Merry Christmas!

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

O, I wasn’t so charitable yesterday in traffic when we were cut off by that idiot in a Hyundai – but it was definitely divine intervention that I didn’t choke the life out of the old bat in front of me with a cartload of crap in the 10 items or less line.

But I definitely feel more “Christmassy” this year.

In fact, I’ve stopped saying “Happy Holidays” completely.

I am a Christian. I was born a Christian. I was raised a Christian. This is the time of year we celebrate the birth of our Messiah and I’m going to wish you a Merry Christmas.

Now I know that it was a Pope that chose December 25^th as Christmas Day.

I know it was a response to the Pagan celebrations surrounding the Winter Solstice.

I know that most of the symbolism surrounding the holiday was “borrowed” from other cultures and religions. And do you know what?

I don’t care.

I like it.

I like the fact that during the darkest days of the winter our houses are lit with colourful lights.

I like the fact that we have an excuse to gather with friends and family to feast.

I like that we sing special songs and that my house smells like ginger and pine tree.

What about that is offensive?

Just what about any of it is offensive?

Now, I can understand why other religions don’t care for Christianity. We weren’t exactly charitable during the Crusades and we were definitely less that tolerant of the pagan religions of the new world.

But check your calendars folks, it’s nearly 2010. The world has moved on. At some point one has to simply get over it.

The political correctness of our society is maddening.

Governments are issuing apologies for things that happened hundreds of years ago, things that occurred when their grandfather’s grandfathers were just a twinkle in their daddy’s eye.

And we’re trying to make up for the atrocities that occurred centuries ago by letting the minority dictate to the majority.

Prayers have been removed from school. The Queen has been removed from the Girl Guide Promise and The Men’s Christmas Dinner has been replaced with the Soldier’s Seasonal Appreciation Dinner. All because at some point some hippie, yuppie, politically correct idiot said, “That offends me.”

Well boys. Brace yourself.

When I wish you Merry Christmas I am wishing you the very best of what I believe in. If this offends you - as my son would say, “get out your big girl panties and get them on.”

The manger scenes do not promote violence or intolerance and therefore I fail to see why they are perceived as offensive. It’s not a re-enactment of a bloody coup or a murder. It’s a baby. Suck it up.

I want to sing about angels and wise men. And I want to do it in public. Right along with the songs about Santa and elves. If you don’t like it – I suggest you bring earplugs with you.

If you’re uncomfortable with this, then my suggestion would be for you to stay at home.

Personally, I would welcome a wish for a Happy Hanukkah or a Joyous Ramadan.

I’m done excluding the things I believe in. I’m done leaving the traditions of my childhood in the dirt.

I think the discarding of our traditions is part of the reason why the world is in the state it’s in.

And I think it’s time we stopped.

Fear not. For behold I bring you good tiding of great joy which shall be for all people.

For unto you. Is born this day in the City of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly hosts praising God and saying, Glory to God in the highest. And on Earth peace, good will toward men.

Merry Christmas!

Louise

Do you see what I see?

Well I knew something was coming when the media began reporting on the whole Afghan prisoner thing.

I knew there was a reason, that after nearly seven years in theatre, the media all of a sudden tells the world about what happens to prisoners once the Canadians turn them over to local authorities.

It’s been like a thunderstorm in the far distance. A barometric pressure change in the government’s attitude towards the military. It was coming. I just couldn’t put my finger on the extent.

At first I thought; “Ok – some tit-arse hippie in Ottawa is just stirring the poop.” But the more I’ve seen in the media, read in newspapers and heard through the military spouse grapevine (by far the most reliable source of the three) I began to see that this was the governmental spin doctors at work.

What I failed to understand, at the beginning, was the truly Machiavellian mechanizations of the Canadian federal government.

After 9-11 people began to appreciate the military. They started Red Fridays. Support Our Troops ribbons popped up on businesses and homes. And the government, sensing that they’d better get on the bus, threw their support to the men and women in uniform and began to do what they should have been doing for the previous twenty years.

Outdated equipment was replaced. Recruiting was improved. The image was improved. All in the hopes to gain popular support for the government that was sending the boys overseas.

A bit of flag waving is always good for the polls.

But now the Afghan mandate is almost up.

And the world’s economy is in the toilet.

Along with Harper’s approval rating.

Hmmm – I wonder how to tie this up in a nice big package?

Well – first you villainize the heroes. If you discover your heroes have clay feet then you don’t care how they’re treated – do you?

That way, once the combat mandate is over in 2011, you have the public approval, or at least their indifference, so you can claw back everything you’ve given to the one group of loyal employees who can’t protest back.

The military grapevine is ripe with budget constraint rumours and we’re months away from the fiscal year end.

History appears to be repeating itself.

The last time this happened was in the early 1990s. Bases were closed. The military was scaled back. Equipment contracts were cancelled, and soldiers’ pays were frozen so that some poor buggers had to go to food banks to survive.

I wonder how much further it will go this time.

After all – the greatest soldier advocate, Gen. Rick Hillier, was put out to pasture.

Now they’ve got their yes-men - their “corporate-minded” political monkeys who don’t care about Cpl. Canada, as long as their own jobs are safe.

They’ve got their distraction for the Canadian people. They’ve got their scapegoat. And now they won’t have to answer for the $50-trillion dollars they’ve spent on…what? Signs made in the US?

And tra-la-la the feds can continue to spend money behind closed doors like gambling addicts all the while sacrificing the pride, loyalty and good name of the men and women who have done so much and asked for so little.

Maybe I should start a little campaign of my own. I won’t need the $10-million dollars that the federal government is spending on the junk mail that’s being bombarded into my mailbox every week to ask whose socks are better or which party has their bread buttered better.

I’ll just need some support.

Let’s stop this train now.

Who’s with me?

Wagging the Dog

The media is at it again.

Twisting things to make it look like Canadian soldiers are the bad guys.

The policy in Afghanistan is that prisoners or suspected terrorists caught by the Canadian Forces’ patrols be turned over to local authorities to allow their rules and justice system deal with.

The Afghan authorities apparently still employ the use of torture and physical punishment on prisoners or suspects. And wonder of wonders it leaked to the media. And – big shock – the bleeding hearts are all over it.

The whole NATO involvement in Afghanistan is not to run the country. They have their own laws they have their own values. Where do Canadians get off interfering in their judicial system?

Now I’m not saying I agree with torturing another human being. But if that’s the law in a foreign country – who am I to change it – it’s not my country. This is.

I listened to a commentary on the local radio station today that actually compared turning over prisoners to the Afghan national to the incident in Somalia where a teen-aged boy was killed. Wow! Talk about comparing apples to oranges!

Nowhere in the report out of Afghanistan does it say that Canadian soldiers tortured prisoners. The Canadian soldiers merely follow orders and bring the terrorists - or suspected terrorists, if you prefer, to the local authorities.

The soldiers may be aware of local ‘practices’ and may not agree with them. But seriously folks, should it be up to a 20-year-old private from small town Canada to change the judicial practices of a foreign nation?

If you answered anything other than ‘no’ please have the person nearest to you kick you in the shin.

Render onto Caesar what is Caesar’s - the politicians made the rules – lay it at their feet – don’t vilify the military.

The politicians, not the soldiers, make the policies. And in this case it’s NATO. A little bigger than Cpl. Canada don’t you think?

These bleeding hearts are the first ones to jump on the bandwagon and say that Canada shouldn’t interfere in Afghanistan and yet here they are practically screaming for judicial reform of a foreign nation and somehow it’s been turned around to be the soldiers’ fault.

So B.H.s of the world, what would you have the soldiers do?

You’re bitching about the cost of the war – so I’m guessing paying for a prison up to the standards of North America is out of the question. Maybe you’d prefer the soldiers to bring them home – maybe they can live with you!

Better yet – let’s let them go – let them keep blowing people up and shooting at us.

Let’s disband the army and all wear robes and dance around the Maypole holding hands and singing We Are The World – I bet the terrorists would like that.

