Saturday, May 17, 2014


It was only two months after the marriage, a couple of newly weds sat in front of an obstetrician and gynecologist, facing their first—and probably worst nightmare. No. It wasn’t because one—or both of them were infertile. The doctor said that there was a myoma—a tumor, inside the woman’s womb, and it was as big as the head of a baby.  It was too big and it was impossible to differentiate the tumor from the womb, the only choice was to lift the womb from her body.

No womb. No uterus. No baby. It was the second month of their marriage and they were condemned to have no children. The only way to have one is to adopt a child. A child that won’t be from their flesh and blood.

The wife was only nodded as the doctor talked about her condition. Her spouse looked at the doctor with an empty look. It was only two months and the future of their marriage was at the edge. Everything seems so dark—too dark.

The day of operation arrived. The table was set. The doctor was ready. The scalpel cut through the woman’s skin. It was there, the myoma—lying quietly as big as the head of a baby. It was covered with a thin capsule—making it was easier to be lifted separately from the womb. The doctor stopped for a second, then said, ‘I think we can save the uterus’.

It took almost three hours for the operation to be done. The woman was lying quietly—unconscious. The only thing that inside her mind before she was anaesthetized was that she won’t have any children from her own womb. But, it was changed. The hope is there. Lying quietly with her inside her body. I can’t wait for her to open her eyes. I can’t wait for the husband to tell her that it won’t be as bad as they think before. That they might hear a cry of a baby in the middle of the night, one or two or three years from now. I can’t wait to see her face when she knows the hope is there. And it will always be there.

HE still gives people hopes.

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