one semester closer!

"...Hey, what are you doing?" I barely look up from my paperwork to acknowledge his presence. He's come into the office space where I work. "Just checking on you," he replies. He kisses the top of my head which is still down looking at my work. He sets a glass of water down and quietly leaves. Night after night he does this. He brings me water, snacks, tissue, and whatever else I may need. He comes in and quizzes me. He tells me there is no way I can fail because I'm smart and determined. He gives me tough love and demands that I get my butt back in there and keep at it. He intuitively knows when I've had enough and turns my swivel chair away from the desk. He gets on his knees so that he's eye to eye with me and tells me it's time for bed.

As we were making a grocery list and meal planning for the week, he declares that it makes more sense for him to go do the shopping so I can stay home and study. He repeatedly does this over the course of the semester. He clears my plate and says, "I've got the dishes babe; go do homework." He puts up with my emotional break downs and crying over pharmacology. He listens to me rant about my day, never mind the fact that he's been up since 3 am and worked a 12 hour day.

I finished my first semester of nursing school yesterday and as I look over my grades with pride, I know that I couldn't have done it without him. My husband is my perfect match and my biggest supporter. His easygoing demeanor is exactly what I need when my obnoxious perfectionist self is crying over a B. His consistent loyalty and encouragement help me stay anchored when so much in my world is shifting and changing. His faithfulness reminds me of God's character and His goodness to me. I can't boast about my accomplishment this semester without recognizing his huge part in that success.

John Joshua, I love you and I simply could not have done it without you. I appreciate you so much! Thanks for sticking it out with me. Only three more semesters of this craziness!

the ball

He tried to keep it from me, but girls have a way of finding out when there's a ball. He knew it would be a bit expensive and a lot of work to get his uniform ready; I just wanted to wear a fabulous red dress.  When I found out about the upcoming battalion ball, I coerced him into agreeing to go. He lamented that it was on his birthday and that everyone said balls boring events in which old soldiers gave long speeches. Ok, I said, but I have a dress... So we went to the ball! :)

I wore my old prom dress from seven years ago. Thankfully, as a 17 year old, I picked a pretty classic red floor length dress that I could pull off wearing again. I borrowed shoes and jewelry and had two friends help me with my hair and makeup. I didn't spend a dime on my attire! On the other hand, John had to pay a pretty penny to get his formal uniform ready with the proper ribbons, patches, and awards. 

The ball was held in a convention center. It was decorated beautifully and had a huge sparkling chandelier. There was a bar, but we kept it classy and brought flasks. They served dinner and dessert, but not before a litany of traditions. First, there was some sort of a receiving line to greet the Lieutenant Colonel and Command Sergeant Major and their wives. It felt strange to stand in line to shake their hands. When we got to the front of the line, John told a man my name. The man then introduced us to the Lieutenant Colonel and Sergeant Major as we shook their hands. We both respect them and their positions, but for me it felt too much like they were royalty. 

There was then the presenting of the colors and the national anthem. After that, there was a speech given in honor of Prisoners of War. More mingling and pictures took place after a few more welcome speeches and such. Then dinner was served and the main portion of the night began. The most memorable was the grog ceremony. Grog is a type of alcoholic drink with various recipes. The way it's done at the ball is that there is a big vat in which many higher ups pour ingredients into it to make a nasty concoction. For instance, one soldier added lemons to represent the bitter time of war. Each person gives a short reason why they've chosen their ingredient and adds it to the vat. Once the ceremony is complete, one man from every table rushes to the vat with a pitcher to get some grog to bring back to his table. However, the guys jumped the gun and started rushing to the front before they were done with the ceremony. (Good job, 11B.) CSM got really mad and grabbed a microphone and said, "Listen you mother f@?!$^s! I want to have a good time and get drunk like the rest of you, but you WILL NOT act like animals in the process! Sit down and wait like gentlemen!" It was silent after that until they got the go. John got a glass of the grog, took a sip, exclaimed that it tasted like his old jock strap and asked me if I wanted some. For the sake of tradition, I took a drink. I've never tasted a jock strap, but I would imagine that they would taste pretty similar. I left the grog drinking to the boys. 

Finally, the dance floor was open for business and that's where we spent the rest of the night. First my shoes came off, then my updo came undone, then off came my pasties (don't judge, but I was too sweaty for them to stick anymore). I think that's an indicator of a good time. We were literally the last people on the dance floor. The staff had already started cleaning up while we were dancing to one more song. When a woman brought me my bag and shoes, we got the hint and headed home. For a man who didn't want to go, I think he enjoyed the ball more than I did. 

PCS

A PCS, or permanent change of station, is the military's fancy way of saying that someone is moving. The acronym is used as a noun or a verb; for example, saying that someone is "PCSing" is fairly common. PCS orders can be a wonderful thing: a new unit, a chance to travel, a fresh start, a fun adventure. Other times it means leaving behind a place that has become home. We are hoping that John doesn't get any PCS orders until I finish nursing school. It's kind of stressful knowing that at any moment, he could be ordered to a new duty station. In order to maintain sanity, I have repressed the worrisome thoughts of having to PCS in the middle of nursing school. However, PCS orders are affecting me in a way that I hadn't given much thought to. This month, three of my good friends have moved or are moving due to PCS orders. 

Often times these types of orders come down at the end of a deployment. For those of us back home, deployment can be a time of new or strengthened friendships. Part of me wants to always make a clear distinction between who I am and what my husband does for a living. Because of that, I resisted surrounding myself with other Army wives. However, there were times during deployment when no friend married to a civilian could understand what I was going through and I simply wanted to be with someone who knew what it was like. I finally began to open up to the idea of having friends who were also married to soldiers. Most of the friends I made, although many were from different brigades, had a spouse that was also deployed. This led to many unforgettable girls nights and stories that I most certainly will not tell my grandchildren. The friends that were made over glasses of wine, junk food, loud music, laughter, and tears during a tough and emotionally charged time are difficult to part with. Sonja, Erica, and Heather, I miss you already! Thank you for being just the kind of friends I needed at the perfect time. I hope your new places have a spare bedroom. :) 

what the promise is for

This is not what I signed up for.

This is not the man I married.

I didn't agree to this. 

Those thoughts would creep into my head when I was looking at his blank, zombie stare through the computer screen.

That is what I thought when "they'll all be home by Christmas" turned into "most will be home by Christmas, but yours will stay until July."

That is what I would say to myself when my war weary husband lacked the physical and emotional ability to give me affection from thousands of miles away.

These are the things that went through my head weeks after he was home and I would still see a cold anger flash in his eyes without warning, when in an instant he literally looked like a different person.

But then again...

This is what I signed up for.

This is the man I married.

I did agree to this.

I came up with a lot of superficial things that were positive about deployment, but all of them seemed unimpressive compared to the massive suckage that deployment is. I really wanted to write something positive. I really wanted to encourage my friends getting ready to send off their husbands. It took me a month to figure it out: Deployment helped redefine marriage and put my promises to the test.

While we didn't have the exact words in our vows, we did agree that marriage was "for better or for worse." We promised that our marriage would embody a type of love that "bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things and endures all things." I didn't feel like bearing, believing, hoping, or enduring, but that is the promise I made to my husband. Deployment presents an opportunity to ask yourself, "did I really mean all those things I said on my wedding day?" I had to look in the mirror and ask myself some hard questions:

When your man is incapable of showing affection because he is so worn out, withdrawn, and going through a tremendous hardship, will you continue to give affection, even if he can't give it in return? 

When his job requires even more sacrifice, will you continue to bear the burden with him? 

Will you continue to love him even if this experience changes him? 

