Childbirth Death Quotes

“I went into the room and stayed with Catherine until she died. She was unconscious all the time, and it did not take her very long to die.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

“I sat outside in the hall. Everything was gone inside of me. I did not think. I could not think. I knew she was going to die and I prayed that she would not. Don’t let her die. Oh, God, please don’t let her die. I’ll do anything for you if you won’t let her die. Please, please, please dear God, don’t let her die. . . . You took the baby but don’t let her die. That was all right but don’t let her die. Please, please, dear God, don’t let her die.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

“I didn't feel anything at first when Miss Ethel told me, but now I think about it all the time. It's like there's a baby girl down here waiting to be born. She's somewhere close by in the air, in this house, and she picked me to be born to. And now she has to find some other mother." Cee began to sob.

"Come on girl. Don't cry," whispered Frank.

"Why not? I can be miserable if I want to. You don't need to try and make it go away. It shouldn't go away. It's just as sad as it ought to be and I'm not going to hide from what's true just because it hurts.”
― Toni Morrison, Home

“Mama says at every birth, death is in the room. You can try to ignore it, or you can acknowledge it, and greet it like a guest, and then you won't be so afraid anymore."
Bee looked skeptical.
"How do you greet it? 'Hello, Death'?"
"She pictures the last patient she lost," I said. "The death that's freshest in her mind. She pictures that woman standing right there in the room with her. She looks the woman up and down. She doesn't say anything, but sometimes she gives a little nod. Then she's ready for the birth.”
― Anna North, Outlawed

“And all through that night of age-long agony the gray figure stood, still as a statue, at the foot of the stairs. Only, when, with the first chill breath of the morning, a dry, quick-quenched sob of a strong man sorrowing for the helpmeet of a score of years, and a tiny cry of a new-born child wailing because its mother was not, came down to his ears, the Gray Watchman dropped his head upon his bosom, and, with a little whimpering note, crept back to his blanket.”
― Alfred Ollivant, Bob, Son of Battle