Here in the real world I’m thanking God for the courage of the Canadian soldier and hoping that the B.H. reporters can get their heads out of their arses before John Q Public begins to believe the ‘wag the dog’ reporting I heard and read today.

Clowns and Monsters

I started this blog to write about things that I feel strongly about. This is a departure from my normal entries but it is something that has affected me profoundly over the last few weeks. It contains graphic images and may not be suitable for everyone.

Clowns and monsters.

The two most common fears of small children.

I suppose you could include Santa in that mix, come holiday time – if Liam’s reaction was typical of the average kid’s.

I always imagined the monsters to have fangs and talons and to come after you in the dark. My poor mother had to lay down with me to go to sleep for years and that was even with my Kermit the Frog nightlight.

It’s been a long time since the image of Frankenstein or Dracula invaded my R.E.M. sleep. But last night I woke up nearly screaming - twice.

It wasn’t the monsters of my childhood that were out to get me. It was something more sinister. Something that disturbed me more than I could imagine.

You see, yesterday was the beginning of the 1st degree murder trial of a man named Rodney Miller. He pleaded guilty to stabbing his infant son through the heart when his girlfriend threatened to commit suicide if he didn’t kill the baby.

The local radio stations carried synopses of his confession where he described how he killed the baby. He said he “stabbed the baby’s heart and felt him go limp in his arms and that’s how he knew he was dead.”

Just like that.

And just like that something inside me screamed. Something from my nightmares reached out and wrapped it’s cold hands around my spine. And I instinctively reached for my own infant.

I smelled her baby smell. I felt her warm weight in my arms. I felt her body next to my chest and I cried.

If these two didn’t want a baby why not just drop it off at a hospital? Why not call Social Services? Heck, why not just put it in a gym bag and leave it in the mall where someone would find it?

There are thousands of families in this country that would have taken that baby and loved him and raised him and adored him for their entire lives – so pretending there was no other option is ridiculous.

He should have handed his girlfriend a rope and told her to have a ball. Instead he did something that, I hope, haunts his dreams every night like it haunted mine tonight.

They were his parents! They were supposed to love him unconditionally! And if they couldn’t provide for him – they should have loved him at least enough to give him to someone who would.

I hope they rot! I hope they rot in the darkest, dankest part of the deepest dungeon that Corrections Canada can find until everyone that ever cared about them forgets them. Because that’s what they deserve.

That’s what all monsters deserve.

*This should have been published a few weeks ago. Like all mommies of infants I’m still running on baby time so things have been a little hit and miss – my apologies to my regular readers. I’d say it won’t happen again – but it probably will….

She’s radiant.

You can see the love in her face.

It’s her day! At last!

And here I am trying not to ruin it day by blowing snot out my nose laughing at the tongue-tied priest. He reminds me of the Bishop in the Princess Bride – the one that starts everything with “mawwiage”. He’s standing right in front of me. I just about lose it when he starts to drool.

Think. Think. Think. There has to be something to get my mind off of this!

My mind runs over the words I plan to say at the reception.

I’m going to have to introduce myself and explain how Jenn and I met. I think I’m the only bridesmaid that no one has met before.

How do I explain that we bonded over mispronounced French words without making us sound like a couple of hyenas?

I’ll just tell them about the military family. How we meet in the strangest places, under the weirdest circumstances and somehow make each other stronger when our “real” families can’t be there. I wonder if they’ll understand.

I wonder if they’ll understand how much this chick has meant to me, and my little family over the last 18 months or so.

I wonder if they’ll understand how much I leaned on her when Rick was in the desert and I was alone. How she was there every time I called or needed her. How she dropped everything on her baby’s first birthday because I was in the hospital with my boy when he bruised his liver and needed help managing Kate.

I look over towards Jenn and her groom. She’s glowing. I’m so happy for her.

She’s spent the last several months planning this day practically alone. I’ve been a voice at the other end of the phone – but really haven’t helped much. I feel guilty about that and have told her several times. She’s pooh poohed away my guilt – telling me she knows what life with a newborn is like and wants me standing there with her regardless of how much (or how little) I’ve helped.
I’m very fortunate to have a friend like her.

It’s got to be at least a hundred degrees in the church. My legs are soaked beneath the satin gown. Jenn has somehow managed not to wilt. I only hope I’m holding up half so well.

I glance at the priest again – he sweating through his over robes and still talking! My eyes are drawn to an enormous bead of sweat rolling down the tip of his nose. How is it he doesn’t feel that and wipe it away?

I need to tell them that this bride has the biggest heart. That she’s the most generous person I’ve met in a long time. That her strength and her friendship and her sense of humour have held me together more times than I can count. Will they understand?

We all step forward to witness the vows. I wait for Jenn to cry. She’s been waiting for Ryan to say these words to her for a long time. I’m crying for her. She manages to hold it together pretty well and get through it with just a bit of nervous laughter. I’m so proud of her.

I don’t remember walking back down the aisle with Stevie, the groomsman. I think I was channelling some of the euphoria the bride was feeling.

The rest of the day passes in a hot and sweaty and happy blur. I keep thinking that I should hide away to pump some breast milk before I explode but the opportunity never really presents itself. Thank goodness I’ve doubled up on the nursing pads.

I hear the speeches and Marjorie, another bridesmaid acting as the emcee, announces that the mic is open for anyone else to say a few words. This is my opportunity. I just need to get up and walk maybe 10 feet.

I don’t.

I’m not shy or anything. I’ve given speeches in front of strangers before. I have my notes. I even have a joke about the time Jenn asked the French teacher how to say jackass.

But I don’t get up.

I can’t.

I’ve managed to leak through my dress.

So I sit at the head table looking like the world’s sloppiest drinker – hopefully people will think that’s what it is.

And my words go unsaid.

Until now.

“I love you, Jenn. I am proud to be your friend. You’ve held me together for the last year and a half with gun tape and love and I am so thankful for everything you’ve done. Sometimes blood has nothing to do with family – and this is one of those times.

I wish you and Ryan and Angelena a lifetime of love and happiness, mixed with a little passion and craziness. And in fifty years I hope to be here with my new orthopaedic hip celebrating with you again.”

Jennifer Nemeth and Ryan MacArthur August 22nd 2009.

Dealing with more stupid

I’d forgotten the exhaustion that a new mother feels.

I’d forgotten about sore nipples, toxic poos, that sour milk smell, screaming gas fits and how one can fall so head over heels in love with such a little thing that nothing else much matters.

Emotionally I’m fine – as long as you consider being so exhausted your eyes go crossed every now and again fine.

Physically I’m still lagging. I know the birth was difficult. And the pregnancy was no treat – but I’m feeling horrible so I set out to let my doctor know.

To say I’m pale would be like saying Marilyn Manson is weird. I’m Casper the Ghost white. So my doctor decides to send me to get some blood work done. He suspects that I may be anaemic – no big stretch given the fact that I nearly bled to death a few weeks back.

Since the Emergency Room at the Oromocto Public Hospital is still not back up and running, my doctor suggests I bring the requisition there to get the blood drawn. They can’t be that busy with no ER – right?

So we drive to the OPH. Plenty of parking right outside the front door – there’s no emergency room – this will be easy peasy – in, out and home before supper.

Or so I thought.

The entire first floor is deserted. I get right into the lab area before I find a soul. He looks at me like I’m a member of an alien race. He stammers as if he’s forgotten how to talk to a patient.

“Y-y-y-ou’ll have to check in at reception,” he finally manages to get out.

“The deserted reception that I just walked through?” I ask – apparently lack of sleep has made me bitchier than normal.

“Y-y-y-es.” he replies.

Apparently he’s too busy playing pocket pool to simply take the requisition and draw the freaking blood, either that or the computer terminal six inches to the right of his left hand isn’t working. But I’ll follow his little power trip. And back out the hall I go.

Lo and behold there’s a chick in the corner. She’s removing staples from a pile of letters – my tax dollars at work.