The opportunity that I speak of is a defining, "make or break," moment. Are you going to do it or not?For me, this opportunity was the most positive thing to come out of deployment. It was a blessing that I was forced to solidify my promises so early in our marriage and to put them into action. I chose not to give up during a difficult situation. I chose to believe that it was only temporary. I chose to hope for better days. I chose to bear the weight of war alongside my husband. My vows were no longer a hypothetical romanticized speech. I had to choose to live it out.

And at the end of it all you can say, "We went dancing in the minefields; we went sailing in the storm. It was harder than we dreamed, but I believe that's what the promise is for."

healing and hurting

I've been doing a dance between avoiding this post and really wanting to write it for some time now. I want to write it because I think it's important. I want to make it public because I think it may help others. I want to avoid it because it's personal. I want to avoid it because I don't want to sound overly dramatic. Deep breath... here it goes.

Everyone knows war hurts. It hurts physically. It hurts mentally. It hurts emotionally. It hurts relationships. It hurts the ones left behind, as well as the ones who have to go. Some people who have gone to war before would like to claim that the shorter "less dangerous" missions of recent are nothing to whine about. I agree that as a wife, the communication we had was much better than what spouses before me had. My husband agrees that the intensity of the violence he experienced was minuscule compared to past missions. I have no desire to get into a pissing contest about who had/has it worse. All of it plain sucks and all of it is a unique experience to each individual.

I experienced extreme loneliness while my husband was away. It was the kind of loneliness that I didn't even understand fully until it went away. It wasn't the kind of loneliness that could be filled with busyness and friends. This kind of loneliness is the kind you experience when a part of you is missing. Amputees learn to be completely functional, even excelling and thriving, but something is still missing. I don't want to cheapen the horror of going through that kind of physical and emotional trauma, but that's the best I can do to explain how I felt. I made do. I told myself all the "right" things. However, the man I am bound to legally, physically, covenantally, emotionally, spiritually... was gone. I often try to minimize what I felt because once again I know it could be worse. He came back. It wasn't permanent. I never want to be dramatic, nor do I want pity. But part of the healing process is allowing oneself to go to the depths, to be true to what one was experiencing, and that's what I'm trying to do here.

There are moments when I know I'm experiencing healing from that loneliness. My cognizance of it comes it waves. Just as the loneliness was the most overwhelming at night, the realization of healing creeps in during those dark, quiet moments. It comes with falling asleep next to the love of my life, night after night. It sweeps over me while he prays for our dinner. It seeps into the nooks and crannies of my heart when he makes me laugh uncontrollably. Unfortunately, healing isn't exactly a linear process and sometimes it isn't the only thing that creeps, sweeps, and seeps.

Sometimes the hurting comes back. It comes with news of a friend whose husband just got deployment orders. It makes no sense for me to be crying about someone else's deployment reality, except that it was and will be again my reality. It's that fear of the unknown and the feeling of the sweet, precious time together just slipping through the cracks of your angry, clenched fist. It all comes back because of some trigger, some illogical response to a stimulus. You can't make sense of it. You can either fight the current, or just ride the wave. As someone who grew up on the beach, I can tell you that the undercurrent will always win. I'm learning the skill of emotional surfing.

Healing isn't some neat flow chart or even a circular cycle. It's more like a plate of spaghetti, everything is messily intertwined. Just as I'm healing from deployment, so is my soldier. I've tried to stick to writing about my experiences, and not about him, but his healing is a huge part of mine. Things like him whispering,"It's like I never left" sew up little holes in my heart. However, his strong reaction to loud noises reminds me of the hurt that war can leave behind. Somethings may never be completely healed, but we've gone from needing to sit down and check his heart rate after loud noises to just a couple of deep breaths to let it pass.

To those of you who are at the beginning stages of the healing process or may be are just hurting, please know that you're not alone. Also know that sometimes just some love and time are all you need to seal up the empty places in your heart. Know that it's not always permanent. There is hope. To those who need a little extra help, don't feel like a failure. Don't feel weak. The levels to which we experience situations vary and like I said in the beginning, we each have our own experience. One is not lesser than the other, just different. Do what you need to do to get the help you need if it's more than a little separation anxiety or jumping at loud noises. We are lucky that that's all we are going through and are fully aware that the situation could be so much more devastating. And to those of you who are about to face a deployment, don't be frightened. A lot of positive and wonderful changes happened because of deployment, but that's for another post.

sacrifice

On any given day, I put in 8 -12 hours into nursing school. My average so far has been 56 hours a week and I haven't even started clinicals yet. Nursing school is a huge sacrifice. My husband works just as many hours and it feels like I don't see him until Saturday. This new lifestyle means that I've cut out just about everything and everyone except the basics. As a recovering people pleaser, this has been hard. I've only been in school four weeks, but I've had say no to countless social activities and other commitments. I don't respond to text messages in a timely manner and I rarely answer my phone. I feel that people who haven't been here won't understand what it's like. I've heard from multiple people things like, "Let me know when you need a break!" or "You have to take breaks; we'll hang out then." These are true statements, but my breaks usually consist of exercising to ward off insanity, grocery shopping and meal planning to avoid starving, household chores to maintain sanitation, and spending time with my husband to nurture our marriage. (And the occasional blog writing, for my own pleasure.) Sometimes, I'll do something on Facebook, but that takes two seconds, I don't need to leave my home, nor do I need to engage in real human relationship... and it's usually done while stuffing my face with some brain fuel. It is unhealthy to completely isolate oneself, but the nature of the beast is that many things must go.

So all of this to say: If you are a dear friend of mine, I still love you. You are still important to me. I still think about you and I miss our times together. But I gotta do this for me, for my family, and for our future. And if you hang out with me you are volunteering yourself to let me practice my new skills on you.

a treasure from the pearl

I didn't know how much it would mean to me until it was here. I didn't know I needed it, but holding the dusty piece in my hand, I know I do. I don't know who arranged for it to be sent to me, but I'm so thankful for their thoughtful act.

In my lap, I hold a piece of my past. A piece of me. In 2007, I moved to a little island country called Haiti. In 2010, I was glued to the television as I watched it crumble down. Days went by without knowing if my friends were okay. Over 300,000 people died in the earthquake that January day, many while trapped for days under rubble. Two of them were my friends. Many structures were destroyed; 1 million people were made homeless. One of those buildings was the orphanage where I lived and worked in 2007. This is a piece of that orphanage.

This is the place where I decided to become a nurse. This is where I gave my first intramuscular shot. This is where Katie taught me how to draw blood on Angela's kitchen table. This is where I met my three youngest siblings for the first time. This is where I kissed sweaty heads at night, bunk by bunk. This is where I would cry pissed off that babies are dying because of stupid things like dehydration. This is where I fell in love with a baby named Rebecca, where I cared for her scarred skin, where I mourned over a positive HIV test, and then rejoiced after learning it was a false positive. This is where I watched her and many others plump up and get healthy. This is where I listened to a school age boy tell me about his experiences as a restavek, child slave. This is the place that I cared for a machete wound in the office while the clinic was still being built. This is where I broke up with a boyfriend who couldn't understand why I wanted "to be in that shit hole anyway." This is where I danced in the rain and got yelled at by the nannies for doing it.

One of the most devastating things about watching Three Angels come down was knowing that my husband would never get to visit the place that helped make me the woman he married. He has yet to see Haiti and a part of me feels like he will never know that part of me until he goes. I wanted him to see where his wife became who she is. I wanted him to see a place that I called home. An earthquake may have damaged that place, but now in our home we have a piece of my old home. The pieces come together.

