"Nurse, nurse," my mother said. "Why is this ward called Stone Op?"

Her voice echoed in the ward, which I couldn't see because we were speaking on the phone.

"Snowdrop?" a voice echoed back. "I don't know."

"Maybe it's very pure," my mother said. "It's been a while since I heard from you. Where are you?"

"We spoke yesterday," I said. "I'm in New York."

"Oh, that is such a long way away," my mother exclaimed. "I thought you were at home."

But I was at home. As much as I love my mother, I am afraid of the empty spaces and ghosts in her house, which is also my home, but not one I can live in for very long. And I am afraid of her weak heart and labored breathing.

"The coffee here tastes like rubber tires," my mother said. "I like cups of tea, of course."

"I'll help you get some good cups of tea when I get there," I said.

"When will that be?"

"Not tomorrow morning but the next one," I said.

"That is such a very long time away," she said.

Over the past four years, I rushed home numerous times, every time my mother saying it may be the last time I would see her. But my mother's will to live kept her moving forward, believing she would make a full recovery. I wished that she was right so I could stay in one place for a while, knowing that she was okay.

When I got the emergency call, I didn't rush over. I believed that she would recover, as she always does. But because she wants to see me, and wants to get that really good cup of tea, I'll be on my way there tomorrow.

"Monday seems terribly far away," she said again.

"Push," the doctor said.

"I can't," I said.

"Yes, you can," she said.

I struggled to push until she pulled out a needle.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"Just in case I need to cut you," she said.

"I don't want an episiotomy," I said.

But as soon as the needle went in, my daughter's head came out. The tear in my skin burned.

My husband stumbled backwards from his position at the foot of the bed.

"My God!" he exclaimed, and sat down to take a few more photographs.

My daughter peered around as if trying to focus on something. The umbilical cord ripped, spraying the doctor with blood.

The doctor told me to push out the placenta and then started sewing me up. My daughter and I stared at each other. As soon as one nurse showed me how to get her to latch on to nurse, another lifted her away and said she would bring the baby right back after some routine procedures.

"Can I go back to work now?" my husband asked.

"We've just had a baby," I said. "Don't you want to stay?"

Reluctantly he called in to say he was taking the day off, and lay out on the pink plastic chair to wait. We waited. And waited.

I buzzed the nurses repeatedly.

"Where is my baby?" I asked.

"We're bringing her right now," a voice said.

We waited for three hours until finally a nurse told me to shower and come to the nursery to pick up my baby. Showering was hard because of the stitches. I hobbled to the nursery, and all along the hallway I heard a pitiful screaming.

"That's your baby," the nurse said. "She's going to be a good singer."