Finding Faith

Prologue

Faith

Screaming—that’s the first thing I notice when I come to—agonizing, heart-wrenching screams. Amidst theambient noises and distant, hurried voices, that sound rises above the rest. It cuts me to the quick, notmerely because it’s so piercing, but because—while I can’t place it exactly—I swear I recognize that cry.

I shuffle around, absorbing my surroundings. I’m standing inside a circular room that’s all white, sterile, absent of fur niture, décor, and, well, everything. Its walls are clear glass, allowing me a front row seat to what’s happening outside them, yet it seems the white-coat clad individuals huddled over a stretcher are oblivious to my presence.

Bleary-eyed from what I presume was sleep, and disoriented from my abrupt awakening, I sweep onehand down my face to clear my vision and rake the other through my hair. I feel terrible—groggy like I’ve been drugged and achy all over like I have the flu. I pat myself down, feeling for injuries or some explanation for why I hurt. When my hands alight over my distended belly it comes rushing back to me. I’m pregnant—from the looks of it very pregnant.

Last I remember I could still hide my baby bump under a sweatshirt—how long have I been out? The dull ache spreads over the taut skin of my stomach and penetrates through to my womb, becoming a strong, pulsating pain.

Bracing myself against the throbbing, I try to dismiss it (I have more pressing matters to deal with—likewhere I am and how I got here). I move to the wall between myself and the medical professionals hoveringover what I assume is the origin of the screaming. To test my suspicion that I’m undetected, I pound on the glass with the sides of both fists and call out to them. Predictably, my cries go unheeded. As there’s no door apparent for escaping this solitary prison, and nothing else revealing the answers to my questions, I just stand watching the drama playing out before me.

The white coats are blending together as they rush around, presumably striving to spare the life of the victim on their table. Above the din of the medical jargon being cast about, still the howling is dominant. My instinct is to cover my ears, but I refrain, knowing it won’t dampen the noise enough to not be disturbing. Intrigued by the familiarity of the shrieks (do voices really sound distinct at that pitch—such that Icould identify them?); I continue to listen. My ears are ringing at the sheer volume, yet straining todetermine the source. Finally, I’m able to see through the spaces between white coats what’s making that racket. It’s a tiny baby.

Then suddenly a scorching sting rips through my abdomen and I cry out. I’m driven to my knees by thepain and also by the sickening realization that slams against my heart: I know why the screeching is so unsettling—besides that it’s earsplitting. That voice is familiar because it’s my baby girl’s—my unborn baby girl’s! How is that possible?

And I can’t get to her.

I can’t wrap my brain around how I could still be pregnant with this baby and have her squirming on a hospital table at the same time. And how can I recognize her cries when I’ve never heard them before? Yet, I have full confidence that it’s her. Call it mother’s instinct, premonition, whatever, but the bottom-line is: that’s my baby out there, dying, and I’m helplessly trapped inside these walls—with nothing to do but witness the life drain out of her.

I grab a deep breath as the tears stream down my cheeks unimpeded. Out of nowhere the screaming abruptly halts, accompanied by another knife tearing its way out of my belly. Biting back the anguish, I keep my gaze fixed on the table.

The doctors and nurses are slowly filing out, defeat weighing down their shoulders, failure nipping at their heels. Gradually the baby’s body comes into view, her face last, and my hunch is confirmed: it’s my little girl—she’s blond and the resemblance is unmistakable. I bang on the walls with open palms, screaming until I’m hoarse. Still on my knees weeping, my eyes are locked with my baby’s, whose lids they failed to close, lifeless and yet piercing through to my soul. Her head is turned toward me and, though vacant and frozen open, her light brown eyes are accusing, appealing to me: “Why didn’t you help me?”

Murmuring profuse apologies she’ll never hear, I close my eyes and rest my forehead on the cool glass. That’s when it strikes me that something is missing, besides the noise… The pain. My stomach no longer hurts, the ache has vanished. I reach down to feel it, expecting the large smooth protrusion, but instead feel nothing. My skin is firm over my ribs and my abdomen, but there’s no flabby flesh. No stretched out, soft pooch most women have just after they’ve delivered their babies. I’m completely flat. Not as though I’ve just given birth to my baby girl, but instead...it’s as though I’d never been pregnant at all.