I explain to her that I was sent there by my doctor and pass her the blood work requisition form.
She does a good imitation of stuttering Sam from the Lab and looks at me like I just grew another head.

“We don’t draw blood after 3:30,” she tells me in a tone that most people normally reserve for misbehaving children or the mentally challenged.

Okay – let’s dance I think.

“Since when?” I ask. Knowing full well that it must be only since the emergency room has been closed.

She rolls her eyes and repeats herself. I don’t think she even realizes how close she’s skating to danger at this point.

I look at the clock – it’s barely 3:40, and feel my blood boil just a little bit hotter.

“I can keep the letter here and have scheduling set up an appointment time for the lab work,” she says. I’m looking at the floor so I don’t reach across the desk and snap her neck but I can hear the eyes rolling in her voice.

“And when can I expect an appointment,” I ask.

“Probably next week sometime.” She sounds like a petulant teenager and I’m in no mood.

“I’m sure my doctor meant for me to get this done today or tomorrow at the latest,” I offer.

“Well he didn’t write STAT anywhere on it,” and fires me a look like I’m six.

“I’m sure doctors routinely order blood work for their patients for which they don’t want the results.” I fire back.

“And since you’re all so busy here I’m sure the hospital in Fredericton will be happy to fit me in and I’ll be sure to let them and all my friends and family know how wonderful the customer service is at the OPH.”

I hate stupid people, I’m sure I’ve mentioned that before, and this near recipient of a Darwin Award is lucky that I’m exhausted enough to not want to get an administrator involved.

If this is any indication of the services in Oromocto I think we’re all going to have to get used to driving to Fredericton because there’s no way the government can justify keeping open a lab that can’t manage to draw blood halfway through the afternoon.

Peace at the Beginning of a New Day

I suppose I should put a disclaimer at the top of this one – something to the effect of this entry may contain graphic content and is not suitable for young readers, squeamish men or any women on the fence about ever having a baby…

It’s been quite the ride.

For the last several anti-natal visits my blood pressure has been in orbit. Each time they send me over to Labour and Delivery, they take blood and urine – I lie there for a few hours and they send me home. It’s to the point I’m about to just bring in the blood and pee and lie down in the waiting room to get things over with.

But on Friday July 3rd, things didn’t go according to the status quo.

Oh, I got to the clinic. They took my blood pressure – and it was up – shocker. So they sent me out to L&D. Unlike the last dozen times though the doctor actually spoke to my own doctor and then took the time to speak to me.

“You’re blood pressure is high. I think we’re going to admit you for a few days,” she said.

Okay – so we’ve got a plan for this. Rick stays and gets me settled and then takes the kids home. He’ll bring my bag later, after all – it’s basically a spa day – right?

Wrong.

A nurse comes into my room.

“The doctor is coming down in a bit to give you the gel. She may even break your water.”

I wonder if she’s got the right room.

Rick walks in just as the nurse leaves. He’s left Liam with Dani and Holden. It’s just him and Kate to drop off my stuff. And I tell him what’s happening.

He shoots me a look that would shrivel grapes. As if I had the ability to stop this particular freight train.

We call our friend and tell her what’s happening. She’s on her way to pick up Kate. Rick is going to stay with me. She’ll watch the kids until Rick gets home. I’ve said it a dozen times – I’ve got the best friends.

The doctor doesn’t break my water. But the gel is doing its job. Just a few hours later Rick is snoring and I’m in labour. The nurse comes in hourly to check my blood pressure. It’s still climbing so they’re going to try another drug.

By morning the second drug seems to have slowed down the labour pains (it’s a side effect apparently) and we’re waiting for a bed to open up in labour and delivery. Rick is pacing like a caged tiger.

Just after two we head to the delivery room. Nausea has set in from my short walk up the hallway.

“Perfectly normal considering your blood pressure, says Nurse Andrea as she hands me a bowl. “Puke in there if you need to.”

Like I said before – the doors to labour and delivery should read: Leave all dignity in the hallway.

The doctor comes and adds more gel. My head throbs. Contractions resume.

Jenn comes to check on us. Her hands are cool on my head. Only a fellow migraine sufferer knows how to work this particular magic. She’s decided that after she runs a few more errands she’s coming back to stay with us.

At 1630 Nurse Andrea checks my progress.

“Three centimetres dilated, let’s get you over on your side for comfort.”

Why is it that the solution they always present to the labouring woman is to get over on your side? The beds are so narrow that it’s like moving a beached whale.

I’m on my side for what seems like only seconds. Rick is talking to me and I feel a warm gush.

“O hell, my water just broke,” I tell Nurse Andrea.

“Really?” She says and moves to check.

I fight the urge to say, “No – I just made it up so you’d have to look up my stuff” but a huge contraction stops my sarcasm well short of me actually vocalizing it.

“Let’s get you over on your back,” she says.

Easier said than done as white hot pain racks my body. Rick helps me to roll and move.

“The head is right there. I’ll get the doctor.”

I puff and blow through the pain.

The doctor comes in, takes two seconds, and says, “Get the cart.”

Nurse Andrea’s hand is holding the baby’s head as the cart is being wheeled in.

My body launches the baby into the world as if it were a t-shirt cannon. The doctor catches her like a football. I haven’t pushed. But she’s here and I look at Rick and actually say the words. “Liv is here.” He’s only half paying attention his eyes are fixed on the baby.

I feel the world slip sideways.

I’m bleeding heavily. The nurse tells me that because labour was so fast it’s even more traumatic on the body – no shit Sherlock – tell me something I don’t know.

Nurse Andrea from Hell is pushing on my abdomen and I feel like every fluid in the world is gushing from my insides.

I send Rick to count Olivia’s fingers and toes. My words sound mushy even to me – but he understands me and does as I ask.

Jenn arrives just as the Nurse Andrea is attempting to get me to the washroom to see if the blood will stop. It doesn’t. And the world starts to grey around me.

Rick is holding the IV bags and can’t quite catch me before I go down. The bathroom floor is cool and I remember thinking I’ll just sleep here for awhile.

The whole room looks like Freddy Kruger and Psycho have had it out one last time and invited Jason for good measure.

The baby has been whisked off to the NICU. She’s tiny. Weighing in at only 4 lbs 14 oz. She’s breathing on her own though – so maybe it’s not going to be so bad.

I’m worried about her. Rick looks torn – he wants to go with her – he’s afraid to leave me.

Jenn is back. She’s missed the festivities, but she’s here to witness the carnage left behind and, God love her, she doesn’t blink.

I send them both to check on my wee girl.

The nurse gives me drugs to stem the blood flow. I can’t remember all the meds I’ve been fed in the last hour. This isn’t anything like the deliveries of my other two. Then again the pregnancies weren’t the same either so maybe it’s fitting that a pregnancy fraught with issues ends with a delivery that isn’t exactly something you’d want to see on W.

In the end I got my prize.

She’s tiny but perfect.

Her name has been chosen for months – Olivia Dawn – it means “peace at the beginning of a new day”. Fitting, I think, given everything we’ve gone through this last year. Rick has decided to call her Olly for short – mostly because it annoys me.

Olivia Dawn Reid born at Dr Everett Chalmers Hospital at 1645 on July 4th, 2009. Weighing just 4lb 14oz and measuring 18.5 inches long.

Sometimes the best things come in small packages.

Let the lava flow

Let me start this entry by saying that I’ve always been proud that Canada has a “free” universal health care system for all of its citizens. I know there are longer wait times and other issues but basically it’s an amazing thing that anyone who is ill or injured is treated the same.

In case you’ve missed a few entries – this pregnancy hasn’t exactly been textbook easy.

First of all I’m 35 – apparently that’s the magic number for all the “bad stuff” to happen so to begin with I was tested for everything from Scurvy to the baby having Downs Syndrome (both are negative by the way).

Then at 23 weeks my cervix was shortening – hence being benched and Rick coming home early from the sandbox.

