I felt the room go silent. No fetal activity was detected.

Most of my internship stories echo through the walls of the OBGYN department. Perhaps it's because I was posted there during the peak months—September and October. Labour rooms were always brimming with cries, both of joy and pain. During those two months, I conducted countless normal vaginal deliveries on my own and assisted in several lower-segment cesarean sections (LSCS). But there’s one night I’ll never forget. It was around 2:24 AM, in a labor room that hadn’t seen a moment of stillness all night. My legs ached, and fatigue had long since settled in. That’s when a 29-year-old woman walked in with her mother. Let’s call her Yasmina. She was 34 weeks pregnant. Both of them looked visibly anxious. I took her referral ticket from a nearby district hospital—she had come in with a complaint of decreased fetal movements. As per protocol, I immediately reached for the Doppler to auscultate the fetal heart sound. I couldn’t find any. I tried again, more carefully this time, shifting positions. Still nothing. My hands went cold. My gut twisted. A feeling of dread settled in. We immediately called for an urgent ultrasound. Within thirty minutes, the report was back. "No fetal cardiac activity detected." In less than an hour, everything changed. It was already past 3:30 AM. My seniors had to break the news. They sat down with Yasmina and her mother and told them everything gently but truthfully. Yasmina broke down in tears. Her mother clutched her hands. I couldn’t bear to stay. I quietly walked away to the duty room and sat in silence. Fast forward to the morning round: Around 8:30 a.m. we entered the maternity ward. Yasmina was in bed number 4. I tried to avoid her eyes. After the round, I was asked to draw blood samples. I approached her with a needle and a knot in my throat. She looked at me and asked, “Sir, what happened? What went wrong? Won’t I ever be a mother again? Why always me?” I stood beside her, stunned. I wanted to say something that would make sense. Something that could heal. But what do you say to a mother who has just lost her child? She told me she had completed her education and married a good man. This was her third pregnancy, after struggling for years to conceive. She had placed all her hopes in this baby. Later that evening, she delivered a stillborn girl. A beautiful baby who never got to cry. I cried too. Alone, in the doctor’s room. No one knew. Evening rounds started. After my seniors left, I found myself at her bedside again. She cried this time too. I tried to offer solace. “Yasmina,” I said, “you will be a mother someday. And you’ll be a wonderful one. But for now, rest. Eat. Take care of yourself. Healing takes time.” My words—however sincere—felt insufficient in front of such deep sorrow. But I stayed. I listened. She talked. Over the next two days, Yasmina began to open up more. There were fewer tears and more words. I didn’t offer advice. I just listened. On the day of her discharge, we told her to follow up in the outpatient department. We would work on her future pregnancy planning. Before leaving, she looked at me and said: “Sir, you are younger than me, but your heart is so kind. You’re a good doctor.” She left the ward but never left my mind. Patients like Yasmina taught me that medicine is more than diagnosis, disease, and treatment. It's not just science. It’s humanity. It's about standing quietly beside a woman who's just lost her baby, and letting her grieve. It's about presence, not prescriptions. I’ve lost touch with her since then, but I hope she becomes a mother someday. She will be a great one—I’m sure of that. Stay happy, Yasmina.

Previously published on medium.