'The only kind of writing is rewriting.' -Ernest Hemmingway. Edit or rewrite one prompt.

Describe the most beautiful sound you have ever heard.
The nurses shout for me to push, and I am, so hard that a scream builds up in the back of my throat. I urge it back down, but one nurse told me to give up all my dignity. On the next push, I scream so loud I'm sure the whole hospital can hear me.
"Don't scream! Use that energy to push!" One of the six nurses now standing around me scolds.
I try. I try to push. I am pushing. But nothing is happening.
Twenty three hours of labor. No food for the last twelve hours. Pushing for two hours. Vomit. Blood. Blacking out. I feel helpless. Incompetent. Like I'm a failure.
How can I fail at something that almost every woman who has ever lived, has accomplished? I am no failure. I am no quitter. I dig deep within my soul, finding the hardest thing I've ever done before this moment. There. Something that I wanted badly enough to work at for hours every day.
The memory takes shape behind my closed eyes.
The dappled buckskin mare is the most beautiful horse I've laid eyes on. Green broke after being wild for three years, she's as jumpy as a tumble week in forty mile per hour wind. I've watched my mom ride her, and she moves with effortless strides. She's quick under the saddle. Much too fast for my ten years of age. So instead of asking to take a ride, I sit and watch.
Fast forward four years.
It's seven on a summer morning, and I'm already outside cleaning stalls. Manure and horse flesh perfume the air. The sun's up and bright, bringing the flies to back to life. The pitch fork has warmed beneath my leather gloves. A trickle of sweat beads on my temple and I brush it away.  I have to finish before I can ride. And I need to ride so that I can work on my reining.
The buckskin mare approaches me as I scoop manure from the corner of the stall and dump it in the wheel barrow. She stays a good horse length away, watching as I work. She won't take her eyes off me, even though she has feed in the corner, and grain in the manger. She munches for a while, then turns back to get another bite. I watch as she refuses to loose site of me.
I wonder if she considers me a threat. After all, it's been four years since my old, reliable horse foundered, and I was forced to get on her back. She should've learned to trust me since then.
I check her water bucket and notice it's low. With a swift lift, I toss the remaining water onto the ground. The handle bangs against the side as I tip it back upright. The mare darts from where she's standing, ears up, eyes wide, nostrils flared. I take a step back. Not only has she frightened herself, she's frightened me.
By the time I'm done with the stalls, I head inside to eat some breakfast, then head back out to practice. I've got all day to ride, but I feel like the earlier I get started, the better.
I unlatch the halter from around the stall railing, then unhook the latch. The door slides open on dirt filled hinges, making a loud crunching noise.
The buckskin mare has made it from the belly of the barn to the outside run in the second it took me to slide the door open. She snorts and tosses her head like I've personally offended her.
"Come on, Cactus. Time to go." I lift up the halter, signaling my intent.
She stares, unmoving.
"Come on." My urging has no effect on her.
Giving up, I approach and take my time placing the halter over her head with slow, deliberate moves. 
I guide her over to the tack room. She's calm now. Her aparent goosiness gone. I count my lucky stars.
Saddle and bridle on, I mount up, and head toward the arena.
Her hooves kick up dust as I flex her, pulling her into a tight circle going one way, and then the next. She feels lazy under me, but I know to always be prepared. It could be a smoke screen to what she's really feeling.
By the time I warmed her up, the sun is beating down on my neck and bare arms. I roll up my sleeves a little higher.
The practice session continues until we're both drenched in sweat. The couple hours go by quickly, and I walk her for a half hour, letting her lather cool and her breathing become normal. We have a week to get ready for the first show. This year, my goal is to qualify for state. I've competed for four years, and I've been just outside of the standings. But I'm making it this year.
The same routine goes on through the rest of the long, summer days. By the day the rankings are announced at the county finals event, I feel like I've won the trust of this buckskin mare, a feat much more challenging than anticipated. It's a treasure I will never take for granted.
Her bucksin coat shines in the afternoon's summer sun as we stand in the middle of the arena, receiving awards for our achievements. I take a deep breath and listen to the names being read.
The announcer starts from the lowest rankings and moves up. It's a countdown from eighth place to first place among over fifty competitors.
As the first names are read, my palms begin to sweat. I rub them against the black denim jeans I'm wearing. They've announced some very good competitors, people who beat me out of ranking last year. 
My stomach ties in knots as they get to fifth and announce the person who took first the previous year.
My best friend takes fourth, and I feel like I'm going to pass out. She did really well this year.
Third, then second are announced.
I'm still waiting.
The butterflies in my stomach have turned to sour milk, and I feel like I'm going to throw up all over my saddle.
The first place spot is about to be read. Finally. It's the moment of truth.
My heart beats a rapid symphony behind my ribs. The announcer's voice becomes blurry and I miss the first place's name.
Someone reaches over and shakes me. It's my best friend.
"You've done it!" She yells. "You've won first place."
First place. State qualifier. I've accomplished my goal.
I reach down and pat my mare's neck. We've done it. Our hard work paid off.
I'm back in the delivery room. The nurses still shout and scream, yelling at me to push. I wrap my energy around the hard work and determination that won me first place. As I push, my head pounds, on the brink of exploding. My fingers wrap around the sheets, wrinkling them under the pressure.
The push is so hard, the baby's head finally pops into this world. The nurses keep screaming at me to push, but I have no energy left. It's gone. I reach for the memories. But they've evaporated as quickly as they came.
There is silence. Unending silence as I summon my strength, giving one last push to bring my baby the rest of the way. He comes, but there's no announcement of his birth. His face is blue, his eyes closed. No signs of life.
The nurses rush him over to the baby welcoming station. They hoover. I can't see my baby. But I'm so exhausted, I can't voice my concern. Worry naws at my empty stomach cavity.
The silence is so quiet, it's loud. I can hardly breath, even though my body yearns for air.
A single, meowing cry bounces off the bare walls of the room. It brings tangible relief. The nurses' tight shoulders relax. Deep breaths. Relieved tones. Calm voices. More crying from the baby.
It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard, even better than the memory that made bringing that sound into the world possible. The sound of life. Potential. Love. Endless possibilites. I send up a prayer, thanking God for the sound of the living. It's better than any other announcement this world can bring.