That apparently decided to reverse itself just in time for intra-uterine growth restriction – a fancy way to say that the little miss isn’t getting all she needs from the placenta and is grossly undersized.

So in response to all this I go to the doctor at least three times per week. Twice for bio-physicals where I get an ultrasound and they take a stress strip of the baby’s heart and movements and once to my OB/GYN for all the other stuff. Amongst all of this I also see the OB specialist for a “special” ultrasound where the baby is measured etc.

So yesterday I’m at one of the anti-natal bio-physicals and they take my blood pressure. I sort of figured it was up a bit because I haven’t seen my ankles in weeks and I woke up with a puffy face. My BP was 150/100 – not a good sign. The nurse waited a few more minutes and took it again – it was 157-107 – wonderful.

So off to Labour and Delivery I was sent for blood work and urinalysis. Instead of inducing me – they decided to give me blood pressure medication. The twit who gave it to me tested my blood pressure twice within a 10-minute window – it was, after all just a few minutes before shift change. The BP was going down I was allowed to leave with a prescription to take at home.

The last thing I was told was (and I quote) – “If you are feeling any headaches, flashing lights, upper abdominal pain – make sure you call L&D and come in to be checked out.”

So off we went. They told me to expect some light-headedness as the BP was dropping and until it levelled off I’d feel “strange”. And I did.

But around 8 PM I started to get a headache.

I’m a migraine sufferer – so when I say I’ve got a headache – it doesn’t mean I’ve got a little discomfort. It means “Dear God take me now”.

Tylenol – the only crap I’m allowed to take – doesn’t touch it. Lying down in a dark room with a facecloth over my eyes just makes me want to cry. So after an hour or so I call L&D – following orders like a good patient.

The nurse, Lynn, tells me to take more Tylenol and to have a hot bath. “The damp weather could cause some people to have headaches.”

It’s been raining for 8 days straight at this point – it’s not like the barometric pressure is going up and down – I feel like crying and reaching through the phone to choke the life out of nurse Lynn.

So I take the bath – it makes me nauseous. I take more Tylenol and lie down. When Rick climbs the stairs I’m crying from the pain. I beg him for one of my migraine pills and he relents and gives it to me. These knock me out and I wake up without the migraine – usually.

This time – I wake up and am thinking what I can use to hang myself. The pain is horrible.

Rick is pissed that I haven’t called L&D again.

Both my OB and the specialist OB have told me time and again – that I should go to L&D and that I’m not bothering anyone by doing so – they understand what kind of a person I am and that I’d rather die in a corner than bother someone. But they didn’t hear Nurse Lynn. And in all honesty I’d rather the top of my head blew like Mount Vesuvius before I called her back.

That and I’m afraid that even at 9 months pregnant I’d find the energy to kick the crap out of her and the Resident Dr. MacDonald who despite having my chart in front of him – having several conversations with me and, I thought, was smarter than a brick – told me to take a freaking bath! I’m not so much into giving birth in jail.

So I’m here. Wearing sunglasses on a rainy morning inside so I can look at the monitor. Needing to get this frustration off of my chest before I actually pick up the phone to call Labour and Delivery to tell them that my “little headache” has now been 14 hours long I’ve taken the blessed bath and lay down in the dark and can I please come in to have someone take a whole two GD minutes out of their shift to press a button on an automatic BP machine to check my freaking blood pressure…

I don’t think it’s so much to ask.

I keep thinking about my friend who told me what the acronym for our local hospital DECH (Dr. Everet Chalmers Hospital) really stands for – Don’t Ever Come Here. After the last 24 hours - I think she’s right.

Biting my ninja tongue

I’m still waiting to glow.

Not grow – I’m doing plenty of that. Today when I looked in the mirror I looked like I was smuggling a beach ball. Sigh.

I’ve gotten two good reports in a row from the doctors and you’d think that I’d be dancing in the streets. But somehow I can’t stop walking on eggshells. Every twinge and movement is analyzed, every feeling examined and categorized I feel like some sort of alien scientist – I half expect the little grey men from Area 51 to show up and assist.

I’m reading “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” like it’s the key to the universe. This weeks’ message is to expect increased scatterbrained activities. And to prove it – I’ve managed to misplace my ankles – right on cue.

My feet are so swollen that I have one pair of shoes I can wear and my toes look like mini Vienna Sausages.

Remind me again who said pregnant women are beautiful?

Because I feel like a hippo, look like a manatee and waddle like a duck. Proof that God has a sick sense of humour.

Maybe it’s a “nature” thing. Make the increasingly pregnant woman so repulsive that no other mammal will come near thing. The natural defences of a pregnant human female, on display for everyone to see. Only it doesn’t quite work that way does it?

Apparently the physical appearance of a woman in the advanced stages of pregnancy is an open invitation for anyone over the age of 50 to walk up and start talking, and/or touching the increasing baby bump.

I’ve gotten advice, unsolicited advice, from complete strangers on how to avoid tearing in labour and delivery. Apparently the sight of a woman in her eighth month is license to throw out all social rules and jump right to talking about the female genitalia.

And then there’s the twenty-year-old that has the same appointment schedule with the OB who tells me all about childbirth and newborns every time we’re sitting in the waiting room. I’m almost thirty-six years old – I’ve brought one or both my kids to more appointments than I can count and she thinks this is my first dog and pony show…maybe there’s something to that scatterbrained thing after all.

Only a few more weeks – I can do a few more weeks – right? I just have to keep biting my tongue, reminding myself not to go ninja on the old touchy feely folks and to nod and smile at the chick in the OB’s office all the while swelling and aching and waddling my way to the dignity-devoid space of the delivery room.

I can do that…I just need a lobotomy and a couple of good stiff drinks to get me there.

Spinning

Four A.M.

What the heck am I doing up at four in the freaking morning?

Counting baby movements – what else?

The gerbil wheel in my head has been spinning again. Somehow I’ve got a morose feeling of dread. Like something isn’t right but I just can’t put my finger on it.

I get to the required six movements. They’re weak, so I head to the washroom and when I get back I start counting again.

I still can’t shake the idea that something is wrong.

Maybe I should call Labour and Delivery and speak to a nurse. And say what? – I woke up for no apparent reason and I can’t relax?

Besides – I don’t want to be a bother. Don’t ask where that comes from, it’s either a Newfie thing or a woman thing.

“No, no – you see to the others first I’ll just crawl over into this corner and die – when you get around to me let me know.” It’s almost laughable how we women are.

I’ve got an appointment with the OB in the afternoon. As long as there’s no pain or bleeding and as long as I can feel her moving I’ll stick to the schedule.

There’s no real “emergency”. I’m basically okay. I’m just channelling something. Picking up on the energy of the universe, as it were.

The alarm goes off and I hear the terrible news out of Brazil – an airliner carrying 220 passengers has disappeared. It makes my worries seem insignificant in contrast. Well, almost insignificant.

Kate is not going on the bus today. She was sent home every day last week after an episode each morning, which resulted in her being too weak to walk or stand on her own.

The neurologist is out of town – surprise, surprise. So in desperation the school, Rick and I decided that she would sleep until she woke up on her own and we’d drive her in to see if we could circumvent the issue by giving her more rest and less excitement (she adores the bus) first thing in the morning.

She’s happy enough to leave the house every day – but by the time she gets to school she’s, well for lack of a better word, she’s screwed up.

As she heads out the door with Rick I hear her chattering away at him – the one word she’s retained over the years is “daddy” and she uses it with him like a magpie. It means anything and everything you could imagine. And she’s excited so all I hear is a retreating echo of “daddy, daddy, daddy” until they reach the car.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion of the last week, maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones or maybe some combination of the three but I can feel the tears start to prick the backs of my eyes.

I’m trying my best. I really am. I just don’t know if it’s good enough.

Three pounds

Three pounds.

I’ve been trying to wrap my head around how small that really is.

Three bricks of Eversweet butter for my Newfie friends. Just better than a bag of sugar for you mainlanders.

But how small of a person would that be?

