Sunlight on My Shadow (22 page)

So I plowed ahead, wanting to be done with the shame even though it stuck like a scarred adhesion. With forced determination, I gradually broke the silence, offering a sentence or two when the subject of teen pregnancies came up in a friendly conversation, saying something like, “Oh, that happened to me.” My throat would squeeze and my voice would shake. Then I expected someone to say, “Really? What happened?” I wanted desperately to talk about it; they just pretended not to hear me. I am sure they could sense how uncomfortable I was exposing my festering wound.

Intellectually, I now understood that guilt and shame were taught to me by society, my parents, the nuns, and the Catholic Church—and that I didn’t have to keep reliving it. But these things are deep seeded. It wasn’t just a question of intellectualizing what I had been taught and how it played into my regrets. I still had some work to do.

By the time my daughters were five and ten, we had moved from our trailer in the mobile home park to a sprawling rented home in Cedar Fort, Utah. I had watched the movie about dealing with the grief of losing a baby, which prompted the healing episode of tears with the Cabbage Patch doll. I was realizing that even though I gave away my baby, at least I gave her the gift of life. A bit of sunlight crept in and set me forward on the path to easing regrets.

My children were growing; we now lived in Pepperwood, an upscale neighborhood in Sandy, Utah, nestled in the foothills of the Wasatch Mountain Range. It wasn’t that we could afford this lifestyle from our hang-gliding business, but due to the sale of stock in my father’s company, we were able to upgrade considerably. Our house was filled with mountain views on an acre of land, financial worries were eased, and my loved ones were healthy—yet my sense of well-being was rocky. Something vague was awry. Perhaps it was a lingering memory from the hundred days when I held the secret of the pregnancy to myself, constantly worrying about what would become of me. Perhaps it was just the lingering shame, or perhaps it was the worry of what became of the child I gave up for adoption.

The physical ache for closeness that I felt at Baby Helen’s birth morphed into a more subtle concern for her well-being. When I gave her away, I never allowed myself to question my decision. I couldn’t get married at such a young age; no one did that. I couldn’t keep the baby: how could I raise it? I couldn’t get an abortion because the window for that option had passed before I told any adults. Adoption seemed like it was my best choice. Yet I questioned whether I did the right thing. I still missed her and I had never even held her, so where was my longing coming from?

The memories sat like wet leaves on a fall fire, too heavy and moldy to burn: the toxic smoke clouded my days. I walked around in life doing this and that and learning to live with this smoldering smelly feeling in my gut of sorrow, pain, and shame. I couldn’t be completely clear with anything because of the smoke, yet I was afraid to poke the fire and dig down to get to it.

The ache of longing, that shadowy lump in the left side of my body, was still tangible. It may have been the trigger for recurring nightmares of botched babysitting episodes that went something like this:

I am walking out of the ladies lounge at Marshall Field’s. I am hurrying from ladies dresses to the shoe department, looking for something, when I gasp as I remember I left the baby in the bathroom.

A shroud of horror puts me in a panic. I retrace my steps, scramble to the escalator, run up the moving steps, and try to pull open the door to the ladies lounge, but it is too heavy. I run to look for the maintenance man to help me. None of the clerks know where he is.

I know the baby is in there. I have to get her. No one seems to be able to help me. I am frantic and worry about telling my sister I lost the baby I was supposed to be watching. I feel irresponsible and careless, and a sinking remorse at my selfish insensitivity for letting the baby’s sense of well-being slip my mind.

Or, another dream:

Again I am in charge of someone’s baby, but I drop it and her head falls off. “You can’t just stick a human head back on,” I think. “It can’t work.” But I have heard of how a lizard can grow another tail, and I think I will give it a try. I have to do something before someone sees how careless I have been. So I reach down to the floor and pick up the head. I turn it so it faces forward and set it on the baby’s neck. It seems to miraculously stick. I think I see the baby blink. I am relieved: it worked.

But when I start walking with the baby in my arms, the head gives a little wobble and gets too far sideways and falls off the skinny neck again.

I never find the baby dead, but suspended in this space between life and death. I grieve and blame myself. I want to think the baby will be okay, but I have sinking doubts. I am ashamed of my carelessness. My heart, head, and hands quiver with regret and worry.

After a dream like this I am relieved to wake up to the morning, but the dreadful feelings often lingered throughout the day.