As I look at my piece of the orphanage, I see layers of paint that were rolled on over the years. I wonder to myself which layer is the one I put on. I see part of a pink handprint and wonder if those are the fingers of one of the little girls who insisted on braiding my hair. Either way, I know that Haiti and this particular building has touched and shaped me more than any impact I ever had on it. Haiti is a beautiful country, "The Pearl of the Antilles." Her people are breathtaking and resilient. The earthquake was powerful, but not as much as what this treasure represents. Beauty from ashes.

loving a warrior

I was in the bathroom, eyes swollen, chest quivering with each inspiration. I told him to come in there and shut the door; don't turn on the light, I told him. I need somewhere dark to think and talk. Fear and emotion swell up in me like a bright, awkward light. Darkness is what I need.

He had just expressed desire to maybe try something different in his Army career. He simply wants to get more information and explore possibilities, but my fearful heart can't focus. He feels like maybe there is something more out there for him, something that would bring him fulfillment.

Why do you want to do something more intense? Isn't infantry enough? Do you really want to do something that will take you away even more often? 

I plead with him as if he's already made a decision, already signed on the dotted line. My head is telling me to be rational and to listen to what he has to say and jesucristo stop being so selfish. But I can't get over it. I can't let it go because I know he's a warrior and sometimes that's plain scary.

I know you would be like the guy in Act of Valor who lays on a grenade to save his friends. I know you're brave like that. Sometimes I wish you were a coward. 

As soon as it leaves my mouth, I know it isn't true. Of course I don't want to be married to a coward. No, I don't want that at all. But I'm scared.

But God didn't give you a cowardly heart. He gave you a warrior one. 

I say it through tears, quietly, trying to come to terms with it myself. Loving a warrior is hard. Women have had a romantic fascination with warriors from the beginning of time. It's easy to swoon over a man in uniform, but really loving him... really loving his true warrior heart, now that's the hard stuff.

I believe there is an assault on warrior hearts, especially masculine ones, in today's society. I believe much of that is created by women. We tell our boys to sit down, be quiet, and for heaven's sake don't do anything dangerous. We do it because we are scared. Danger is scary. It is costly. There are warriors in literal roles like soldiers, police officers, and fire fighters. But there are the less obvious ones too, like the man who chooses to testify so that no more children get molested. Standing up for what is right is costly, it is dangerous. It is scary.

Loving my husband's warrior heart and honoring it for what it is may cost me something. It may cost me everything. Or I can live in fear and beg him not to do anything dangerous. But isn't that exactly what we need? We need dangerous. We need fighters, warriors, righteous strength. We need trail blazers. We need men who will raise boys that respect women, so that maybe one day there will be no need for sex slaves because there isn't a demand for it. We need men who will put their lives on the line for the sake of others. We need men who will go, even when they are afraid. We need warriors and women who will love them, especially when it's scary.

I just love you so much. I don't want to lose you. 

It's all I can say, and really, it's all there is to say. The truth is, he isn't mine. God is just letting me borrow him for the time being. My husband is His. And who am I to try to put out the fire placed in him by his Creator? So I take a big, fearful, selfish gulp and put my head on his chest. His heart sounds like a beating drum, a warrior ready for battle.

lazy lovers

"Ok, just let me finish this first." He was home very early and I was still in the middle of the dishes. Since block leave wasn't over for the battalion, but he was out of leave days, my husband had to go check in at the company for PT and accountability. (Translation: He was out of vacation days so he had to go back into work, but not everyone was back from the vacation period, so he didn't have a normal full day's work.) This meant that he was usually home before 8 am every morning. At first, it was really nice. He'd climb back into bed with me when we got home and we'd sleep in and start off the day slow. However, I'm about to start nursing school and began feeling stressed and pressured to get things done. The days of being lazy lovers are slipping away and the reality of John going back to work full time and me starting a very intense registered nursing program is starting to sink in.

But the days aren't completely gone yet. Where I want to do and plan and make happen, John wants to be and rest and let happen. (See how he's so good for me?) I love my husband dearly, but when he was asking me to stop what I was doing so that we could go back to bed, it took everything in me to listen to him. I wanted to blow him off and say "No, I have things to do!" Then I thought about it... will it really hurt if I go to the store two hours later than I had originally planned? Then I remembered all those lonely nights without him. Images of crying in my bed longing for him so deeply came to my mind. I wiped down the kitchen counter, put the sponge away, and went back to bed snuggled up close to the love of my life.

As if we haven't had enough change and transition the last two months, we'll be adding a new dynamic with me going back to school. The program will take up 60-80 hours a week of my time. Because of that, there will be new normals and roles in our home. The first year and a half of our marriage I've been a homemaker. Now the stereotypical gender roles will need to shift some with him being responsible for more duties around the house. We're not exactly sure how all of that will work out practically, but we do know that we both feel a little nervous about the change.

My nervousness comes out in the form of "we're going to have to face this soon, so we better just start practicing now." John's response is more like "we don't have to face it yet, so let's just enjoy this while we can." I decided to take my husband's lead and simply enjoy this time of no work, no school, no kids, no pets... just about no obligations other than each other. We've basically been on one giant date for a week. I've been fighting my habit to do and am enjoying just being. John went back into work today and school starts in five days. I'm already feeling a bit nostalgic about the days of sleeping in and being lazy lovers.

Juice Fast

Our juice fast was... ambitious. We were attempting a seven day juice fast to detox from the copious amounts of fast food and junk we've been eating. We completed only two days. Apparently you are supposed to prep for a juice fast by cutting out fast food and other fattening and/or sugary foods one to two weeks before you begin the fast. We prepared for our fast by eating brisket, nachos, and beer. Ah well, we know better now.

It wasn't all for naught, however, as I learned some things. Probably the most important thing I learned about the experience is that juicers are really loud. Ok, maybe that's not the most important thing I learned, but it is a good point to note if you live in an apartment with paper thin walls. Sorry, neighbors! No, we're not pressure washing the kitchen; just makin' some juice. I did learn that I'm crazy addicted to food. Mexican is my kryptonite. And bread. And cheese. And... Shoot, a girl's gotta eat! But in all seriousness, the experience really taught me the difference between hunger and a desire to eat. The juice was providing me the nourishment I needed, yet I still wanted to munch. Another positive thing about this experience is that it seems that the two days of consuming nothing but raw fruit and vegetable juice has help to reset my cravings. I will always love carne asada, but billboards for fast food now make my stomach churn. I find myself once again craving all kinds of nutrient rich foods. Before the fast, I was in a greasy slump and my body had forgotten what it really wanted.

We drank the same juice for most of the first day and I wanted to scratch my tongue out. The recipe we used called for ginger. I am what they call a supertaster. (Scientifically confirmed, in fact. But that's another story.) This means that I'm freakishly good at identifying certain flavors. People like me tend to be food critics and wine connoisseurs. My super tasting doesn't lend me any fancy title, instead some flavors just really jump out at me. That was the case with the tiny bit of ginger that was in the recipe we drank for the first day. You know that scene in the movie Ratatouille when Remy tastes food and there are little fireworks popping in the background? I can so relate to this visual representation of taste because that's exactly what the ginger was like for me. Except that most of the ingredients had a decent flavor that combined well like a talented band and the ginger was the one annoying off key instrument. So we experimented with different recipes in which I omitted the ginger.

My favorite juice so far is as follows:
4-6 leaves of kale
1 cucumber
2 carrots
2 green apples
2 oranges
1 half lemon

We are back to eating real foods like normal people, but we are still enjoying making homemade juices. We try to include some dark green leafy vegetables in each batch, but a sweet all-fruit juice is a nice treat every once in awhile. And for me, that's what it's all about: the balance.

Vacation Detox

Well, I did it! It's been two weeks without Facebook and it feels pretty good. The only time I miss it is when I think about friends that are having babies soon and I want to know if the big day has come and other updates about people I don't see often (Hey, Madeleine B. email me!). I will probably reactivate it soon, but it's been a nice break.

