I was in the hospital having my first son, David, back in 1980. We were going to go all-natural...no meds, Lamaze breathing techniques, minimal doctor intervention, etc. Somewhere within the first couple of hours of labor I knew something was wrong. It took about 14 hours of sheer agony for the doctor (not my regular doctor...he was on vacation in Greece) to realize that I hadn't dilated at all. All that time my boy was pushing with his head on bones that wouldn't open. By the time the doctor decided things were getting serious, I was a step away from having a stroke and losing the baby. Plus, for some reason the doc didn't realize I had toxemia, which made all matters much worse. An emergency C-section was performed and our son was saved. I, on the other hand, was shutting down. Round the clock care for days was needed to help get my organs to function properly. On the afternoon of the second day after the birth, a small woman came in to my room, wearing a beige suit. She didn't look like anyone from the hospital staff. She came in, took my chin in her hand, and put her face very close to mine. In a thick Hungarian accent, she said to me, "You must live. You are needed for your son." I said, "OK." Now here's where I need to note that I, myself, didn't know I was dying. She left me and I never saw her again. She's come at other times to me during my life when I've needed her due to an emergency, but never as a Hungarian woman again. How do I know this? I just know. No matter how she looks, I refer to her as my "Hungarian Lady," and I thank God for her.