Rainbows

A tsunami of fear overcame me several months after June’s death, shortly after the birth of our son. The grace period of fearless freedom which I had expected to endure forever, lasted approximately eight weeks, and ended abruptly, coinciding with the time between the death of June and the birth of our son. Thankfully my new found fearlessness covered the day of the birth which, against my will, was natural and unmedicated. He wasn’t ten pounds like predicted, a total relief, although I could feel all nine pounds four ounces of him on the way out. There are three words to describe the sensation of being unmedicated and on a table birthing a child: ring of fire. He came out weighing exactly two pounds more than his delicate eldest sister, and one pound twelve ounces more than June. 

Once my body expelled him, the nurses congratulated me on a healthy baby boy. Then they told me I did an incredible job pushing him out, and exclaimed “in almost record time!” “Oh, I didn't push.” I assured them. “There was no pushing involved, my body just wanted him out.” I rambled in utter astonishment “I wasn't even in my body!” In fact, during the process, the doctor said “Okay! I can see the baby's head, try not to push so hard.” To which I replied, “I’m not pushing!” as the very clear thought of “I’m totally screwed. Bring on the stitches” ran through my head. But my body knew what to do. The tear I sustained was far less than the two tears I had on both of my previously medicated births to daughters who weighed significantly less. Afterward, the healing process was also much quicker. I realized, my body knows what to do. The day it levitated off the birthing table I could hear faintly in the distance the anesthesiologist say “It’s too late now”. That was the day I learned it’s okay to be in and to listen to my body. It was a feeling I’d never had before. I’d spent so much time trying to run out of my body on the treadmill or jump out of my body during a HIIT workout or race out of my body down a slalom slope. I’d spent months after June’s diagnosis trying to self-medicate my body with ten ounce glasses of red wine every night, just to be able to stay in my body. Then my body proved to me it’s a safe place. It exists completely separate from my mind. It showed me it had everything in control. I just needed to sit back, trust it, and take in my surroundings. It was as I was laying on the birthing table that I watched the room fill with white light. In the moment, I thought I was dying, but fortunately my fearlessness hadn’t yet expired. “Take me.” I told God, “I’m ready.” That was the first time I'd seen the light. 

Many people told me that June would be with me the day I gave birth to our son. She would be present to protect both me and him. I wanted this so badly. I tried to envision her floating down from the heavens, but I couldn't. I didn’t have any physical proof of this being possible and my human brain, separate from my body, soul and consciousness, tried to lead me down the path of disbelief.

We arrived at the hospital on the hill. I reluctantly looked up at it from the passenger seat of the car. Normally, in everyday life, I try not to do this. I never look at the hospital. It’s too painful. I speed past it on the highway once a week on my way to therapy forcing my eyes to stay steady and straight ahead, in my lane. Other times, I pass it with my daughter in the car. She points to it and says, “Mama, look. It’s Junie’s hospital.” With an instant visceral ache, I always respond with the steadiest unsteady voice while keeping my eyes on the road, “You’re right, hunny. That’s Junie’s hospital.”

Today, on the day I will birth my son, eight weeks after June has died, sadness seemed to seep from the pores of the hospital's bricks. I am triggered, as usual. I’m trying not to cry the second we cross the threshold of the main entrance. This hospital harbors so many memories. June underwent half her treatment here. I had worked here as a student nurse, certified nurses assistant (CNA), and a registered nurse for the previous four years. I birthed our two girls here. In the basement of this hospital a stranger told me “June has cancer.” 

We finally arrived at the birthing floor. I felt like the Michellin Man in a flowery fuschia robe. Our nurse walked in. I didn’t recognize her, unlike so many other nurses at this hospital from years of working here. In the days leading up to today, I prayed that I would be surrounded by nurses I knew and people that would hold me close. Although, here I was. I wasn’t alone, but since June had died, I was more alone than I’d ever been. I sat and stared at the wall. I’d been here before. Twice. The last time was to give birth to June which was the most beautiful and sacred births of all my children. I pulled her out of my womb and onto my belly just as she took her first breath in her new world. Instantaneously, we were bonded. The most incredible nurse said to me, “I’m going to leave now, and you are going to do nothing but hold your baby for one hour.” June laid on my chest in the most precious, supple, pink skin of her life. We bonded for one entire hour before anyone else held her, including husband. In the weeks after we left the hospital, she would only allow me to hold her. She wouldn’t happily go to anyone else without first putting up a fight. Husband referred to it as the curse of holding the baby for the entire first hour of its life. I thought it was heaven. From day one, June was my heaven.