We just got back from a trip back home to California. John got to see his family and friends for the first time in over year. It was touching to see how loved he is. A week seemed like way too short of time, but we managed to squeeze a lot in, including birthday celebrations and a lake day. We throughly enjoyed the crisp California air and lack of humidity. We even got to wear sweatshirts most nights!
Ah, that bay breeze!

Getting back to one's "roots" is always refreshing and grounding. It was nice to have face to face interactions with people we love. One not so refreshing part of being home, however, was eating tons of junk and gaining weight. Since John got home from deployment, we've been indulging on all kinds of foods that aren't so healthy. This past week it finally caught up with us as we tried to consume as much of our favorite foods we can't get here in Texas. We decided that needing to unbutton our pants to sit down isn't acceptable so tomorrow we are starting a seven day juice fast to just reset our systems, so to speak.

We're trading in carne asada fries, burgers, pizza, and buffalo wings for kale, cucumbers, apples, and celery. The first three days we'll be drinking the "mean green" juice which includes the above ingredients as well as ginger root and lemon. Days 4-7 we'll add in other things like carrots, blueberries, and flax seed. Once the week long juice fast is over, we'll slowly start to add in whole fruits and vegetables (not just the juice), nuts, beans, fish, poultry, whole grains, and treats. Neither one of us wants to be rigid and never eat junk again, but we're hoping to sort of cleanse out the crap we've consumed the last two months and get back into a more moderate lifestyle. When John was gone I started eating healthier and exercising more. He did the same and we both felt an improvement in our energy level and overall well-being. I also didn't have a cold sore for 7 months (I was getting one about once a month before). Unfortunately, I have two healing up and one more just popped up this morning. I'm hoping the fast and subsequent healthy lifestyle will again subdue the outbreaks. I hear the first three days are the hardest as the body goes through a sort of withdrawal period. I'm up for the challenge and looking forward to pushing myself. It will be a great exercise in self-control and discipline.

This is all we'll be consuming over the next three days! If you see us over the week, please encourage us to keep going;  I'm sure we'll need it!

I've been thinking about getting rid of Facebook for awhile. I told my husband that it's become a distraction from real life, that I got addicted to it while he was gone. That's embarrassing to admit. Everyone loves to hate Facebook and say how stupid it is, yet here am I admitting that it's become a real part of my life. I had an excuse while he was gone; it was our main form of communication during deployment. I was constantly online hoping to never miss him when he had internet access. But now that he's home, why am I still in this toxic "I hate it, but can't get away from it" relationship with a social media site?

I think the reasons go deeper than the ones I freely offered at first. We live in a culture where our lives are on display and it is becoming harder to see what "over sharing" really is. Even as I write that sentence, I realize that this blog puts my life on display and that I may over share even here. With the ever-increasing lack of privacy, I feel the need to perform. I want people to give me a thumbs up and "like" me. My dear husband says I need to forget about what other people think, that it's an impossible task to please everyone. I know he's right. As evolved and mature as I'd like to think I am, I still want people to like me. Again, I start to get embarrassed, until I realize that every honest human being would admit that they want to be liked and accepted too.

That embarrassed feeling has been creeping up a lot lately. Like when I said the "F word" in public and later realized that there was a couple nearby that goes to my church. Like when someone warned me that a certain beach has a lot of women in bikinis and I told her that I wear a bikini. Like when someone posts a picture of me on Facebook drinking a cocktail. I don't want my church friends seeing those things. But the truth is I like music that makes me want to gyrate my hips. I wear a bikini and push-up bras. I can hold my own with the infantrymen and sound like one too.

That embarrassed feeling is conviction, Carsen. You feel that way because you know it's wrong. 
Maybe. Maybe not.

That embarrassed feeling creeps up in other aspects too. My "wild" side isn't the only one on display online. My faith is too. Those that know me know that I have a spiritual life that is active and real. I don't want my church friends to see me one way, but then I find myself not wanting others to know that I want to follow God. Mostly because of the tainted image that it's become. Mostly because others have screwed that up for me. Mostly because many people see my faith as something used to condemn and judge other people. I want to share my faith with others, but I don't want them to think I'm another one of "those" people. Spirituality is something deeply personal to me, yet it is very much a part of who I am. I can't hide it. But sometimes I want to.

That's a sin, Carsen. You are *supposed* to be unashamed. 
Maybe. Maybe not.

I told my husband I was feeling this way. Told him that maybe I should stop leading a double life. That maybe I need to pick the bikini-wearing, cocktail-drinking, curse word-saying life or I need to pick the modest, religious, straight as an arrow life. There's something in the Bible about that, wineskins or wells or something. But is it really a double life? Maybe this "wild side" isn't bad at all, but the way God made me. Maybe he created me to think for myself and to rebel against the "should's" and the "oughts." Maybe he gave me this fiery spirit that gets pissed off at injustice and can't be quiet about it. Maybe he's made me to be comfortable and relatable to infantryman and the likes so that I can show them His love. Maybe if I wore a one-piece swimsuit and blushed when someone said "shit," I'd make people who are not in the church not want to be around me. Jesus never sinned or compromised his standards or made excuses for sin, but he did hang out with prostitutes and thieves and the poor.

That's justifying your actions, Carsen. Your thinking is wrong. 
Maybe. Maybe not.

And that thing about wineskins or wells or something... I'm pretty sure that's about the heart. The God who created me cares about my heart, not outside appearance. He cares about how I love people and care for people. He cares about me loving Him and He wants a relationship with me. He wants me to care about what He thinks. Because that's the thing about Facebook and humans in general, most can't see the heart. What is seen is just a glimpse of a person's whole self. I have given authority to certain people to correct me when I'm wrong because I trust their opinions and know that they know me deeper than just about everyone in the Facebook world. Maybe that's what I really long for: relationships that care about the heart. Maybe I don't want any more fake relationships that just see pictures and words out of context. Maybe I'm sick of telling someone something in person and they cut me off saying, "Yeah, I read your status." Maybe I want real relationships that I'm not worried about going awry based off of something on a stupid website. Maybe what I really want is authenticity.

Now that's just crazy talk, Carsen. 
Maybe. Maybe not.

a soldier's return

After 257 days of deployment, my soldier returned. It's been a month since that day and the whirlwind of emotions is starting to wane. I believe my emotional, jumpy basal ganglia have been on overdrive while the logical, focused cortex has been sitting back and laughing. The fog is slowly clearing and I'm starting to feel like myself again. Hello, logical brain, it's so nice to see you.

The few weeks leading up a soldier's return are probably the worst. One might imagine that it's full of excited joy and hopeful anxiousness. For me, that didn't come until about 20 minutes before I was in his arms. Before that, there was mostly weariness, grumpiness, and about-to-cut-someone's-throatness. I was on edge and thought I was going to implode if one.more.person asked me when he was coming home. The fact is, the wife doesn't know because the soldier rarely knows. John was given an estimated date, but even when that date rolled around, it was unclear if he'd be en route that day or not. He had to report for a briefing and then leave his base to go to the one he'd be flying out of. This wasn't my first time dealing with the military so there was no surprise that the plane had malfunctions and his flight got delayed. It's true what they say about hurry up and wait. I decided to screw the hurry up part and just waited. When I knew that he was no longer in the Middle East, I tried to convince myself to get excited. My brain refused and decided to go into shock mode instead. In other words, the jerk checked out on me. When my brain, i.e. my filter, checked out, I decided I should probably turn off my phone. I was a WMD waiting to be set off.  

