She had a name. She was a wife. She was a mother. She was a daughter. She was still a child herself at 18 years old. Now she becomes a statistic that is not quite at the forefront for a number of reasons.
These women are poor and they are mainly women of color. They are from Panama, the Sudan, Afghanistan, and yes even our own doorstep: New York.
I went over to Time.com and was struck by this moving and hauntingly real slideshow which brought me into the pain of childbirth, the uncertainty, the resolve, the relief, and unfortunately the death of Mamma Sessay. She was forced into a marriage at 14 years old. By 15 years old, she was having children.
As I trudge along in my own pregnancy at 17 weeks and some days, I don't question whether or not I will have to worry about care. I don't worry if I will deliver our my third child in a dirty hospital room with little technology to take care of me.
Every woman questions whether or not something will go wrong, but at this stage of pregnancy, it gets easier to focus on touching your new baby soon, as opposed to worrying about whether or not you will make it out alive. Well, at least if you are in privileged enough to have health care insurance or some kind of care in a "First World Country."
I feel guilty staring at her picture. I feel like I've done nothing to deserve these blessings. I wonder if I have earned enough. As I sit and watch her face and her untimely death, I can't help but thank and question God at the same time for all that He has given me. My kids were born in nice hospitals, one of them being newly remodeled and furnished with plasma television screens, DVD and CD player, beautiful wood paneling...
How is her situation fair?
