I remain cautious and keep an awareness of my surroundings. Listening for the back door and as well to the stairs from the second floor. I pull out my phone, thinking at least to prepare a dial to 911. It can’t find a signal. I put it back in my pocket. I start to wonder what the outcome of all of this will be. She crawls into a laying position, turns onto her back, and pulls up her legs. Another contraction, another cry.
What the hell. I grab her knees and encourage her to push. She wants her spirit baby and I could see no danger in at least helping her bear it. After a few contractions she said the baby was too big, it hurt too much. Through a few more she kept saying it wasn’t coming. She plead with her angels, “I need you, I need you” over and over again. I could see we weren’t going to get anywhere if something didn’t change.
I told her that she had to tell the angels what she wanted. I insisted that they were willing to help if they only knew what she wanted. From there she poured her fears to them. About the health of the spirit baby. About having recently arrived from Mexico and not wanting to go back. The safety of her four children and how she didn’t want lose them. About having no job. Terrified of what could happen to her, to her family. More contractions, but the baby was still too big, it hurt too much.
All right then, real pain or no, I felt required to play it her way. I couldn’t bring myself to believe she was carrying a spirit baby but, for her sake I didn’t want to deny it. I had to somehow settle the situation to a point where I would feel okay leaving her. I called upon my modest skills of guided meditation and took control.
“Your pain,” I told her, “is because you won’t let this baby be born.”
“You think so?” Contraction.
“Yes. Now breath and let this happen. The angels are here and they will help you.”
I continued guiding her. When she said the baby was too big, I told her it was because he was a warrior baby. When she said it hurt too much I told her she had to let go and let it be born, it was ready. At some point I told her there was a little girl excited to have a baby brother.
She smiled, her lips shiny with tears, and asked what the girl looked like. I described what I thought this woman would have looked like at eight years old. She asked the girl’s name, I said she didn’t tell me but that she was in a blue dress with fluffy clouds. I allowed her two more contractions and told her the baby had emerged. She seemed to ignore me but I insisted with a description including the glory of the angels in seeing the little baby boy. I insisted that she describe the baby and, with a wide smile she began.
He had skin both white and all colors, and shining with golden light. His hair was the color of rainbows. He was strong, he was beautiful. She was still in pain. I encouraged her to breath into the pain, sure that there would still be some residue spirit energy to expel. I was not going to let that baby, thus me, get sucked back in.
After a few quiet moments, she wanted to get up and go to bed. I helped her up and we shuffled her to the living room wherein her bed sat against the far wall. At some point she’d wet her pants, I threw a towel down on the sheet. She smiled at that and lay down on her back. Sunshine poured into the window and a beam lay across her face. It was so full of tears, her hair glistened with sweat. She was still in pain.
I feared she had a real problem and reiterated the option for a doctor. “You will bring a doctor?” I said yes, but reminded her that the doctor would arrive in an ambulance and would probably take her to a hospital. She shook her head, “No white ambulance, no white doctor.” The angels were all she needed.
I brought her a glass of water and sat on the edge of the bed. But for the pain, she looked ready to sleep. She said she was terrified to be left alone. I found out she hadn’t eaten for over a day, so I went back into the kitchen to make her a plate. This time I noticed the abundance of angel statues hovering on shelves and counter tops. The oven was on, I turned it off. She’d been warming croissants. Two of those went on the plate, along with an arrangement of apple slices and a cluster of dark purple grapes.
When I made ready to leave she didn’t want to let me go. I told her my job was done, though my heart was wrestling on just leaving her there with her angels while she might possibly be suffering a very real problem. She said she was terrified of the night, of being alone. This fear I knew well.
Intuition told me I had to give her a focus. Following my gut, I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a half-full, cut-glass sugar bowl. I set it on the bookcase in front of the window. Sunlight refracted in small spots and rainbows. Making it up as I went along, I told her that, while I didn’t know exactly why, it had to be there for her in the sun.
I sat back on the edge of the bed and held her hands. We talked of the valley of death and the dark night of the soul. I told her all of my tricks and tips for surviving just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse. I shared with her how it feels to get through it strong, with your head held high, looking fear in the eye. And how good it feels like to look back once you make it. We talked about the cruelties of humanity, and that when it feels like all you have to rely on is the justice of angels, they’ll be there. Standing beside you. Even when you think they aren’t. Loving you. No matter what.