He was experiencing much more weariness, grumpiness, and about-to-cut-someone's-throatness than I was and our collective stinky attitude made it feel like we were constantly on the verge of a fight. I think this is why the Bible says soldiers should be unmarried and that husbands and wives should "not deprive one another." There was seriously about to be a throw down and I didn't know if we'd like each other that much once we were reunited. I didn't like myself, so how could I expect someone else to adore me? The fear of an impending breakdown coupled with bickering and tension made it hard for me to comprehend a rosy reunion. I hate to break it to you, but it's not like the movies. There wasn't any hanging parachute escapades or usurped military planes floating into the sunset in my future. Just an emotional wreck of a wife and an exhausted heap of a husband.  

The unit set up a website with information about the ceremony times so that families could stay updated about changes since communication with our soldiers while they were en route wasn't guaranteed. The day that John was supposed to arrive was spent refreshing that website to see if there were any more delays. I started to get ready and then realized I hadn't eaten much all day. A friend and seasoned Army wife brought me over some food and hung out with me while I finished primping. I think if I had been alone, I would have freaked out. I'm thankful for her distraction. It wasn't until I was already on post that I remembered that I didn't know where I was going. The vague directions I had were to go in the main gate and to follow the big signs. There weren't any signs. I started calling people, but no one picked up. I knew the general direction of the field and division headquarters so I headed that way. Somehow, my Spidey senses got me to where I needed to be. My in-laws and parents had surprised me by hiring a photographer to capture the event. When I got to the field where the ceremony was to take place, I met up with some friends and the photographer. I started to feed off of everyone's energy. The excitement was contagious. I remember taking a deep breath and thinking to myself that I didn't want my fear and stress to ruin this moment. We'd deal with the change later, I thought, but right now I just want to savor this happiness. 

The ceremony actually started early. It felt too fast because I had no time to process what was going on. The white buses were coming, being led by police cars. My heart was pounding and tears started to fill my eyes. My love, my best friend, my soulmate was on one of those buses and he was here to stay until the next duty called. The buses lined up and the soldiers disembarked and formed up behind the buses. The DJ started the chant, "Move that bus! Move that bus!" The buses finally moved and there stood my hero with his battle buddies. They marched forward and there was a small ceremony to retire the colors and say a prayer. Then we were instructed to charge each other Braveheart style. I had told John what I was going to be wearing and what my sign looked like. I stood out in the field holding my "Kiss Me" sign with darting eyes. I watched as other wives hugged and kissed their husbands, but couldn't see mine. Finally, I saw him walking in the back of the crowd. I tugged on the photographer's hand as I ran to my love. He saw me and I heard him say, "There she is." It felt like he had picked me for the first time. The following few seconds were the sweetest. Hugs, kisses, and smiles that I will hold in my memory for years to come. 

The practical growing pains of coming back together and reestablishing our roles as husband and wife have been tiring. It's truly been a month of coasting through the highs and lows. He's changed. I've changed. Our situations have changed. We've grown older physically as well as emotionally. Things are starting to smooth over as we get back into a rhythm and new normal. Night time has been redeemed for me. While he was gone, it was one of the loneliest times. Now as I lay in bed, I am often awake as I hear his breathing change from relaxed to a deep sleep. I think back on those fitful nights and the ups and downs of the last month and know that these moments make the other ones totally worth it. They never said it would be easy. This marriage thing is hard, especially in the military world. But as I snuggle up close to my partner in life, I know that it's going to be okay. My soldier is home. 

photo by Alisha Norman 

redeployment

The term redeployment refers to a unit or soldier coming home from a deployment (not deploying again, as I thought when I first heard the term). As my husband and his fellow troopers near redeployment, we are given resources and strategies on how to best handle the transition. One resource says, "Redeployment is not an event; it is a process."

I think this is the hardest part for first timers and civilian family members to understand. Thankfully, I'm not naive enough to believe that everything will be perfect when he walks in the door. I'm definitely ready to have him home. I'm so tired of this separation and ready to have a human husband, not just a computer I'm attached to. I want him home more than anything. However, it doesn't feel like one exciting event and that's it. Don't get me wrong, the day I see him on the field coming toward me, I will be a blubbering mess. I won't be able to sleep the night before knowing that my soldier will soon be with me, face to face, lip to lip. Yet, I still find myself holding back.

One of the reasons that I can't get overly excited about his return is that I've learned in my year and a half as an Army wife that plans change quickly and often. I may be given a certain date and/or time for his return and that could change multiple times before his last plane lands. This can be an extremely stressful time, as I have to remain flexible, ready for anything, and somewhat guarded. I can't get my hopes up for a certain time. My husband will be returning on a military flight, so if there are problems with equipment, he doesn't just catch the next plane out. He will have to wait until the plane gets fixed or another one becomes available. I know he's coming soon, and within a certain window of time, but I can't get excited until I know he's already en route to his final destination.

Another reason I may seem hesitant to become excited is that we have a lot of work ahead of us. It will be worthwhile, desired work, but work nonetheless. People are constantly changing, but separation makes those changes more obvious. I know I have changed, and John certainly has as well. His return will not just be a giant celebration (though it will be that!), it will also be a sensitive time of relearning each other as spouses and individuals. My priorities and perspectives on things have shifted. John's world and self views have altered. Redeployment will be a period of time in which we come together again and work out these new differences and similarities. It is a time to regroup and check in with one another.

Logistically, redeployment is very much a process as well. He may leave his current post to go to the one he'll be flying out of, but not leave there for a day or two. Just him getting here may be a three day process. He will be busy with briefs and traveling. Our communication will most likely be spotty. When he lands in the states, he will have more processing to do. He will be here, but it will be another one to two hours before I can see him. He will be traveling with his weapon and when they land he will have to turn it in before he goes on the field to greet me. There will be a couple hundred soldiers that will need to do the same, as well as some other tasks, before they can leave the airfield and get on the buses to come to awaiting family and friends. Once they are bused over to the field where loved ones are waiting, they need to disembark the bus and get into formation. The chaplain will pray and say a few words. The color guard will retire the colors. After all of that, we will be able hug our soldiers and take them home.

And yet, with all of that, the in-processing is still not over. He will return to regular work days. He will have physical training in the morning and a series of tasks he's to accomplish each day as a part of his "reverse soldier readiness program." This will include a physical and medical evaluation, a phycological evaluation, turning in equipment, and other various duties. The time immediately following deployment is often a scary one, as the amount of serious incident reports goes up. These "serious incidents" include things like domestic violence, drunk driving accidents, and suicide. The men and women in charge of the unit try to minimize these incidents by keeping a controlled environment and a tight reign on the soldiers until they are well acclimated into their new lifestyle. It will be frustrating as his wife because I will want him home, but it is an important part of his transition.

Much of the questions I have been asked are things that I can't answer. Sometimes the answers are too personal to talk about, things I can't share for security purposes, or are simply answers that I do not have. It is an exciting event that I'm so looking forward to. However, please understand that it is also a complex, sensitive process. My desire right now is to not share anything with anyone because it feels like if I give a bit of information, people want to know more. I know the questions are genuine and heartfelt, and I feel guilty for being annoyed by them. However, often times the questions remind me of all the things that I do not know. I've explained the basics of what the next few months will look like, but as far as the specifics go, only time will tell. I don't want anyone to think that I don't want to share the joy of my husband's return. He is loved by many, and we are so thankful for that. I will let our friends and family know once he's back. I'm sure that much of this anxiousness and stress will subside once he's finally in my arms. For now, however, I ask that you let me lay low for a bit. I need privacy and solitude to process my own emotions and personal changes that have occurred over this period. I need distance from the noise to be able to be fully present for my husband. I need grace to be able to feel all these things, and so much more. I need the courage to face the unknown. I need the strength to join with my husband as a united team and face this next phase in our lives. I need the freedom to finally be able to experience the immense joy of our reunion.

