Aida Zabidi
I’m standing here, on the other side of the glass. You catch my eye and wink; somehow it makes the situation more human, takes away the clinical detachment that comes too commonly with surgery. I see you reassure the mother, calm her down before the operation starts and her face relaxes at your words. It reminds me of our frailty, our humanity and that everything that can happen in the operation theatre is truly God’s will. 

I watch you make the first incision, can see in my mind how the skin parts to reveal the other layers below. I watch the anaesthetist adjust the table at your request, and smile a little to myself as you and your assistant assert fundal pressure to expedite the delivery of the baby. 

I’ve been there once, standing opposite you, assisting in the Caesarean section. A part of me wishes that I took the opportunity that was once offered to me, to have taken the chance to actually be the one to perform the C-section, but it was not my time. 

My time will come. 

I pray that the operation will be uneventful and that I will not have to resuscitate the child. I pray that the child comes out kicking and crying and vigorous, as newborns should be, but aren’t always. 

So for the moment, here I stand on the other side of the glass, on the other team, praying for the reassuring cry of a newborn baby.
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