Guardian

Preface

Look at it like a forge. Humans always need the physical analogy, right? The tangible explanation for the intangible, the substantive theory for the insubstantial? So consider this. The soul is like a lump of unprocessed metal ore. Mined from the dark matter of the universe, brought here by one of us, and given to you to be shaped during a lifetime of fire and pressure. No, this is probably not simple enough for you to grasp.

Just know that when we part with a piece of ourselves we will always care for it, guide it, guard it. When you own that piece, you become our reason for existence. For when you return it, the indelible stamp you have placed upon it in your forge will always be a part of us. Your craftsmanship will endure forever. How can we not do everything in our power to help you shape our ore in a way that will be beautiful, strong, perfect?

February 1993

Jonathan’s

I am Jonathan’s. I have no actual name, of course. Guardians do not require names, identities, genders. For the vast majority of eternity, we have no individuality beyond the memory of that which we carry with us from our previous lives. But for the infinitesimally short, bright, burning period during which we Guard, we belong to the Guarded. So I am his, Jonathan’s.

Jonathan will be born today. If his parents change their minds at the last minute, and choose to name their son David, their second choice, I will be David’s. But their minds seem clear on this point, and I am content to be Jonathan’s.

It feels strangely familiar to be divided again, a tiny part of me there, inside the woman, curled warm and safe and waiting. I flex my newly re-formed “body”, for lack of a better word. I am not perceptible to the humans in the room. The matter which comprises my body is that dark stuff which human scientists are only starting to realize must exist, somehow interacting with the fraction of the universe which their senses and instruments can measure. As Jonathan’s life unfolds, I will eventually choose whether to form my body into a more definite shape than it has now. Sometimes I have enjoyed creating a more or less human outline, to better relate to my Guarded, but I am not going to consider that decision right now, when such a crucial moment is happening in Jonathan’s life.

The others are here with me, of course. The mother’s, the father’s, the doctor’s, the nurse’s. All here, watching, waiting. Our presence does not crowd the room, since we have no material manifestation which can interact with our earthly surroundings. The three of us in the family involved are more acutely interested in the event. The Guardians for the employees are not bored, of course, since boredom is only a human frailty. But this is routine, and those Guardians are silent as they wait, feeling no need to encourage their humans with whispers of support.

The mother tenses, clenching her teeth, crushing her hands with her human strength against the father’s grip. Her Guardian whispers silently into her ear, encouraging her. She does not cry out, not wanting to distress the father.

Jonathan feels the pressure, feels the walls of his little warm chamber compressing against his head, his shoulders. He is perplexed, feeling this change, sensing that something is different, something is happening. He has felt the chamber shrink around him for the past month, binding his limbs close to his body, keeping him from stretching. Of course he has no awareness of the fact that it is he, himself, who has changed size, rather than the womb which holds him. He does not feel fear at the pressure, just wordless curiosity, and a thrill of excitement at the unknown. His heart rate increases, and I hear its rhythm at the same time the fetal monitor reports the speed. He is doing well. Our life is beginning. I am filled with joy.

Stefanie

Okay, this is totally scary. But scary in a kind of good way. Like, exciting and terrifying like a roller coaster ride, not like a slasher film. And I’m so relieved that Brad is with me. I can tell that he is just as scared as I am, but I think for him it is more like the slasher film kind of scared. I am determined not to make this any worse for him by screaming my stupid head off like you see in movies during birth scenes.

The little engagement ring on my left hand is starting to feel uncomfortable, especially when I squeeze his hands during the contractions, but there is absolutely no way I am taking that off. I figure after the baby is born the swelling in my fingers will go down and the ring will feel comfortable again. That’s what Mom told me, anyway. For now, I am focusing on that simple gold band with all my might. The symbol that proves to me that Brad is really staying with me this time, with me and our baby.

Holy moly, our baby. All these months later and I still can’t wrap my mind around the fact that we are really going to have a baby, even now when I feel the little twerp trying to bulldoze his way out of me. When we get home, back to my little bedroom where I grew up, all three of us will be sharing that tiny space in my Mom’s house. There is no way we could live on our own yet, but we have big dreams. I’ll go back to high school, try to finish up those last few months and get my diploma. There’s a program with the school district that provides day care for the babies of girls like me who got pregnant during high school. Since Brad graduated last June with the Class of ’92, he has been working as a grocery clerk, and he’s only making minimum wage. It’s money, which is good, and I’m really proud of him for keeping this job for so many months. But there is no way we could afford to get an apartment yet. So my Mom’s willing to put us up for a while. I don’t know if it is only that she’s willing – it’s almost like she is fanatically eager to have her first little grandbaby living in her house.