I love you all and know that you love me and John so much. I covet your prayers and quiet support; I know we need it. I'm thankful to be a part of a family that mourns together and rejoices together. I love keeping everyone in the loop and up to date on the latest news. I'm a storyteller and extrovert at heart. I doubt I'll be quiet for long. Until then, I send my love and gratitude to you all, and thank you for the space in advance. He'll be in my arms soon. :)

labor

"I can't help but compare it to the transition period during labor. You're super close to your happy ending, but somehow it feels that much more overwhelming and shitty. You only get that ultra-high after experiencing ultra-pain."

My friend wrote those words to me almost a month ago. As I read her words, I was so thankful to have friends who speak my language, who know exactly what to say to me. 

Transition is the last stage of active labor, just before pushing begins. A woman is typically fully dilated or very close. This is the worst part for most women. Her logical brain shuts off and she begins to utter or think unreasonable things. She is exhausted after many hours of laboring. She can become shaky, panicky, and weepy. However, this stage is typically short and passes quickly, especially when the woman is well-supported. She gets her second wind and is ready to push out her baby. 

I've had this analogy on my mind all month. I'm getting so close to my happy ending, but my friend is right: it feels overwhelming and shitty. Again, the fear of the unknown creeps in. Am I going to split in half? Do I have what it takes to get through this? Will everyone be safe and healthy? Is my family going to be ok? Am I ready to take on the challenges of what's to come? 

Time feels suspended in the air. It feels as though there is a clock floating in space, counting down days, yet there is no logical pattern in any of it. Time is some abstract idea that I cannot grasp. Just as pregnancy will end, this deployment will end, yet no one can say exactly when. I am like a pregnant woman in labor who wants pregnancy to be over with, to hold her love in her arms, but no one can tell me exactly when that will happen. No one knows how much longer I must endure. 

But getting that baby out isn't the end of labor. The placenta must also come out. Any tears that occurred must be repaired. Any bleeding must be stopped. The uterus contracts and begins to return back to it's original size, though it may take many weeks or months to do so. The family begins to transition into it's new dynamics.  

Many woman have found that the most freeing part of labor is the moment they surrender to the process. We fight and resist pain, we try to protect ourselves from any harm. Yet pain in labor means that things are doing what they are supposed to. It means things are moving along and the end is nearing. It means a life is coming into this world. In this process of deployment, I have found freedom in surrendering to the process. Pain means I'm very much alive. Pain means my heart is wide open to let love out. 

This surrendering to the pain and process means I'm regaining my strength. It's allowing me to glide through life's ups and downs, one pressure wave at a time, without resisting the rhythm of it all. It means I've regained hope and confidence as I transition into the next stage. I'm starting to get my second wind. I will come through this. Tears may need to be stitched. Wounds may bleed. Pain and stinging will be felt. But life... fresh, sweet, new life... will come out of this process. 

deployment as seen in sleeping positions

The beginning

 A few months in

 Half way through

 Currently, with one month left

I'm going to have to start training myself to sleep on my side of the bed again. ;)

Shane

It was exactly two months before my sixth birthday. I was taking a morning shower with my mom when she said, "Go get Dad!" I didn't stop to dry myself off and ran naked out of the bathroom. I vividly remember starting to slip on the tile floor, but catching myself with the door frame. The details of that day are pretty sparse in my mind. I didn't know it then, but my mother's water broke in the shower. I remember my Nana coming over and all of us getting in the car to go to the hospital. We hadn't eaten yet so we stopped at Jack in the Box on the way. The smell of the food made my mom sick and she started yelling at us to throw it out. I remember my Nana shoving a hamburger in my mouth and then tossing the rest out of the window.

I remember sitting on my Nana's lap in the back of the room when my mom was getting ready to push. Someone asked my mom if she wanted me to leave. She said I could stay. I became more and more curious and I think the doctor felt me inching closer because he asked if I wanted to help. He put my hands right up in the action, with his hands surrounding mine. My little brother, Shane, came out very blue and with a dislocated shoulder. The doctor asked if I wanted to cut the cord, but told me that I had to do it very quickly. I said no and I walked away as my dad cut the umbilical cord. Shane was not breathing on his own and the doctors and nurses began to resuscitate him. I did not feel frightened, mostly because I didn't understand what was going on, but also because I didn't sense panic. I got angry that the doctors were handling my brother so roughly and said, "He's not gonna like that!" When he began to cry everyone was happy but me. I don't remember this, but I was told that I kicked the doctor because he made my brother cry and said, "Told ya so!" (That doctor has since forgiven me and was my lifelong pediatrician. He even helped me when I began to explore a career in nursing.) 

Today that same blue baby turns 18 years old. Not many people remember their siblings coming into the world or had such a active role in their birth. I think this is part of the reason we have such a close bond. I learned to change his diaper and when he stopped breastfeeding, I helped feed him. When he got a little older I dressed him up and cast him in all my plays. In elementary school I wrote a song about him: "Shane the pain, he drives me insane..." Despite the typical sibling quarrels, I've been very protective of him from day one and took my role as the older sibling very seriously. When he began to get bigger than I, I had to come to terms with the fact that I was no longer stronger than he. He remembers the triumphant day when he finally beat me at wrestling on my 18th birthday. It has been a pleasure watching him grow into a compassionate,  protective, intelligent, athletic, loving young man, and to be his close friend along the way.

I love that he's friends with my husband and it meant so much to me that John asked him to be a groomsmen in our wedding. As we've grown older our relationship has changed from me leading him to a more equal friendship. When I was a teenager, I would make him do a "smell check" for me. I didn't want to wear too much perfume, but I still wanted people to be able to smell it. I would walk by him and say, "Smell check!" He'd let me know if I had the right amount of perfume on. We talk about things that most brothers and sisters would never feel comfortable talking about. We've talked about drinking and sex and God. He told me that he could tell John made me happy. We've supported each other when times were tough. When we are together there is something about 9 pm that just makes us so silly and slap happy. Even though we are older now, we still act like goofy 12 and 6 year olds. And yes, even though he's an accomplished lineman and twice my size, I still try to wrestle with him.

Shane, I love being your older sister and friend. It's hard to believe that you are an adult now! It makes me feel a bit old remembering the day you were born and now you're old enough to get a credit card (which I don't recommend). I'm thankful we've remained close even though we're far apart in age and distance. You make me so proud! Happy birthday! P.S. Baby alien voice 

Don't be alarmed

I've been trying to shake it. I've been doing deep breathing exercises and yoga. I take my vitamins and drink my green smoothies. I talk it out with people and share laughs with friends. I read interesting books and stimulate my mind. I participate in the holy ritual of "keeping busy."

It's not working.

I am restless. I am annoyed. There is a groaning inside me. I'd punch a wall if I had more motivation. I tried identifying this feeling. I've heard it helps if you know exactly what you are feeling. For a girl who is pretty good at self-examination, I have no idea what to call it. Some days it looks angry. Other days it looks apathetic. Sometimes it looks depressed. Most of the time it looks like loneliness. I think I'll call it a gremlin.

He's an ugly bastard.

This gremlin follows me around on a daily basis. Somedays I hardly notice he's there; like a shadow, I know he's there, but I pay no attention to him. Other days he won't leave me alone. He keeps me awake at night; he causes canker sores and constipation. He makes me curse and lose my cool.

I'm done.

I feel guilty even writing about it. I know I'm being melodramatic. I know I could have it worse. I know I'm lucky to even have a man to miss. I know that I'm lucky to hear from him regularly. I know I should be thankful that he's in a safe place. I know all the right things to say. I don't need to hear that it's almost over. Don't you know that I've been telling myself that for weeks? I don't need to hear that it could be worse. Don't you know I've been trying to console myself with that thought?

It doesn't help.

