The hospital room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the soft hum of the fluorescent lights above. Kumari lay in the bed, her face pale, her breathing shallow. She was only 28 years old, but the last 24 hours had aged her beyond her years. Her hands rested on her swollen belly, where her unborn child—a little girl she and her husband, Sister, had already named Baby—kicked faintly, as if sensing the turmoil around her.
Kumari had been diagnosed with preeclampsia just two weeks earlier. Her physician had strongly advised hospitalization at a higher center, but her family, under the presumption that she was not sick enough, had ignored the advice. She attended the outpatient department for a USG examination due to the non-initiation of labor pain at 41 weeks of pregnancy. On registration, her blood pressure was a staggering 192/128. The medical staff immediately counseled her for hospitalization, but Kumari insisted on proceeding with the USG. During the ultrasound examination, her condition worsened rapidly.
Now, she was in the throes of eclampsia. Her body convulsed with seizures, and her blood pressure was dangerously high. The medical team rushed her to the HDU, desperately trying everything—medications, magnesium sulfate, even an emergency C-section to save the baby. But Kumari’s body was failing. She was slipping away.
The medical team worked frantically around her, their faces etched with concentration and worry. Kumari felt herself drifting. The pain, the fear, the noise—it all began to fade. She was floating, weightless, in a sea of darkness. And then, suddenly, there was light.
It started as a faint glow in the distance, warm and inviting. Kumari felt drawn to it, as if it were calling her name. She moved toward it, though she wasn’t sure how. The closer she got, the more the light enveloped her, wrapping her in a sense of peace she had never known. It was as if all the pain, all the worry, had been lifted away.
In the light, she saw faces—faces of loved ones who had passed before her. Her grandmother, who had raised her after her parents died, smiled and reached out a hand. “Not yet, mija,” she said softly. “It’s not your time.”
Kumari wanted to stay. The light was so comforting, so full of love. But then she heard another voice—a tiny, fragile cry. It was her baby. Kumari’s heart ached. She couldn’t leave her. She couldn’t leave Sister. She had to go back.
The light began to fade, and the darkness returned. Kumari felt herself being pulled, as if by an invisible thread, back toward the hospital room. The beeping of the heart monitor grew louder, more urgent. She heard the voices of the doctors, sharp and focused.
“We shouldn’t lose her!” “One more round of medical intervention—now!”
Kumari’s eyes fluttered open. The room was a blur of movement, but she could see Sister standing in the corner, his face ashen, his hands clenched in prayer. She tried to speak, but no words came out. Instead, she focused all her strength on staying awake, on fighting to stay alive.
Hours passed, though Kumari couldn’t tell if it was minutes or days. Slowly, her body began to stabilize. The seizures stopped, her blood pressure dropped, and the doctors finally stepped back, their faces a mix of exhaustion and relief.
Sister rushed to her side, tears streaming down his face. “Kumari,” he whispered, clutching her hand. “You’re here. You’re still here.”
Kumari smiled weakly, her eyes drifting to the incubator in the corner of the room. Inside, the tiny baby slept peacefully, her chest rising and falling with each breath. She was under treatment in the NICU, but she was alive. They both were.
In the days that followed, Kumari recovered slowly but steadily. The doctors called her survival a miracle, but Kumari knew it was more than that. She had seen the light, felt its pull, and chosen to come back. She had chosen life—for herself, for her baby, and for Sister.
As she held her daughter for the first time, Kumari felt a profound sense of gratitude. She had been to the edge of death and back, and she now understood how precious every moment was. The light had shown her that. And
though she would always carry the memory of that near-death experience,
Kumari knew it wasn’t an end. It was a reminder—to cherish the light
within and never take a single breath for granted.
Finally, after a long and arduous journey, Kumari was discharged from the hospital. As she stepped out into the sunlight, holding her baby close to her chest, she felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the second chance at life. She was leaving the hospital with a renewed sense of purpose and a deeper appreciation for the preciousness of every moment.