I noticed a lessening of these unsettling dreams after my session with Lana. By some stroke of grace, I met Lana at a conference for midwives. I didn’t plan it, but she ended up being the stoker of the smoldering fire, helping me uncover the leaves so I could let the fire burn. She was one of those grown-up hippie types, decorated with a pink-and-purple tie-die gracefully swooped around her plump yet agile body. Her voice was smooth and soft, like whipped cream, and her hair was whisked up into a loose knot fastened with a teakwood stick. She moved deliberately in her space and seemed to be aware of everything around her. Her eyes sparkled with inner knowing. She was a trained psychologist, and the gist of her message was that getting in touch with your own birth can help you become a better midwife. “It could help you understand the perspective of the newly born,” she said.

I had heard about the benefits of rebirthing. One story told of a person who was no longer claustrophobic after a session that traced this fear back to an oxygen-deprived birth. I didn’t know what fears I might uncover, but I hoped the lesson would be profound. I liked Lana instantly, so I signed up for a private rebirthing session later that afternoon.

We were in the basement of an old church. The walls of the room were gray-painted concrete block. Brown particle-board folding tables lined the walls. When I walked in, Lana was sitting in the middle of the room opposite a straight-backed chair with a black-vinyl padded seat. A few metal fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, giving the feeling of an overcast day.

“Hi, Judy,” Lana said. “Have a seat.”

I sat down and faced her.

“Thanks for coming. Are you ready for an inward journey?” she asked.

“Hope so,” I said as I shuffled in my chair. “Will it be like I’m hypnotized?”

“Not really,” she said. “Some say it’s similar, but you’ll be fully aware.”

I took off my sweater and put it on the back of my chair, then immediately felt chilly.

“This is kind of scary,” I said.

“Judy, I understand. Of course you would be a little afraid because it’s a journey into the unknown.”

“What exactly will we be doing?” I asked.

“I’ll take you on a guided inner journey to help you remember your very own birth. Our first early experiences shape who we are and influence our lives. When we bring them to light, we get in touch with our true selves. Sometimes it leads you to a better understanding of why you act the way you do.”

On her direction I took three deep breaths. I noticed that my hands were clenched in my lap. I reached behind me to get my sweater and draped it over my shoulders.

“Now as you breathe, I’d like you to let your thoughts flow freely until you find a sweet place in your mind’s eye. Do you have a place you love? It might be a mountain valley or an ocean beach. Can you imagine it?”

“I’m up north on the lake,” I said.

“Good. Can you describe it?”

“I’m lying lengthwise with the boat’s seat cushion for a pillow. I’m gazing up at white clouds, cauliflower plumes. The boat is rocking gently; the waves are lapping at the sides in a soft click. The sun is warming my body.”

Lana said, “Good, now just stay there for a few moments and feel the sun getting warmer. What do you smell? What sounds are around? Relax into the moment.”

I could hear a loon in the distance. The thought made me chuckle, because I wondered if it really was a loon or my brother Jeff mimicking their call. He had a talent for such things. I imagined the loon diving underwater. Then, I relished the soft silence that soothed my jagged mind. I recalled the pungent smell of jackpine sap.

“Let’s stay here and silent for a minute or two.”

I noticed my hands were unclenched. I rubbed my knees in small circles. My breathing slowed.

“Good. Now, Judy, I want you to switch gears for a moment and go back to the earliest time you can remember,” Lana said. She moved in her chair so it squeaked.

“Can you now go back in years?”

“I’ll try.”

“What do you see? Can you describe the scene to me?”

I scooted back in the chair and clasped my hands again. My mind gave way to a snowy screen of nothingness. The blank made me nervous. I surfed through a stack of memories, but it was like reaching in a grab bag and clutching the bottom of the sack: nothing specific.

“Take your time,” Lana said.

This eased the pressure, and a scene appeared.

“I’m two. I’m playing on the pier,” I said.

“Good, now what else do you see?”

“I have a bailing pump in my hands. Leaning over to suck up water. It’s aluminum with a red barrel and a long rod. I pull the rod part up; push it back down but it goes down easy. I lose my balance. I fall. My feet can’t find bottom.”

Now I became quiet. I could hear my own heart thumping.

“What are you feeling?” Lana asked.

“My nose burns. I want to cry out but I can’t. I can’t get air. Help me. I’m suffocating. I see light above the water. I fight toward it, whipping my arms and legs. I can’t get air. I gulp water. It’s dark.”

Again I am still and Lana asked, “What happened then?”

“Uncle Phil. He pulls me out.”

“So he saved you?”

“Yes. Mom is holding me now. She wraps the towel around me.

I’m crying, coughing, screaming.”

“Tell me more.”