Oops, here comes another one and … OW! Can’t think! My hands grab out for Brad’s again, and before I screw up my eyes I catch a glimpse of his face, eyes huge and mouth turned down at the corners, looking both frightened and kind of grossed out. Ugh, I’m grossing him out. OW! OW!

Stefanie’s

“Yes, my darling, peace, we are safe, we are strong, the baby is healthy, Brad is with you, we are together. The pain is natural, it is healthy, feel it, live it, embrace it, overcome it. The baby is fine, Brad is here, he loves you, you both love your baby, peace, my darling, peace.”

Brad

Shit. Holy, fucking shit. I can’t take my eyes off of her, but I can’t stand to look at her either. How I long for the days when the dads weren’t allowed anywhere near a birth. That was the way to do it. Pace around in the waiting room drinking coffee until a nurse comes out to show you the kid. I’ve seen that in old movies, and I seriously wish they still did things that way.

Not like this. Not watching her beet red and sweating, hair plastered against her forehead, tendons on her neck standing out, grabbing my hands with an amazingly steely grip, grimacing with pain and effort. She’s pretty, I know she’s pretty, and I can see it when she relaxes between those damned contractions, but during them, watching her struggle and strain, I have this horrible feeling of wanting to puke. Puke from fear, from the feeling of being trapped in a horror chamber, from a frustrated desire to escape.

Why, oh why did she want me to be in here with her rather than her mom? Why am I here, helpless and confused and panicky, while her mother gets to be the one out in the nice, relaxing waiting room reading magazines? I’m sure her mom would change places with me in a heartbeat. But Stef was sure, she only wanted me here. Great. Just great.

It isn’t only that I’m being selfish, that I wish I didn’t have to endure this terrible scene. I know I’m not feeling anything compared to what she is. It’s my guilt, too. This is all my fault, and although she has never said even one word to that effect, I can’t imagine that she isn’t thinking it. Me and my damned hormones, always wanting her, always fantasizing, always persisting until she finally gave in. Even with the guilt, it still gives me a thrill to remember those first few times, almost a year ago, furtive in her bedroom while her Mom was at work, sheer physical ecstasy. And no stupid idea of the fix it was going to get me into. I couldn’t have cared less at the time, of course; what teenage boy would be able to think beyond the moment?

She relaxes her death grip on my fingers and tries to smile at me before closing her eyes. I have no idea how she manages to look like she is drifting off to sleep after those violent spasms. I suppose if I had ever read any of those pregnancy books she has been carrying around for the past six months I’d have a better idea of what was happening right now. But I couldn’t bring myself to admit that it was really happening enough to read them. I was pissed, too, because she wouldn’t take my suggestion to go to the abortion clinic and get rid of the thing before it went too far.

Too far, the story of my life. Going too far in her bedroom. And now they say that it has gone too far, the baby is too close, to give her that gross spine shot thing that would make her not feel anything. She didn’t want it anyway, she had told the doctor, she didn’t want to feel all numb after it was over. Some idiotic piece of brilliance she picked up from one of those books, no doubt. So in the meantime she has to suffer all this horrible pain, and I have to suffer right along with her, feeling the pain and the guilt and the horror of the whole thing.

Brad’s

He doesn’t listen to me, I know. He can almost never hear me, even on that subconscious level that we appeal to in our Guarded. I have only very rarely felt that my influence has helped him at all. But still, I know that this experience will only help him grow, make him stronger, shape him to be better. And so, I continue to whisper to him.

“Brad, be strong, be here. You are her man, you are doing the right thing to be with her while your son is born. Your son, Brad, your little child to love and cherish, just as you love and cherish Stefanie. Just as I love and cherish you. Soon, Brad, you will hold your child. Be strong, be here, be right.”

Stefanie

I can tell it is getting closer now. The contractions are only a couple of minutes apart, and they are so powerful, so intense, that nothing else exists during them except the heavy, solid boulder of pressure in my stomach, the crushing, bruising force against my skin, my back, my pelvis. Between them, I have a moment of rest, and I try to enjoy Brad’s company, to smile at him to let him know how happy it is making me that he is sharing this amazing moment with me. But I keep feeling my eyes close when the pressure eases, and this beautiful restful peace steals over me and tries to put me to sleep. The moment I start to drift, though, it starts again.

The nurse is checking the machines, making sure that the uncomfortable monitor belt is in the right place against my enormous belly, reading the numbers and listening to the beeps during the contractions. The doctor comes in, putting gloves on her hands and drawing a stool over to sit at the foot of my bed.

“I’m going to check you, honey, to see how far along you are. Okay?” the doctor asks.

