Don't Let Go!

"I see a tunnel!" I exclaimed, soon after the narcotics flowed from my IV into my bloodstream. The maternity nurse warned me that I might feel "a little sleepy." She failed to mention that I would be taken into another world, a dark place, where I had no control over my mind, or my body.

After experiencing vast amounts of pain from forced contractions, I asked if there was anything I could have -- just to take the edge off. Something "light" like Tylenol, or Aspirin, or Ibuprofen. I cannot remember the name of the drug they pumped through my veins, but there was nothing "light" about it. As soon as it was injected into the IV, I could feel the effects spread from the top of my head down to my toes, like a blood coolant. Once it hit my eyes, I could no longer keep them open . . . not even by force. Everything grew heavy. A great fog formed in my brain. I really saw tunnels, beckoning me to enter.

I can remember moaning and squirming uncomfortably, "Why do people do drugs?" I asked. The nurse came over to me and began to rub my feet (she was a fantastic Nurse, Pam was her name). She said in a calm whisper, "People do drugs because they cannot see the beautiful mountains, or smell the fresh air, or enjoy the world around them." My love for Pam grew even more as she tried to keep me with her.

And then it grew black. The light was gone. I could not see anything . . . except for tunnels. Tunnels, and brief images of my kids, and family, and random flashes of memory -- just like in the movies, before someone dies and their life flashes before their eyes. The images would appear and were only interrupted by intense pain that would come and go in unsteady waves. I wanted so badly to open my eyes, and come back to reality, but I couldn't. I was gone.

Charles came to my side and held onto my hand and interlocked our arms. It was the only comfort that I had. His touch was the only thing that kept me attached to the real world. I had never had such a strong connection with him as I did when he gently grabbed onto my arm. It was different somehow. I needed his touch. There was a moment when he let go, to adjust his position, and I remember begging for him to come back. (I never beg.) But I needed him . . . I needed him to not let go. I have never felt that way before. Not that way.

Normally, I am a tough girl. I fancy myself able to deal with pain and hard things -- without showing too much "girlish" emotion. But one thing that the drug did do for me was strip away any pride I had in my toughness. Not only did I want Charles to hold me close and tight (I always want him to, but do not always ask for it), but I needed him to hold me -- to keep me anchored, and be my light in the darkness that had overtaken my mind. I could not do it alone.

Charles is the only one that could have comforted me in that moment. Behind his firm hold on my arm, and our interlinked hands, existed 13 years of love, experiences, trials, faith, passion, and most of all . . . understanding. He is the only one who really knows me, completely. He is the only one who could have kept me from going under . . . from letting the darkness take me. It may sound overly dramatic, but it was really the case. Apparently, I can't handle drugs.

I must have been hurting his arms -- squeezing so tightly -- because he had to readjust a few times. When the contractions came I would almost rip him to shreds, just clinging onto him, searching for some help, some strength. The time kept ticking away, and I remained in my incoherent state. Charles had to sit down. At one point I held onto the collar of his shirt, I would pull and tug and grab onto the back of his neck, when the pain got intense and the darkness too deep.

My eyes were closed to the very end. The drugs kept me unable to move or think clearly, but the pain was still there. I was not asleep, but not awake. It was like my brain was numbed, not the pain. Not what I was hoping for when I requested to "take the edge off."  Taking the drugs was a bad choice for me. I remember finally opening my eyes when Charles said, "I can see his head!" That was the only cue I could comprehend . . . and then PUSH!!!

Through the tunnel . . . and I was back. Through the tunnel . . . Henry was born.

As I looked back over the experience I realized how much I love Charles. He has always been there for me in past birthing experiences, but this one was different. It has been more than 10 years since I gave birth for the first time, I was so young. We were so young. But now we have life, and time, and history behind us. There was strength in his touch that was not there the first time. There was a deeper love and connection this time, that was not there before. Time. Years. Understanding. Being one.

I sure love him. I always have, and I always will. 

May that connection grow ever stronger with time. May his firm grasp always save me from darkness and pull me through tunnels.

I love you, Charles.