I like to fix things. I'm bad at letting people vent. I'd rather offer solutions than just listen. I've been doing this to myself for months. I feel this anger/depression/loneliness rise up in me and I shut it down. I tell it to quit whining. I tell it to shut up and smell the roses. I tell it to have a grateful heart. I tell it to read the Bible. I tell it to find perspective. I tell it to think of all the ways it could be worse. I tell it to quit it's bitching.

It won't be quiet.

I've done everything that I know how to do. I've prayed, fasted, and meditated. I've exercised and taken care of my body. I've looked for all the positive things and have been thankful for them. I've reached out to friends when I need it. I've told myself all the right things. I don't need solutions. I don't need to be told I only have a month and a half left. I was done a month ago, but I have no control over it. I can't make it end any sooner. Since I can't beat it, I'm going to accept it. It is what it is. I feel what I feel and I can't make it go away. I'm not going to ask it to leave anymore. I'm not going to tell it to shut up. It's louder than me anyway. I'm going to let it scream and rage and cry.

Don't be alarmed.

my first experience as a doula

It was warm for October and we went for a nice walk, making jokes as we usually did. Tomorrow was her due date, her mom was in town, and she was ready.  She'd been having some contractions that day, but they were still very far apart. We got back to the house and I rubbed some pressure points that have been known to induce labor and bring the baby down. She doesn't like having her feet touched so I stuck to spots on the ankle, lower leg, and shoulders. I did that for about 45 minutes. She was relaxed and not showing any fear or nervousness about the upcoming labor. I was so proud of her. She had been raising her three year old and going through pregnancy without her husband who was deployed in Iraq. We decided to go on one more walk before I headed back home. She had been feeling very energetic the last few days and I knew that was a good sign. We walked another two miles as the sun moved away from the middle of the sky. I said my goodbyes and headed home to get ready for an evening meeting. About four hours later, she texted me saying that she was having consistent contractions that were stronger than normal. I told her to make sure she eats and stays hydrated. She called me back saying that she wanted to go to the hospital to get checked out. She had been in twice before thinking she was in labor when she wasn't and didn't want to stay up all night if it was nothing. I told her to wait and that if it was "the real deal" she would know soon enough. I was just getting back home from my meeting when she texted me, "The neighbor is here. I'm going to have her take me to the hospital." I called her immediately. She had been wanting to do a natural childbirth and I knew the best thing to do was to labor at home for as long as possible to avoid unwanted procedures. 

I told her that I could be there in 40 minutes and to wait for me. I quickly changed into scrub bottoms, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes. I grabbed my packed bag and some snacks and made the 30 minute drive to post. My adrenaline was pumping. This was my first time as an official doula. I had witnessed birth numerous times and had worked in a clinic in Haiti. However, this was the first time I was more than an observer. I called my mom on the way, who is a doula, for some last minute advice and to get cool, calm, and collected for my friend. When I arrived to her house, the TV was blaring, everyone was standing up, and Caitlin was by the door with her backpack and shoes on. She had high energy, was being silly, and was talking through her contractions. I knew we had a long way to go before it was time to go to the hospital. The neighbor went home and I turned down the TV. I told her that I didn't think it was time to go yet and that we should wait it out. I charted her contractions for about an hour. They were about every four minutes apart, but only lasting 30-40 seconds. She had a consistent pattern, which was good, but they weren't quite long enough or strong enough to merit a hospital trip. After observing her for that hour, I suggested she take a warm bath or shower and to relax a little bit, maybe even try to get some sleep since we had a long night ahead of us. She was way too excited to rest so I got her to sit on a birthing ball and bounce for a little while. Then I suggested that she put her toddler to bed so that he was tucked in by his mommy before we left and that he didn't see her in pain once the contractions got more intense. She loved on her little man for a bit and then we decided to go for another walk. 

Caitlin had decided to have an unmedicated childbirth because she was unhappy with her first birthing experience. She got an epidural with her first when she was seven centimeters dilated. Afterwards, she thought that she had made it that far (10 centimeters is considered fully dilated), so why didn't she just go the rest of the way? On top of that, the epidural gave her little relief, but had side affects that she didn't think were worth the possible benefits. Because the epidural didn't work, she was given narcotics through her IV. She reported that those drugs made her thinking incredibly hazy and that she doesn't remember a huge chunk of her birth experience, including the first few hours of her son's life. She vaguely remembers a nurse holding her son to her breast to eat because she couldn't hold him herself. I was there to support her, and to help see that her decisions were respected and her hopes for this birth realized. 

Towards the end of our last walk, she started hyper-contracting. It took a long time to get back to the house even though we were only about 200 yards away because her contractions were right on top of one another and she wasn't able to walk through them. This honestly freaked me out and I no longer felt confident in my ability to help her through labor. I felt rushed and panicked and suggested that we think about going to the hospital. It was three hours passed the time I first arrived and I thought I had done a pretty good job of holding her off that long. We got back to the house and I suggested she eat a snack since the hospital doesn't let laboring women eat or drink anything. I put a towel on the front seat of the truck in case her water broke on the way and packed up our bags. Things had calmed down some once I came back inside from packing the truck and my intuition told me to wait and see if that intense episode was only because of the walk and that it would subside. I once again suggested she take a shower or bath to calm down and get back into a more manageable rhythm. From the look on her face I could tell that a shower was the last thing she wanted. I found myself saying we should go then, even though I had a nagging feeling we should wait. I relented because laboring at home isn't what most people are familiar with in the U.S. Even though I'd heard about home birth and known people to labor at home for many hours before going to the hospital, and even though I knew that was what was best for someone who didn't want all the normal practices of the hospital, my culture won. The images and experiences of a hospital birth were far more numerous than the alternative. I trusted my cultural viewpoint more than my own intuition. I trusted the doctors more than my friend's perfectly healthy body. 

So we left. The car ride was uncomfortable for Caitlin. She did not want to be sitting whatsoever. She had been laboring for nine hours in whatever position felt comfortable to her, typically standing, and being confined to one position was aggravating. We were both happy that the military hospital was very close. She asked me to park far away because she wanted to walk more. We slowly approached the hospital and showed our military IDs to the front desk. Someone started to get a wheelchair for Caitlin, but she politely declined it. The woman working the front desk gave her a curious look and asked if we were aware that labor and delivery was on the second floor and that the elevator was far away. Caitlin told her yes, she knew where it was and would like to walk. Caitlin would lean against me or the wall or slightly squat down during a contraction. The lady shouted at us from down the hall and again asked if we wanted a wheelchair. Again, we told her no thank you. Caitlin was quietly handling each contraction beautifully and just the thought of sitting was uncomfortable. We made our way to the elevator and triage of the labor and delivery department. She was four centimeters dilated and admitted to the hospital. We informed the staff of her wishes to move around freely, which meant not being strapped to the electronic fetal monitor or IV. It was already in her file, but she told everyone that she did not want an epidural or any other pain medication and to please not ask her. She confidently informed them that if she decided to change her plan, that she would let them know. She gave details ahead of time about what she did and did not want done to her and the staff seemed to be on board with her wishes. 

Her nurse put her on a telemetry (mobile) monitoring system and Caitlin moved freely about the room. She was peeing regularly, but because she was not allowed to eat or drink, the nurse put in an IV to keep her hydrated. She was still able to move because the IV pole was on wheels. She walked, swayed, bounced, squatted, did hip circles, and breathed deep through each contraction. I rolled a tennis ball up and down her back, put pressure on her sacrum, and squeezed a scarf around her hips. I encouraged her to relax her face, neck, and shoulders and to not tense up during a contraction. I reminded her that the contractions were helping to move her baby down and out and to not fight the sensation, but to work with her body. She responded well to each suggestion and seemed to flourish with the constant support. We did not have many interruptions and she got very focused. She looked beautiful. The nurse checked her before her shift ended and Caitlin's cervix was at six centimeters within a couple hours of being admitted. 