“Sure,” I puff, feeling the last contraction subside. I try to stay awake now, and look over at Brad, still clutching his hand in mine. He seems exhausted, drained, and fearful. It bothers me that he doesn’t seem happy. I give his hand a quick squeeze to reassure him, but it just seems to alarm him. Too much like the contractions, I guess.

I look down at the doctor as her head disappears under that sheet they have draped up over my knees. I feel her hands, her fingers sliding gently inside me. Funny how this doesn’t bother me one little bit. I guess that all modesty simply vanishes in the middle of childbirth. Not much point in trying to retain your dignity in the middle of the most undignified act imaginable.

After a moment of her fingers circling around down there, she glances up at me over the edge of the sheet. Her eyes look a little bit surprised, although I don’t hear it in her voice. “Okay, Stefanie, you are dilated to 10 centimeters. The head is right here. When you feel the next contraction begin, you can go ahead and start pushing the baby out.”

The nurse bustles over a tray of instruments so it is within the doctor’s reach. I want to ask what I should be doing, but then the contraction starts and I can’t form my thoughts. But the word was already halfway out my mouth, and it escapes with a gasp, “What…?”

“Go ahead and push, honey, whatever feels natural to you, go ahead and do that,” the nurse reassures me from next to the doctor.

And suddenly, my body takes over. Sometimes I have to stop overthinking things, you know? I feel this new, more intense pressure, not only the hard-as-a-rock stomach thing all the way up to my ribs, but more personal, right down there, something starting to press against me from the inside, trying to get out. It’s almost like pooping, a frantic thought half-forms in my head, and I use the same muscles that I would need for that. I barely notice that I am still holding Brad’s hand for dear life, as I smash my eyelids together and bare my teeth and try to push out the thing that I can feel uncomfortably half in and half out.

There is a burning now, almost a tearing feeling, and the pressure, and I am afraid that I am shrieking despite all my intentions, screaming through my clenched teeth, my entire existence caught up in this act of PUSHING IT OUT!

Jonathan

My head is caught, I am being shoved out, falling out, my face is smashed, my hands try to startle out from my sides but they can’t, squished in, a terrible icy blast hits me, my eyes fly open, a terrible painful white hits my eyes, my mouth, pain, anxiety, falling, cold, bright!

Now my hands can fly out in fear, falling again, something sweeps in my mouth, gagging, bright, cold, fear, empty, lost!

Warm again, not as warm as I should be, but familiar, a good odor, warmth, my eyes are open again, I see… her. Her eyes, her mouth, her face. I hear the familiar throbbing rhythm that I know, comforting me. Contentment. My mouth, warm, something inside, here is something I can do, my mouth sucks, comfort, warmth, filling, squirting, warm, good, not lost.

Jonathan’s

The best of all moments, the moment when the new life begins, when the separate part of my self comes into the world, when the breath begins, when the eyes see, when the first experiences begin forming the first thoughts. If I had a human body, human eyes, I would be weeping. Tears would be streaming down my face, my hands held before me in fervent, joyous rapture.

But of course I do not. My joy is more powerful than any human could ever experience, more all-encompassing, more universal. Nonetheless, it does not distract me from my duty, my love, my passion, my purpose.

“Sweetheart, my darling boy, here, be comforted, here is your mother, her face smiles down at you, her good sweet milk is for you, her hands are here to touch your skin, be calm, be happy, all is well. My dearest one. We are born.”

Brad

Holy crap. If that wasn’t the most…. I have never seen or imagined such a spectacle. I am gasping. I am dizzy. I am awed. I am sick. I am in love.

Stefanie is sobbing unknowingly, gasping in breaths as tears run down her cheeks, holding the little person to her breast with the help of the nurse, looking back and forth between my face and the baby with eyes full of wonder. She obviously has already forgotten all the torture she just went through.

The baby is changing color, from a completely alarming deep purple when he came out in a disgusting gush of blood and goo (and that was a sight that will be burned into my poor retinas forever) to a more normal pinkish skin color. Thank god, that purple was totally creepy. He looks a lot happier than during those first few seconds, after the doctor pulled him out, when he got flopped this way and that by the nurse, his arms frantically swinging out to the sides, his mouth and nose assaulted with some suction thingy, and then wrapped up with a blanket in two seconds like the nurse was the most efficient burrito maker in the universe.

After all that burst of violent activity, the sound of Stefanie screaming through her teeth, being afraid she’d burst a blood vessel or something, suddenly things seem so peaceful. The baby has his mouth on her tit, making this tiny, squeaky sucking noise, and it doesn’t even seem gross to me. It seems… sweet, like natural, like everything is the way it is supposed to be. I stare back at Stefanie, and I am totally blown away when she reaches up with her free hand to touch my cheek, to wipe away a whole bunch of wet that I had no idea was there.