Years ago I read a story in the New Yorker and lost track of it. It was about a couple having their first child. They were utterly unprepared for a problem delivery resulting in a c-section, but everything was find at the end of the day.
This was an extremely well-written, compelling bit of fiction by a young woman writer. She had a terrific sense of detail and the ability to permit those details to carry the emotional weight of the story. The last line was memorable..."And then they walked down the street just like everyone else."
If this rings a bell with anyone, please let me know!