An Angel Called My Name: Incredible true stories from the other side. Theresa Cheung

       CHAPTER 1

       Birth of an Angel

      Death is no more than passing from one room into another. But there’s a difference for me, you know. Because in that other room I shall be able to see.

       Helen Keller (blind and deaf from infancy)

      ‘I want an epidural!’ I screamed harshly. ‘I need an epidural and I need it NOW.’

      I was being wheeled into the delivery room and the only thing on my mind was getting that epidural. I’d had an epidural for my son’s birth. His entrance into the world had been blissfully calm and peaceful. While I was in ‘labour’ with him I’d even managed to get a few hours’ sleep. Then I’d had a tranquil hour or so mentally to prepare myself before he was ready to be born. There had been no pain and no screaming; just a perfect birth.

      Things couldn’t have been more different second time round! My daughter had decided to make her grand entrance into this world a good ten days before her due date. She was in a hurry. By the time I got to hospital there was no time for an epidural or anything. This didn’t stop me screaming for one until my voice was hoarse. The pain was out of this world.

      ‘Take some deep breaths. Try to stay calm,’ the doctor urged. I wanted to kill him! My husband held my hand. He told me to breathe deeply. I wanted to kill him too! My pain threshold has always been really, really low. I’m terrified of dentists and injections and I faint at the sight of my own blood. Giving birth without pain relief was my nightmare scenario made real. The more I tried to stay calm and breathe deeply the more panicked and tense I got.

      ‘You are making things harder for yourself than they need to be,’ I heard my doctor say. Or was it my mother?

      Suddenly, I was five years old again. My mum was tucking me up in bed. I’d woken up screaming in the middle of the night. I was convinced there was a creature in my room. I pointed to the shadows to make my mum look. My mum smiled and brushed the hair away from my face. She told me that the presence I’d sensed in my room was my guardian angel looking down on me. There was nothing to be afraid of. She kissed me and I wasn’t afraid any more.

      I opened my eyes. I was back in the delivery room. My mum had passed away years ago but now with my eyes open I could still hear her calm and reassuring voice speaking clearly. I could feel the warmth of her breath. She told me to stop fighting and meet the challenge peacefully. I could feel her holding my hand. I listened to what she was whispering and began to take deep breaths. I started to calm down and instead of fighting the pain I distanced myself from it. Soon the hurt gradually faded away into nothing. I felt light and carefree. My beautiful daughter was born about 20 minutes later. I didn’t feel any pain at all. Her birth was as blissful and calm as that of my gorgeous son – but this time the voice of my mother in spirit, and not drugs, had helped me through the pain.

      Looking back I can see that throughout my life I have had many similar experiences which can be described as unusual; astonishing even. It’s only recently, though, that I have been able to look back and recognize them for what they were.

      Although my mother was a psychic counsellor and my grandmother a medium, not all of my early life was spent attending séances and reading tarot cards. I spent a great deal of it doing ordinary things that all children do. My dad couldn’t work because he was disabled and we relied on my mum’s income, which was minimal and unpredictable. Money was always tight, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. We never placed great value on material things and we always managed to have enough to eat and a roof over our heads. We couldn’t afford holidays and treats but trips to the seaside and park were always part of our routine.

      There is one park visit I remember very clearly. I was about six at the time. I can see myself now playing happily with my brother on the seesaw while my mother read a book on a bench nearby. It was a lovely day, the first of the school summer holidays. Suddenly, I started to feel very sick. I got off the seesaw and the sickness passed but when I got back on the seesaw I started to feel sick again. I loved the seesaw and hadn’t felt sick like this when I was on it before. Stubbornly I tried to stay on. The feeling got worse. I could almost feel the vomit in my throat and taste it in my mouth. I had to admit defeat and decided to get off and play on the swings instead.

      A little girl and her older sister squealed with delight when my brother and I got off. I watched them enviously from the swing as they went up and down. I swung higher and higher on my swing, trying to convince myself that I was having more fun. I wasn’t. I didn’t feel sick any more and toyed with the idea of demanding the seesaw back. It was my favourite thing to do in the playground.

      I stopped swinging so hard so that I could easily jump off, but as I did I realized that the younger girl on the seesaw wasn’t laughing anymore, she was crying. Her sister hadn’t noticed and was bouncing higher and higher. The more the little girl cried, the harder her sister bounced. She only stopped when her little sister started to vomit. The father of the two girls ran over to comfort his vomiting daughter but now she was choking on her vomit. He screamed for help and his wife or girlfriend ran to a phone box. (This was in the days before mobile phones, remember.) The girl had passed out by the time the ambulance arrived and she was rushed to hospital.

      Later we found out that the little girl made a full recovery. I was thrilled not just for her but, rather selfishly, also for me. I hadn’t told my mum or my brother about my feelings of sickness on the