At shift change, a new nurse and midwife came in and introduced themselves to us. They asked Caitlin if she wanted an epidural. She said no, and asked that they please not ask her again. She again went through her list of wishes with the new staff members. Instead of smiling and nodding with her in agreement like the last crew had, these two wrinkled their noses at her and didn't say much. The nurse also took Caitlin off the mobile unit. We asked why this was being done and reiterated her desire to be free to move in whatever way felt natural. The nurse said that the mobile unit was not as good as the other one. I asked if she could be on the monitor for 20 minutes and then be off for 40 minutes so that she could still move around. We were told, "No way. That's just not going to happen." I asked why and was not given a solid answer. I gently told the nurse that the mobile unit had been working very well for us for the last few hours. She finally said that she didn't know how to use that one, so Caitlin would have to be on the regular fetal monitor. We continued with what we had been doing, but this time Caitlin only had about three feet of space, the length of the wires. She bounced on the birthing ball, seated just in front of the monitor. She paced back in forth in the small area of space she had. She leaned over the bed while I rubbed her back. It wasn't ideal, but we made it work. When Caitlin needed to use the restroom, I unplugged her from the fetal monitor and wheeled the IV pole behind her. She took care of business and I plugged everything back in correctly. The nurse would come in and unplug everything I had just done, plug it back in exactly how I had it, and huff out of the room irritated. She made a few remarks about how "lucky" Caitlin was that she was allowing her to be out of bed. We tried to ignore her, but I could tell her attitude and lack of respect for Caitlin's wishes was affecting her focus. 

After many hours, Caitlin's cervix was checked again. This time there was no progress. We were both feeling very exhausted as it was about 2 am. We decided to shut off the lights and try to get some sleep. We awoke around four a.m. She was checked again and was still only at six centimeters. The midwife told Caitlin that her labor had stalled and that she would need to be on Pitocin, a synthetic version of the hormone oxytocin, which is responsible for contractions.  We were both leery of starting Pitocin, but agreed as long as she'd be given only very small doses and the amount was not to exceed a certain amount. Because she was on the Pitocin, she would have to be catheterized. I could see how exhausted Caitlin looked and started giving her juice and crackers when no one was looking. I knew she was going to need sustenance to be able to finish the last few stages of labor. Even though she was stuck in the bed, we found positions that were comfortable and still utilized gravity. She kneeled, squatted, and got on all fours. I sat behind her and continued to put pressure on her lower back as she straddled and hugged the birthing ball. We kept her hips open and her body upright as much as possible. 

Her water broke naturally as she was in a kneeling position. Even though her water had broken (which usually starts to move things along quicker), the midwife kept "upping the Pit," giving her more Pitocin, until it reached an amount that Caitlin said she didn't want to reach. She started to develop a very sharp pain all down her left side and the contractions became unbearable. Over and over again, she was told she didn't need to do it naturally and that she should just give in and get the epidural. Exhausted and vulnerable, she relented. As we were waiting for the anesthesiologist, I asked the midwife and nurse if the constant sharp pain could be from the Pitocin. They said they had never heard of that and it probably wasn't likely. I thought that she might be in transition and maybe would be ready to push soon, but no one checked to see if that was the case. However, the charge nurse came in and turned off the Pitocin and suggested the same thing in a hushed voice. At this point, Caitlin was already being prepped for the epidural. Sitting still was very difficult for her, especially because she felt like getting up and bearing down. The doctor explained that first he'd do a spinal block, a single injection of a narcotic into her back and then the epidural, which is a continuous dose of analgesic. Caitlin spoke up and said, "I don't want the epidural! Just give me the spinal block and be done." The doctor explained that the spinal block would start to wear off in 30-45 minutes and she'd have to ask for more medicine. She told him that was fine and she would let a nurse know if she wanted to start the continuous drip, as everything would already be in place. The charge nurse came back in after everyone left and said that she wanted to check Caitlin because she thought she might be ready to push. Sure enough, Caitlin was fully dilated and ready to go. The spinal block had wore off already, which did not take away the sharp side pain. We helped her get into a comfortable kneeling position, and the nurse directed her to start pushing on her next contraction. An obstetrician came in and asked, "She's going to push like that?" 

Pushing brought Caitlin great relief and she later told me that she wished she would have done it sooner because it took away the pain of the contractions. She said that she wishes she would have listened to her body instead of everyone who was pressuring her to get the drugs. In hindsight, I wish I would have done the same and would have been able to speak up more. I truly believe that she probably was ready to push before the spinal block was given and that a needle into her spine, something she did not want, could have been avoided. She pushed for less than 30 minutes. I was holding her hand and was telling her that she was doing amazing and that I could see Connor's head. She was her most radiant in this moment and I got teary-eyed. Not only was I a part of a new life coming into the world, but I was witnessing a woman in her full glory. She was determined and strong. Connor was born and quickly taken over to the incubator nearby. We assisted Caitlin in changing positions to get ready for the delivery of the placenta. A nurse began to press on her abdomen and the OB pulled on the cut umbilical cord. Caitlin let out a scream, the first I'd heard in the entire process of birth. She began to cry and ask them to stop. This was incredibly painful for her. It had only been about 5 minutes since Connor was born. Caitlin still hadn't seen her baby yet. Then she began to bleed a little more than usual. I went over to be with the baby and get out of the way. I wanted to bring him over so he could nurse. Nursing causes contractions, which help clamp off the blood vessels in the uterus and stop bleeding, as well as get the placenta out. Why was no one suggesting this? 

Finally the bleeding was controlled and the OB began to clean up. However the ordeal wasn't over: the doctor was missing an instrument. Caitlin still hadn't even seen her baby, let alone hold him and now a doctor was concerned he had left something up inside of her. Everyone frantically began searching for the missing piece. The doctor put one hand inside of her very sore vagina and began pressing on her uterus from the outside with the other. He did so without acknowledging that it was painful or apologizing that he had to do it. He certainly did not ask permission. Caitlin told me later that she felt like she was being raped. He did not feel the missing instrument, but ordered an x-ray of her pelvis just to make sure. Thankfully, it was not inside of her. She finally got to hold and nurse her baby 45 minutes after he was born. 

Reflecting back on this experience, I believe that Caitlin's labor may have stalled for many hours because of the change in attitude from the staff. She also told me that she hadn't heard from her husband yet and was worried that she wouldn't be able to get ahold of him. The mind-body connection is incredibly powerful, and unfortunately often overlooked. Caitlin's demeanor was calm, confident, and focused when she had a nurse who respected her wishes, allowed her to be on a mobile unit, and didn't pressure her to give into society's norms. She progressed well. That demeanor and progression changed drastically when we encountered providers who were demeaning, disrespectful, and did not help facilitate an environment conducive to the birth experience she wanted (and was capable of). Now, she's not sure if she wants any more kids. The reason: the way people made her feel while she was giving birth. The birth experience is powerful, yet that truth is such a whisper in our society. The shouts say as long as you have a healthy baby, nothing else matters. I want to bring voice to those who say that it does matter. What the doctor did that made her feel raped was medically sound and indicated for the situation. I don't believe it was what he was doing with his hands that made her feel violated, but the way he treated her. He did not talk to her about what needed to be done to her. Afterwards, he scolded the nurses in front of Caitlin, telling them to never again let his patients be in any position other than laying on their backs. Caitlin felt pressured, disrespected, and like an outcast for choosing to do what felt right for her and not what everyone else thought she should do. If you are in the health care field, please remember that while something may be routine to you, it is still a new experience for the patient. Please also learn to appreciate how strongly the mind and body are connected.

"If a woman doesn't look like a goddess in birth, then someone isn't treating her right." 

Ina May Gaskin