Kate was 4 lbs 7 oz when she made her entrance into the world. And, as awful as this is to admit, I thought she looked like a rat. Yes, yes – I was passed over for the annual mother of the year award – hard to believe isn’t it?

What would a person a whole pound less than that look like?

I’ve looked it up online – but pictures don’t seem to have the “compare and contrast” feature that I’m looking for. They’ve got these wee little beings in a glass box and it’s not like they’ve put in a standard ruler or something to compare them to. So I’m left wondering.

I know it’s small.

Heck, Kate was smaller than a baby doll and her first diapers were about the size of a folded Kleenex. When she cried it sounded like a kitten. But she was positively gigantic compared to her baby sister.

But how much smaller will her baby sister be?

And before you pull a husband and say – it’s a pound smaller, Louise. Imagine a sharp kick to the shin and let’s move on.

It looks like we’re going to find out just what someone that small looks like.

The probability of her going to term has been removed from the realm of all possibility. The absolute furthest we’re going is another four weeks and the OB guesses that it’ll be closer to two.

The fluid is low, still in the “normal” range – but at the lower end. So now I’m going to be visiting the hospital twice a week for ultrasounds and God know what other tests.

My blood pressure is up. If you’ve met me – you know how sarcastic I am so you can imagine my reaction when the nurse looked at me and said, “Oh, your blood pressure is up,” like it was the strangest thing in the universe.

It’s a miracle the top of my head didn’t completely blow off. But I managed to stay perfectly calm and say – “well it’s been a rough week”, all while fighting the urge to smack the stupid right out of her head. I should be nominated for an Academy Award.

I’m trying to stay calm. I’m fighting to stay positive. I’m willing her to grow and be healthy. I’m praying that’s she’s safe. I’m struggling to be strong. I’m hoping for a miracle. But mostly I’m scared to death.

Scared that she’s not really safer in than out. Scared that she’ll have to spend extensive time in the NICU. Scared that she’ll not be strong like Kate. Scared that she’ll be too much like Kate. The list is endless.

I wish I had something to distract me, something to engage my brain so I can stop the gerbil wheel from spinning out of control. Because, at the moment, I feel the world trying to slip sideways on me and I can’t for the life of me seem to stop it.

Please?

Sleep has eluded me.

I’ve lain here since before midnight listening to the night time sounds of the house around me and to the frogs serenading the stars.

Then around 4 AM nature changes the music and I listen to the bird symphony to the dawn until the sun comes up and watch as the light in the house changes from blue, to purple, to daylight.

I can’t sleep. The cacophony of thoughts that are going through my mind won’t even quiet down – let alone fall silent. I’m lying here because the least I can do is to rest my body. I’ve given up on trying to sleep. Instead my mind replays the day before.

It started wonderfully. Liam had crawled into bed with me sometime before the sun came up. Something about the warm weight of a sleeping child is so comforting. We cuddled long after the alarm went off and Rick got Katie off to school. Then Rick came up and crawled in with us too. It doesn’t happen often.

You could tell Liam was pleased with the cuddling attention of both parents and that started the day off just right.

I was scheduled for my final internal ultrasound – yippee! I hate them. More than you can imagine. So for this to be the last one – I was stoked.

Sunshine, and warm temperatures, and driving with the windows down – how could things be better?

The waiting room wait was longer than we anticipated but a volunteer brought in some old Readers Digests and Rick and I read the jokes to each other to pass the time. By the time we were called into the room we were teasing each other. And when I had to undress from the waist down for the internal he told me he’d give me five bucks if I kept going and that set us off on another set of giggles.

They were short lived though.

The ultrasound showed that although the baby has grown, she now weighs about 2 lbs and 14 oz, and her length and head circumference have all improved her abdominal measurement is less.

According to the doctor this means that, for whatever reason, she’s not getting what she needs from the placenta and her little body is taking “food” from the fat stores around her organs, like her liver.

There’s nothing they can give me. There’s nothing they can do to improve the transfer of “food” via the placenta to the baby. All they can do is watch and wait and when it’s determined that she’s safer out than in – they’ll take her. I’m only 30 weeks. She’s not yet 3 lbs. I want to be sick.

The doctor accompanies us down to Labour and Delivery. She wants the “non-invasive” stress test done – it’s the external monitoring of the baby’s heart and movements by a machine via leads tied to my belly. While I’m there getting set up she comes in and tells me that she’s ordered steroid shots to be administered to me to mature the baby’s lungs faster.

I feel my heart sink even lower, if possible.

She had told me way back at week 23 that there were things that could be done to improve a preemie’s chance at survival and that one of them were the steroid shots. But they’re best administered only a week or two before the baby’s arrival. This is May – she’s not due until the end of July!

My face has always been easily read and Rick immediately starts the stand up comedy routine. He knows me too well. Knows that I’m freaking out. His attentions distract me for a short time.

I’ve got to return tomorrow for another shot. I’ll be having ultrasounds at least weekly to measure the baby. I can feel myself coming unglued. This can’t be happening.

She’s my prize. She’s my prize for enduring what I have endured this last year and a half. She’s got to be okay. Please, someone tell me she’s going to be okay…

Can I borrow a cup of patience?

Well. Here it is.

Rick’s first day back to work.

Remember how I was sort of looking forward to it?

I may have overestimated my feelings.

Oh – it’s nice to have a silent house. And I’ve always loved a man in uniform so watching him get dressed was a treat.

But now what?

Seriously…

I’m not allowed to do anything – well much of anything anyways.

I’d like to get out and clean the windows outside the house they’re filthy and getting on my nerves. But I can’t carry the bucket and reaching, even with the squeegee, is not allowed.

I’d like to strip the beds and get the linens out on the clothesline – it’s a fine day on clothes. But I can’t carry laundry or reach to the clothesline.

My garden is crying out for some love – but again the bending reaching thing is out of bounds.

If I were a girly girl I’d paint my toenails and fingernails to be all ready for the sandal season. But I’m not and I seem to have misplaced my one and only bottle of polish. Plus I can’t imagine painting my toes with this belly.

Sigh. Blah! Grr, and a few other onomatopoetic sounds.

I know a healthy baby is going to be worth all of this confinement. I know that the very second I hear her cry and see her face I’ll have forgotten all about these feelings of irritation. I know all of this – but as I’ve often said – you can’t control the way you feel. And today I’m – well I don’t know what I am – but the contented definitely isn’t it.

How is it possible that some women survive being completely on bed rest for the majority of their pregnancies? They’ve obviously got more patience than I do.

If I don’t figure something out soon you’re going to be reading about some crazy pregnant lady whose head exploded.

How long until the kids get home?

What they don't tell you...

The boys from Rick’s crew are out of the sandbox.

They’re safely ensconced at a resort in Cyprus for “decompression” time and for the first time since he got home Rick is not logging onto the computer several times a day to check on them.

I think it’s a relief for him.

I feel that it’s a relief for him. He’s more relaxed.

We’re getting to the end of his leave period. Work will accommodate him to be here to get the kids off on the bus and to be here when they get home – but I’m soon back to spending the bulk of my days alone.

Believe it or not – I’m sort of looking forward to it.

Not that he hasn’t been wonderful - he’s been beyond wonderful. I haven’t had to worry about anything since he stepped foot in the house. But after a year (once you count work up time) of being in charge – sometimes letting go isn’t easy.

It’s, maybe, a good thing that I’m so restricted in what I’m allowed to do. He likes to be “in charge” and loves to have things his “way”. I do too. So it’s a fight looking for a place to happen. Fortunately our little ‘bun in the oven’ is playing the peacemaker for the time being and hopefully he’ll tire of being the one in charge by the time she makes her appearance.

They don’t tell you in the deployment briefings that you’ll have to get “used” to sleeping with your husband again. After months of just me and the kids, I’ve suddenly got this giant man in my bed. And somehow I’d forgotten just how loud that man snores.

