and more like someone standing with their back against a wall. On one side, time... on the other, risk... and in between, a mother—with a tiny life growing within her.

She was admitted to the hospital for the first time. Tests were conducted. The baby’s heartbeat was normal. The mother had no fever, and there were no immediate signs of infection. However, the amniotic fluid had become critically low.

I studied her reports. How much longer could we wait? A week? Two weeks? Or even longer? No one had the answer. A doctor cannot guarantee the future.

That day, it was decided to hold off on delivery. Waiting a bit longer was deemed the best course of action. Medication was administered, and she was kept under observation. We monitored the mother’s condition, as well as the baby’s movements and heartbeat. After a few days in the hospital, she was discharged and went home.

Even though she went home, my mind couldn't quite let go. The amniotic fluid in the womb was still low. And so, a question lingered in my mind: "When will she return?"

A few days later, she came back—for the second time. The pregnancy had progressed beyond 30 weeks. Once again, there was a leakage of amniotic fluid. As before, there was no fever, and labor had not yet begun. The baby’s condition, for the moment, was not a cause for alarm.

I did the math again. We had gained some time compared to the previous instance; it felt as though we had managed to secure a few more days.

This time, too, she returned home after a five-day hospital stay. But the waiting game remained—the looming possibility of another phone call... and that same recurring question: "What happens now?"

The pregnancy reached 32 weeks. She returned to the hospital. This time, the medical reports offered a small glimmer of relief: the volume of amniotic fluid had increased slightly. The baby was in a satisfactory condition, with no immediate signs of infection. It felt as if we had successfully navigated a significant stretch of a difficult path. Reaching 32 weeks from 28 weeks was no small feat—four weeks is a long time in a pregnancy, especially one where every single day is an achievement in itself.

In the hospital, I have learned one thing repeatedly: one cannot hold onto a sense of relief for too long. The very next moment can change everything.

The 14th of Shrawan.

That day, the rain falling from the sky seemed to be trying to cool the earth. Water and mud were everywhere. The pregnancy had reached thirty-three weeks and two days. She returned to the hospital—this time, with additional complications. She was experiencing abdominal pain and a fever, and blood tests indicated a possible infection. Yet, the baby’s heartbeat remained strong. Her body was signaling to us: it was time to act—we could wait no longer.

We prepared for an emergency surgery. Outside, the family waited—some with questions in their eyes, others with fear etched on their faces. They likely had many things they wanted to ask, but in moments like these, words often feel inadequate.

Inside the operating room, there exists a world distinct from the one outside—bright white light, the hum of machinery, hands moving with rapid precision, and a silence where only the essential is spoken. Yet, within that silence, everyone shares a single, urgent understanding: there is no time to lose.

The surgery began. Before long, the baby was born—a little boy, weighing about two kilograms. With his very first breath, he let out a small sound. It wasn't loud, but in that moment, there was no sound in the entire world more significant.

I looked at his face—so tiny, so fragile—yet brimming with life. As I observed his condition, a question arose in my mind: "What will his future be like?" The baby required specialized care; he could not be placed in his mother’s arms. For the mother, that moment must have felt like the longest of her life. The baby had been born, yet the mother had not been able to hold it against her chest. Having emerged from her womb, the child was now in another room—surrounded by machines, kept alive with the aid of oxygen. Meanwhile, in a separate room, the mother lay grappling with the wounds and exhaustion of her own body. For the time being, a hospital wall stood between the newborn and the mother. ...was standing there.

That night, the surgery had concluded. Yet, in my mind, the process was far from over. I kept wondering: what if the baby had been delivered at just 28 weeks? What if we hadn't been able to wait until that moment? What if the situation had deteriorated? What if, even on that final day, we had decided to wait "a little longer"?

A doctor has the authority to make decisions, but no absolute control over the outcomes. This is the inherent fear of a physician. We rely on our knowledge, our experience, and the available evidence—yet the final outcome remains beyond our grasp. That is why, when a patient has a positive outcome, we let out a long, deep breath—a breath filled with both joy and relief... though, at times, it may also carry the lingering fear of what might have been.

The next morning, the mother was stable. The baby remained under specialized care. A few hours later, the infant required additional respiratory support, but gradually, the situation began to stabilize. The baby spent several days in the hospital’s specialized unit.

Meanwhile, the mother’s body was enduring its own struggle. Her blood count dropped, and by the third day, she required a transfusion—a physical toll exacted by the labor and the surgery. Yet, she slowly began to recover; she started moving about, and within a few days, she went to visit her baby. There were no words for that encounter—the baby, too, remained silent—but the sight of the mother resting her hand upon her child’s body was truly extraordinary.

A few days later, the baby began to nurse. Hearing that brought a profound, serene peace to my heart. I wondered, what was this long journey truly for? It was for a child to reach the point where they could finally nurse from their mother’s breast.

Sometimes, a patient’s relatives say, "Doctor, you saved them." I smile when I hear this, but deep down, a question arises: did I really save them?

I made the decisions. I performed the surgery at the right time. I administered the medication. But who carried that child in her womb—from the 28th week all the way to 33 weeks and two days? The mother. We had asked for "a little more time," and she endured that "extra time." We examined her repeatedly; she held onto hope every single time. We weighed the risks; she grappled with the fears. We made the choices; she bore the consequences.

Therefore, to attribute the birth of this child solely to the doctor’s success would be unjust. It was the mother’s immense patience, the family’s unwavering trust, and the constant support of the healthcare team. Above all, it was a story of life itself finding its own way to survive.

Some of life’s most significant decisions are not made with a loud proclamation; often, they are hidden within a simple, small phrase: "Let’s wait one more day." Yet, that "one day" is no ordinary day. It holds hope, fear, and prayer. It carries the doctor’s responsibility, the mother’s pain, and the family’s anxious wait—all while a life grows silently within the womb.