Minutes later the nurse who was to deliver our son returned, “There is someone outside who wants to visit, is that okay?”. I couldn’t think of a single person who would visit because no one was allowed. Covid-19 restrictions were in full force. I figured it had to be one of my nurse friends who caught wind I was at the hospital.

Just then the nurse who delivered June walked into the room. Before I could put two and two together, we were embracing. She told me she had heard about June and had been thinking so much about our family. She cried. I sobbed. I couldn’t let go. This is what it felt like to be held. It’s a similar feeling as when you're a child, and all you want is to be consoled by your mom or dad. You walk over to them and throw your arms in the air demanding they pick you up. I had turned into my six year old self again. Something about losing June has done that to me over and over again. “Can you deliver our son?” I desperately blurted out. She told me she was working on another floor that day, but otherwise of course she would have loved to. To June’s and my special nurse: Thank you for coming to visit me that day. June, thank you for sending your nurse when you knew I needed her the most. A full circle.

Six months after June died, we took a family trip to South America to visit my chosen family. I studied abroad in Chile in high school and lived with them as a foreign exchange student. They became the nuclear family I have never had. Thanks to technological advancements in the last couple of decades we have been able to stay close, despite the distance.

Isabel, my host-sister, is an energy healer. She performs energy work on clients in many different forms, primarily Reiki. She was taught by a Reiki master and she believes she is a portal which God can utilize to heal the human. She sacrifices her body in the name of God to help heal others on a daily basis.

I’m laying on the full size bed in her bedroom in a little house in the countryside of Chile. It’s summer time. The windows are open and there is a cool breeze coming from outside. I can hear dogs barking in the distance and see the sun setting just beyond the rolling hills out front. I close my eyes, and start to settle into the mattress. I take some deep diaphragmatic breaths. Isabel starts her energy work without touch. 

A couple of minutes into the work, I feel my body shaking. It’s the kind of shake just after you give birth naturally (medicated or unmedicated). The kind of shake that is coming from deep in the cells of your nerves. An uncontrollable, almost violent expenditure of energy. I felt as if I was falling off the bed. As if I was suspended in the air. I opened my eyes to make sure I wasn’t going to fall, and realized I was still laying firmly flat on the mattress. 

That’s when Isabel started talking to someone that wasn’t in the room. She was speaking so rapidly in Spanish, I couldn’t decipher what she was saying. It sounded like tongues. I caught bits and pieces of it, “Mama…you’re okay…it’s okay”. I was no longer in my own body. I started to panic, but I felt frozen. I opened my eyes to a bright white light above me.

Isabel stopped talking. Then she asked, “Did June pass away right here?” as she pointed to the space to the left of my ribcage. Ah, the home of June. The crook of my left arm. The area just below my armpit. The area just above my left hip. “Yes,” I told her, shaking. Teeth chattering. Suddenly, I was not only frozen, but I was also freezing. I had carried June on my hip her entire life. Eighteen-months. Carrying her during infancy waned as carrying her during sickness took over. Initially it was a struggle to carry her around everywhere, but eventually, I got used to it. I also became really good at doing everything with one hand: opening jars between my legs, cutting fruit and veggies with one swift chop! and June’s favorite, vacuuming. She was happiest on my hip as long as we were walking around the house sucking up dog hair, dirt, and crumbs. She became my fourteen pound extremity. We were glued to one another. I wouldn’t change that for the world.

Tears streamed down my cheeks. “Well, as you know, I carried June on my hip her entire life,” I told Isabel. “Then she passed away right here,” I pointed to June’s home. Isabel’s eyes filled with water. “Her energy is tattooed on your body, right there.” she said. Just then the entire room broke out in rainbows. The most perfectly shaped miniature rainbows floated all around us. Unsure of myself, I asked, “Isabel, do you see those?” pointing to the air, half-expecting she’d say no and think I was out of my mind, but then she said matter-of-factly, and without hesitation. “Yes, I see the rainbows.” We sat for a moment in silence and astonishment watching the rainbows hovering around us. Then slowly they disappeared, and tiny white orbs started to appear. Isabel and I sat there and stared at them in complete awe. ‘Isabel, I saw a white light. Did you?” My body was still shaking. It was difficult to speak. “No, but I heard a little girl’s voice. She was frantically saying, ‘mama, mama, mama, mommy, mommy, mommy, mama’”. I tried to calm her down. I told her, your mama is here and she misses and loves you so much. Your brother and sister and daddy are here too, and we think about you every moment. We love you so much. I told her it’s okay, you'll be together again soon. I told her I love her. She started to calm down.” 

“Tell me, have you ever seen the white light before?” Isabel asked.

Just then it dawned on me, “Yes, the day our son was born.”