Add that to the growing belly and pregnancy aches and pains and I’m pretty much playing musical beds all night long. Some nights I feel like Goldilocks looking for the perfect place to sleep. Typically I find it about five minutes before I have to go to the bathroom – again!

I know what you’re thinking. I’m such an ingrate. I’ve spent the last seven months hoping, wishing, praying and waiting for my man to get home. Now I’m complaining about it.

Sigh. Patience doesn’t seem to be a virtue that women in their third trimester are blessed with in abundance. At least this one isn’t. Thank goodness for a man that understands that.

Pedro's visit

So I’m sitting updating my blog and Liam comes running into the room.

“Mom, you’ve got to come. Pedro is here!”

I don’t know a Pedro. So I call him back.

“Who’s here?” I ask.

“Pedro,” he says again.

“Honey I don’t know any Pedro.” I try to explain.

“No not Pedro,” he grins. “Padre.”

The padre is here? Why?

I save my work and head to the kitchen thinking Liam is mistaken. Nope – he’s not mistaken. Sitting at the head of my table is Padre Levy, o he of the scary phone call, himself.

I’m at a loss.

I’m polite. We are Newfoundlanders after all – we’re nice if it kills us.

Small talk at its most strained is how I’d describe the visit.

He stays for about an hour. Asking questions about how I’m doing physically, about the plan if the baby comes early, about support. I respond in all the appropriate places, feeling rather like Alice when she fell down the rabbit hole.

As he departs I discover just how this visit could have been.

Apparently the Padre didn’t know that Rick was home. He just decided to “drop in.”

Now I’m all for visitors – another by-product of our heritage. A houseful of people is always welcome.

But what if Rick was still in Afghanistan?

How would his parents and I have reacted to see a Padre drive into the yard and get out of the vehicle?

Thank God he was here already.

Settling in

*I want to thank everyone for their kind words of encouragement and support. A few people commented on the blog itself, many more e-mailed or sent messages on Facebook.

One particular friend, whose opinion I have respected for a very long time, gave me this piece of advice: “Write until you know your life is back to as normal as any life gets. You will know when. Peace and contentment will find you both eventually, and when it does, you will be done.”

As sound a piece of advice as was ever given. And one I’m going to follow.

Happy reading.

– Louise


Realization has started to set in.

He’s really home.

Once the initial elation over seeing him sort of dissipated I began to feel guilty. Guilty for being the reason that he ultimately came home earlier than planned.

Now I know that I can’t control what’s happening with this pregnancy. I know I’ve done my best – but somehow I just can’t shake the feeling that I’ve intruded.

I’m hoping it’s my imagination. I’m reasonably sure it is. But after this long we both know that my emotions don’t always respond to reason.

I mentioned it to him a few days after he got home. He basically told me I was crazy. His way of changing the subject.

He’s been amazing.

His parents have been amazing.

Things that languished on the “honey-do” list for years have been done. It’s like the Energizer Bunny got a jolt of Red Bull.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m really enjoying the fact that stuff is getting done, but, given the fact that I can’t help – I’m feeling a little like a third wheel.

I’ve been told my only job for the next however long is to grow this baby. Every week matters. And the closer we get to her due date – the safer things will be – for both of us.

So for the time being I’ll lie here. Watch him go from soldier to Superdad in one feel swoop and pray for the patience to stand back and let it happen.

Sometimes there aren't any words

Liam all ready to greet his Dad
Kate hates airports but knew something was up.

Rick's parents Levi and Jean

Danielle

Our first glimpse as he got off the place - Kate lost her mind and the security came to see what was happening.

Liam reaches his Daddy first

I think Kate's face says it all.

Kate dancing for joy.

I don't think there's a happier family in Oromocto at this point.

I actually wrote this blog about 20 times before I realized that I just don't have the words. Sometimes pictures are much better.

Day 221

*So this is the end of the deployment for us. Not the way we expected it to end.

No less happy that he's home though.

I've been debating whether or not to continue to write the blog or fade to black like The Sopranos.

I don't stop being a military spouse because he's not deployed.

I tell you what.....I'll leave it up to you. If you don't feel comfortable messaging me on the blog itself you can contact me on Facebook or at mlbuchanan@hotmail.com

Thanks for being there for me and listening when I needed you.

Louise

Sleepless in New Brunswick

He’ll be here tomorrow.

Well, technically it’s today. After all it is 3:00 AM.

When he said that things would happen quickly once the Cobra Commander signed off he really wasn’t kidding.

I got a quick call from the sandbox telling me that he was flying out of Kandahar in the next few hours and that he would call me from “the place that should not be mentioned.”

He didn’t have an itinerary or any other information other than he would know something once he landed in the “place.”

He’s been very conscious of the time difference throughout this entire tour. Other wives talk about being awakened in the wee morning hours by their hubbies. Mine knows that I’m not a morning person and has arranged his schedule to work with mine.

So, when I ask him to call me from “there” he makes sure to double check, as he knows it’ll be late.

“Honey – I’ll wake you up,” he warns.

“Don’t care,” I respond.

He could probably call every half hour between now and when I get to see him and I wouldn’t care. Sleep won’t be easy anyways. I’m too excited.

He’s excited, too. I can hear it in his voice. I can also hear him worry. He’s not good at hiding emotions.

We talk for a few more minutes then he’s off to shower and get ready before the flight out of KAF.

I’m practically doing the happy dance as I tell his mom that he’s on the move.

At 0200 when the phone rings I’m racing to get it. I’ve awoken every night for nearly eight months to an imaginary phone ringing. So the first ring doesn’t make me hit the floor running until the cobwebs clear and I remember our conversation from earlier.

“Rick?” I answer the phone.

“Well I better be the only man calling you at this hour of the night,” he responds.

I giggle in response.

“How do you feel about picking me up at the airport tomorrow at 1930?” He asks.
“Really?” Knowing full well that I’m being stupid.

Airport. Tomorrow. 1930. Rick. Airport. Tomorrow. 1930. Rick.

Sounds like a beautiful Gregorian chant at this point.

He’s tired and is heading for some rest before he gets the first leg of his journey to Frankfurt, Germany. From Frankfurt he’ll fly to Montreal; from Montreal to Halifax and then from Halifax to Fredericton. It’s a little bit of a milk run that has him flying over our house twice. He jokes that he’ll ask for a chute.

“I’ll catch you, baby,” I joke.

“Just pick me up and I’ll be happy.” And with that my late night phone call is done.

I’m too excited to sleep. I’m too excited to breathe.

I wonder how angry my friends would be if I called them now?

Hmmm – maybe I’ll wait until the sun comes up….

Day 220

Sometimes you should let it go to voicemail

So I’m following the doctors’ orders.

Yes doctors plural.

Each of them has said the same thing. No lifting, pushing, pulling, or carrying. No sitting for extended periods. No standing for extended periods. Basically it’s important to just lay here and grow this baby.

So I’m sitting in Archie Bunker’s chair AKA the leather recliner and the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Reid? This is Padre Levy.”

I hear the thunk as my heart hits the floor and rolls into the dusty world of Undercouch.

Padres only contact you if you ask them to or if your man is injured or worse. The “or worse” part is done in uniform in person – I hope.

“Y-yes?” I manage to stammer.

“I need to speak with you – is it okay if I call you in a few minutes?”

“Sure,” I respond. And he hangs up.

I’ve heard horror stories of padres calling the houses of spouses just to see if they’re home before making the drive out into the country to tell them the worst news. I don’t exactly live in town.

I start to shake.

He’s supposed to be coming home. He’s supposed to be coming home. Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this. The “prayer” spins and repeats in my head.

A full ten minutes later and the phone rings again. A cat in a room full of rocking chairs wouldn’t be as jumpy. I force myself to let it ring a second time before answering it.

Another thud from Undercouch.

“Mrs Reid – Padre Levy again.”

I usually have no problem being heard – I’m definitely not the shy retiring type – but my voice has been reduced to little-girl-on-stage-in-an-auditorium-full-of-people status.

