All six of my children had been born naturally, in the comfort of our home. I knew the natural ways to induce labor—walking, evening primrose oil, a bowl of pineapple chunks, a warm bath. I was a pro at breathing rhythms and the most comfortable delivery position. By child number seven, I knew what I was doing. But after 35 hours of labor, my home-birth doctor sent me on to the hospital.
“You need advanced medical attention,” he said. “Your labor isn’t progressing.” I didn’t know if I was more disappointed or scared.
My husband, Michael, helped me to our old blue Mercedes van. We’d already made arrangements to deliver our baby at the hospital in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, if I had any complications. The eight-mile drive from our home in Teton Village should have been easy. But a blizzard was underway. As we inched down the winding Rocky Mountain road, the snowfall was so heavy we could hardly see. I had to roll my window down to help navigate just so we wouldn’t slide into a ditch. Meanwhile my contractions were lengthening, the pain more intense.
We pulled up at the hospital entrance just as I didn’t think I could sit in that passenger seat any longer. The staff escorted me to a bed and prepped me for delivery. The whole atmosphere was foreign to me, so sterile and severe. My other births were warm, loving, comfortable. Soothing herbal essential oils burned while Michael held my hand and I knew when the time was right to push. I felt like I was in charge.
Now I anxiously watched the white uniforms moving around and jumped when a nurse ran a cold stethoscope along my belly. Every 30 minutes I was given a shot to progress labor. I could feel the baby’s head pressing on my pelvis. Try to relax, I told myself. I was exhausted. Where to turn to for strength? Dear God, I’m out of my element. Are you here? Like you are in our home?
One of the senior doctors approached. I could tell he didn’t have good news. “You’ll need a C-section,” he said. “We can’t wait any longer.”
There was no time for questions. Nurses rushed me into the operating room. I lay there, helpless. I gripped the sides of the metal bed rail. The anesthesiologist leaned over me and put a mask on my face. I blinked slowly, then closed my eyes.
When I opened them again I was looking down. Below me was a panoramic view of the operating room. There was an awful lot of commotion—beeping machines, clanking metal tools, frantic activity. A woman lay unconscious on the table. She was bleeding badly. Who is this woman? I wondered. What happened to her?
“You don’t need to see this.”
A figure moved in front of me, filling my vision. An angel—the most beautiful of angels, dressed in periwinkle garments with pearlescent wings and sea-blue eyes that held me in their gaze.
“Don’t take your eyes off of mine.”
I didn’t blink. I stared deep into those eyes and let peace wash over me like a wave. Then suddenly everything went dark.
I opened my eyes again—white ceiling, bright light . . . Of course, that was me in the hospital bed. I looked around for the angel, but only saw the medical personnel that had gathered in my room.
“Where’s my baby?” I asked. “Did my baby survive?”
Michael stepped toward me holding a bundle. “Meet Isaac Michael,” he said. “Our healthy baby boy.”
I took him in my arms while Michael explained what had happened. When the doctor made the incision for the C-section, he severed an artery. “You were dying right there on the table, Charlene,” Michael said. “It took four blood transfusions to save you.”
In fact, I saw what it took to save me. And I haven’t turned my eyes away since.