“Mom says, ‘Hush, hush, now you’re okay. You’ll be fine. You just slipped off the pier. You’re okay now.’ She squeezes me tight and rocks me in the lawn chair. She says, ‘There, there, little one. You’re going to be fine.’ Then she tells me this is exactly why I should never go out on the pier unless adults are around.”

“OK, Judy, good work. So you were okay and your mom was there to comfort you?”

“Yes.”

“Now gently bring yourself back further in time and try to recall the day you were born. You can take your time. We’re in no hurry here.”

I liked that she said there was no hurry. I closed my eyes and tried to flash back. Nothing.

Lana waited a good long minute and said, “What are you feeling? What do you see?”

I figured some image would come up if I just started talking. “I’m all warm and comfortable inside and then the pressure starts pulling at my head,” I said.

I felt insincere. I couldn’t seem to get into it.

“OK, Judy, what else are you feeling?”

“I feel kind of stuck, like I can’t get in touch with my birth,” I said. “There’s like a curtain around it. I think there’s something different that I need to experience right now.”

“OK, do you know what that might be?” Lana asked.

Now my palms began to sweat and my pulse thumped in my ear drums. What was it?

“I had a baby when I was seventeen,” I said. “I keep thinking about that.”

“Good, Judy. Tell me more.”

“I could feel my baby’s birth, if I try. Not my birth, but hers. I feel in tune with her.”

“That’s good. What do you see?”

“It’s dark. I feel a tightening. My head. My head is getting tighter … like a vice.”

“Now,” I thought, “this feels true.” Then the story gushed forth as I felt the birth of my baby from her perspective.

“Now there’s something cold and hard … along the side of my face. My ear is pinched. It hurts … stings. I feel a pull on my head. It hurts … ripped apart. Pressure … on my chest. There is pulling. Loud voices. Clear and too sharp, not muffled anymore. My head … squeezed. I suck in fluid.”

“Tell me more, Judy. What do you feel?”

“It stings. I get free from the tunnel. I open my eyes … shapes around me. I breathe. It burns. The light burns. I feel cold air on my wet skin.”

“Good, Judy. Go on.”

“I’m suspended in space, but a hard surface is under me. My arms flail to feel something … to hear the beat of the heart… Cold… Quiet… Empty.”

“You were alone then in a crib or something?”

“Yes. I cry out … the screech startles me. My lungs hurt… I long for warmth… I punch with my arms and legs … stiff. I miss the warm softness from inside…”

“So you were cold?”

“Yes … frantic. My head hurts. My eyes and lungs burn. I cry and cry…”

I paused again and sat, catatonic.

“Go on, Judy. Now what happened?”

At this point, it occurs to me that maybe I am remembering my own birth; but no, it seems like the birth of my Baby Helen and I can’t bear to feel any more of her pain. I am overcome with her sadness at being born. I start to remember my own feelings at her birth, like a new movie scene. I continued the story, but now it was from my perspective. I continued….

“I go and pick her up. I wished I had picked her up. I didn’t really do it, but I wanted to…,” I said.

“That’s good, Judy. Tell me the story like you wished it would have happened. Good work. Tell me more.”

Lana’s words opened the gate. I felt like wherever I was going was good with her and good for me. I continued.

“I pick her up and hold her close. I walk over to a rocker by the window. I sit down. Immediately she settles down. She is exquisite, beautiful beyond belief. I take her tiny feet and set them in my hands. They fit perfectly. She smells like a heaven rose. I wind the soft, snuggle blanket around her tightly. I hold her face close to my heart, her belly next to mine. I feel her little body warm as I give her my heat. I am holding her close. The love is intense, like the love of God or Buddha, and greater than anything I have ever felt.”

In the straight-back chair I bent over and began to cry as the wash of love rose from my soul into great sobs of love, sorrow, and joy.

Then I told her, “Little Baby Helen, it’s going to be all right. Everything is fine. You are going to be okay. I’m your mama and I love you and I have always loved you.”

Then I became aware of myself. I found myself crying out loud in a hysterical fit. My behavior scared me as I rocked my imaginary baby.

Lana must have sensed my fear because she said, “It’s good to cry. Go ahead. Keep going. You’re doing just fine, Judy.”

“I’m singing, but it isn’t my voice. My mouth is moving and I can feel the air coming from my lungs. The sound is angelic. Silent night, Holy night, all is calm, all is bright.

“Good, good, go on.”

“I’m rocking slowly with her in my lap; the rails are creaking as the chair sways back and forth. I look in her eyes and see that she has returned to a place of content and safety. My body melts right into hers. I want to stay here forever holding her and rocking her and looking into her sweet little face. She is perfect.”