“Is Rick okay?” I ask. Might as well get to the point before I have a stroke.

“I was just talking with the Major and wanted to call and check on you,” he responds.

I can feel the sarcasm/anger/relief/disbelief bubble to the forefront of my mind. Thank goodness my brain-mouth filter is in place or the Padre would have had his kneecaps removed at fifty paces by my sharp tongue.

I want to scream – How dare you call and frighten me to death? How dare you stress me out further? You just made me think that something had happened to my husband – do you even realize what you just did?

All of these thoughts are right there – if I stuck out my tongue you could read them on the tip. Only for the grace of God I don’t let them fly.

I answer the Padre’s questions about my health. Somehow I get the feeling that they’re sort-of confirming what Rick has informed them about.

I suppose I should be grateful. Most employers would have asked for a form in triplicate before you’d get an hour to go to an appointment. The Army is pulling him based purely on what he’s told them. But after the fright I’ve been given – I’m not feeling that charitable.

My answers are short and to the point. Trite, I believe, would be the accurate term. I thank him for calling and hang up.

I’m like a leaf. Trembling and shaking like a tornado just blew through.

I race for the washroom and dry heave until the tears come.

Rick – I need you.

Day 218

The cavalry arrives

No news from the desert.

He’s called twice. But there’s no answer from Cobra Commander.

His kit is packed and he’s waiting for the word to move but so far silence from HQ.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt this tired or in pain. Rick tells me to rest and I remind him that Kate doesn’t go to school on Saturdays.

“Just do your best to take it easy, Baby,” he says.

Easier said than done with they dynamic duo.

I shouldn’t say that. They’ve actually been pretty good – all things considered. He’s not going to be seven for a few more weeks and she’s Autistic. All in all – I have to be grateful of their actions of late.

Liam’s teacher called yesterday – he’s swearing in school. Every time I try to talk to him about it he puts his head down and cries. He’s feeling the stress. He has to be. He’s been my shadow since his dad left and he’s worried about seeing me this distressed.

Rick’s parents will be here tonight. They called at noon. The ferry was anchored offshore waiting for another ferry to get out of the harbour before they could dock. Thick pack ice made the going slow.

They’re just a few hours away by suppertime. I look around at the shambles that is my house and wish for the energy to tidy it up. I just don’t have it. They’ll forgive me – I hope.

The sun is setting. Kate lets out the shrillest squeal I’ve heard in awhile. Liam jumps over to the window.

“They’re here!” he yells and runs for the door.

The madness that is our dogs and kids spill from the door. All I can do is stand there and fight back tears. I’m not alone.

More madness as everyone piles back into the house. Everyone is talking at once and through the cacophony that is a Newfoundland reunion I feel peace – my own thoughts have stopped spinning.

I hadn’t realized until that moment how “on” I was. It was like someone pressed the mute button and the lack of screaming worry in my head was almost deafening.

Rick’s mom looks at me with tears in her eyes. Her stress is visible on her face. I’m sure in her mind things were far worse than the reality – and the reality is bad enough.

If I can’t have my own mom I’ve got the next best thing.

Day 217

Holding on for one more day

I feel like a truck hit me.

The stress of this last week, combined with being on the go too much for Kate’s appointments has zapped my energy reserves.

I’m usually a roll-off-the-back; who-gives-a-crap; laid-back type of person. Today – well today everything is irritating.

Rick calls from the desert.

“My chain of command has approved me to come home for compassionate reasons. But I’m waiting for the Task Force Commander to approve me to bypass the decompression in Cyprus,” he tells me.

“What’s the hold up?” I respond. Since, like every logical human being in the world, it seems like a formality – a rubber stamp sort of decision.

I’ve been a military wife long enough to know that there are standard turn around times for almost everything and I ask what the standard time is for the Cobra Commander to stamp a piece of paper.

“I don’t know, Baby,” he replies. “But I’ve been told to get everything ready because when it happens everything is going to happen fast.”

A wave of nausea washes over me and I think “it can’t come fast enough – hold on kid.”

My in-laws are crossing on the ferry tonight. We’re hoping that ice in the gulf doesn’t slow them down too badly. Back up has been mobilized – I’ve just got to hold down the fort until they get here.

I speak to my friend Deb on the phone. Through sobs and tears I explain what’s going on. She’s never heard me cry on the phone either and I can hear in her voice that it’s upsetting her.

Jenn calls and hears my exhaustion. She’s at my door in less than 10 minutes bearing junk and treats and a special angel for me. I have to say – sometimes the best friends are the ones who arrive with empty calories and open arms. My eyes must look like hell – I think I’ve invented a new shade of red.

I’m irritated by the state of my house. Jenn threatens to kick my ass if I dare touch anything. That sets us off howling like hyenas. The laughter is just the release I needed. The kids are grateful for a sane grown up in the house and both of them cuddle up with her on the couch.

I really do have the best friends. Terri-Lynn has called a dozen times. She’s ready to pack up her kids and move in until my in-laws get here. I assure her that I’ll be okay for one more night.

A couple of years ago I didn’t have these ladies in my life. And now – I can’t imagine living without them. They’re my safety net. If anything happens before family can get here I know my kids will be safe – that’s a huge comfort considering all that’s been happening lately.

Sometimes family has nothing to do with blood.

Day 216

The MRI

Morning comes too soon. Eyes feel like they’re encased in fibreglass.

The regiment is sending one of the boys to drive Kate and I down to Saint John for her MRI. They’ve sent Tim, a family friend and I am grateful for his presence in the pre-dawn hours.

Kate gets checked in at Day Surgery. Her test has to be performed under complete anaesthesia; she wouldn’t stay still for the procedure without it.

She’s beaming as she’s wheeled to the imaging department. The Anaesthesiologist meets us at the door it’s not the one we were hoping for. The last one was Dr. Lee this one is a man. He briefly discusses knockout strategies with me before he decides to gas her then put her completely under.

She’s had a hard couple of weeks medically and I’m sure she remembers the lab tech from hell, who broke off a couple of needles in her arm a few weeks ago. It takes no less than four burly orderlies to hold her down.

I watch, feeling like I’m in some sort of fun house horror movie where the image you’re looking at moves away at a rapid speed. She’s fighting them off. And I discover I do have more tears.

“Oh boy,” I sigh, as they fall down my face.

The procedure will take at least an hour. Tim and I head to get coffee.

I’m not supposed to sit or stand for long periods of time. One rule broken. I don’t have a choice. She’s my babe too.

As she comes around the recovery nurse comes out to get me. They’ve dealt with special needs kids many times. The room is a shocking neon orange colour and I think,” Wow– this would make you want to keep your eyes shut.”

We don’t have to wait long and she’s ready to go back out to day surgery. They must have given her too much gas because she’s nauseated and pukes up the little liquid she still has in her system. Poor Birdie.

Joan the Day Surgery Nurse is amazing. It takes seconds to administer an anti-nausea drug and to clean Kate up.

When she discovers my own medical condition she even gets Kate dressed and ready to go.

Tim wheels Kate to the car – she loves the wheelchair and her smile at this point in my day is better than I remember. My girl exhausts and frustrates me on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis. But there is nothing I wouldn’t endure for her and her smile raises my spirits to endure the rest of the trip home.

I don’t know when we’ll get the results. And I know when I get home I’ll have a dozen, or more people to call. But for right now. This moment. Driving down the highway with my groggy girl in the back seat I start to feel “normal” again.

I’m still not in control – and I hate that. But at least I’ve managed to get something off the “to do” list and as silly as it sounds – it’s made me feel marginally better.

Now we wait.

Day 215

...Continued

I’m at that point where there aren’t any more tears.

You know the place where your eyes are so dry that blinking feels like razorblades – well I’m there.

I’ve shed so many tears over the last two days I’m probably half dehydrated.

A few hours after speaking to my mother-in-law Rick calls again.

“I’ve spoken to my Warrant, we’re working on getting me home,” he tells me.

My only response is to cry. Silence on the other end.

“Please don’t cry, Baby.”

And all I can do is sob. I’m so tired. I’m so scared. I’m so anything and everything all rolled into one that I’m a basket case.

He tells me later that this is only the second time in his life that he’s heard me cry on the phone. I’ve known him since I was twelve.

I knew I shouldn’t. I know that I shouldn’t. But I couldn’t resist. We do live in the information age, after all. And seriously, when has anyone ever known me not to stuff like this?

I find myself sitting in front of the computer Googling images of babies born at 23 weeks. I read their survival stories. There aren’t many. It upsets me further.

Dad calls again. I do marginally better explaining the situation to him the second time around.

“Maybe I should come,” he drawls.

I love my father. He’s the only parent I have left. But he’s seventy-eight years old and I don’t think his presence would be particularly soothing. Besides he doesn’t have his passport yet so for the time being I tell him to wait.

“What can I get you?” He asks.

There’s only one thing I really want – and I can’t have it. But I voice it anyways.

“My Mom,” I say and there’s a silence between us broken only by my sobbing breaths.

“I wish I could get her for you, Honey,” he says. And I can hear his voice break too.

Sometimes I forget while I’m busy taking care of my babies, that I’m his baby. He’s got to be scared for us as well.

“Say a prayer, Dad.” I finally manage to squeak out. “I don’t think he listens to me any more.”

A few words more and he’s gone. I’ve forgotten to tell him that Rick is trying to get home. I’ve forgotten to tell him that Jean and Levi are coming. I’ve left my 78-year-old father with no good news and for the life of me I don’t have the strength to call him back.

Day 214 Continued…

Game called on account of rain

During the last few days I can’t seem to get a quote by Mother Theresa out of my head. In an interview with the CBC she said – “God does not give us more than we can bear. I just wish sometimes he didn’t trust me so much.”

I think it’s become my anthem of late.

Kate’s EKG was followed up a few days later by an EEG. Unlike the EKG – she had to remain sedentary for the duration of the test. A nice way to say – I held her down for six and a half hours.

By the time we left the hospital I was tired enough to sleep for a month of Sundays. Terri-Lynn sat with us for the last couple of hours or so and I tell you if I didn’t have her support I think Kate and I would have been recorded bawling together for that time.

Two days after her EEG it was my turn to be given some news.

Medical complications due to pregnancy have caused the doctors to put me on restricted duties. I’m technically not on official bed rest – but it’s close enough for government work. I’m not allowed to lift, push, pull, or carry anything that weighs more than a 2L bottle of pop.

Great! How’s this going to work?

I can’t do anything. I can’t grocery shop. I can’t take out the garbage. I can’t bathe Kate. I’ve failed my one basic task as the spouse of a deployed soldier. I can’t hold down the home front.

And do I tell Rick? Or better yet. What do I tell Rick? Do I tell him everything? Do I tell him nothing? I’m too tired to even think about it.

I think this is the straw. I feel like a cartoon character that has been given so much to carry that its legs just go out flat. Wylie Coyote in the flesh.

I’m defeated. The punch drunk pugilist whose coach throws in the towel. I thought I could struggle on and muckle through the rest of this tour but now the doctor has benched me. Game seven of the playoffs and coach has ejected me from the game.

I’m scared.

It’s too early for her (yes she’s a she) to survive on the outside. She weighs just better than a pound at 23 weeks. Not good odds for life yet.

I laugh as the doctor tells me to reduce my stress.

“Good bloody luck with that, Lou,” I think to myself.

I make it home, shaking and bewildered.

No answer when I call Rick’s parents. I manage to get my Dad on the line, but trying to talk between sobs has never been my forte.

When Rick pops online I’m so emotionally overwrought I tell him everything.

His response was one line, “What do you need?”

I fight the urge to scream “YOU!” and instead reply that I need help – anyone would do I just can’t do it alone anymore.

I don’t expect him to leave the sandbox – oh, it would be nice. But I know that half his crew is already in Cyprus for decompression and to expect the remaining group to function another man down is hoping for too much.

His mom calls me a few minutes later. “We’re coming,” she tells me. And I’m so relieved all I can do is cry. They’ll be crossing on Friday night and will be here on Saturday. Only a couple of more days to muddle through.

I recite my own version of the serenity prayer – God give me the courage to be strong for the children, the strength to get through these next few days and the wisdom to not screw up too badly.

Day 214

Trying to find the blessings

I’ve got the best friends.

I don’t know how I’d get through all of this without them.

I spoke to the neurologist after Kate’s episode on Tuesday. She’s ordering some other tests in addition to the already scheduled MRI. Talking to the doctor does nothing to alleviate my worries and I’m freaked out.

My friend Jenn comes by the house to see how we’re doing. It takes her all of five seconds to realize that I’m at the breaking point. And less time than that to tell me she’s coming with me for the appointments.

The first one is a 24-hour EKG in Saint John. We decide to make an overnight girls trip out of it. Just us and our daughters, instead of driving up and back both days. Liam is staying with another good friend of mine. Blessing number two.

Packing for the trip and readying the house in the morning before we leave – my mind is spinning with all I’ve got to do.
We’re just about to go through the door and I realize we need extra socks so I head down to the laundry room to get some – only to be greeted by muddy water on my laundry room floor.

The septic has backed up and has blown the backflow valve.

“Dear God – what do I do now?” I whisper.

I can’t miss Kate’s appointment. No one else can take her. It has to be a parent. And I’m the only one.

I’m fighting back tears of frustration as I dial my friend’s number. I know she’s probably still at physiotherapy but I’m hoping she can help.

I speak to her man. We sort out a plan. I’ll leave signed blank cheques – he’ll call the plumber and the septic guy and will come to the house to take care of things.

I can almost feel the tears spurt from the tips of my eyelashes.

“Go and get Kate taken care of,” he tells me. “We’ll take care of stuff here.” Blessing number three.

The drive down to the port city is faster than normal because of our delay in departure.

We head directly for the hospital and Kate goes right in to be set up with the EKG Halter machine. She’s none too pleased by the leads but once her jacket is on she’s resigned to the fact they’re going to stay.

An afternoon of shopping, eating and chatting is what is on the menu – and between frantic phone calls to check on progress at the house I somehow manage to have a good time.

We’re back at the hotel and we turn on the television. CTV News net is flashing the latest news from the desert. Four Canadian soldiers have lost their lives in two separate IED attacks. Eight soldiers are wounded.

My eyes flash from the screen to Jenn. “It’ll be okay – you know it’s not Rick,” she says. But as a fellow military spouse, I can see in her eyes that the news is a shock to her as well.

I feel as if I’ve swallowed a cannon ball. It feels like my stomach is somewhere in the vicinity of my ankles.

The media is at it again. They’re calling in obscure “experts” and asking them if the losses are “acceptable”.

Stupid questions. Of course losses aren’t “acceptable” a death of a soldier is not acceptable it’s tragic. They’ve managed to dig and discover that one of the soldiers has died on his birthday. Over and over again they play up that fact – as if four deaths weren’t tragic enough already.

Jenn knows I want to reach out to Rick. She’s brought her laptop and we go online so I can send him a message. I’m glad she’s here. I can’t imagine how much worse this day would be without her and her beautiful girl.

Somewhere in the night I discover Kate is allergic to the adhesive on the leads. Poor thing is turning very red – but I don’t dare remove them. Instead I cat nap all night to keep her from scratching them off in her sleep.

After Kate’s appointment on Saturday we’re heading home and I am struck by how I have been blessed by the friends I have.

They’re not a substitute for Rick. But since he can’t be here – they’re my strength and my support. They have given so much since we’ve been going through this and I am so grateful for their presence in my life.

Day 210

And the hits just keep on coming...

You know that point where you’re so emotionally overwhelmed that you become numb?

I think I’m at that point.

I’m in the shower – the phone is ringing. My friend Jenn calls me every day so I think it’s her and know that it’ll go to voice mail and I’ll call her back. Then I hear my cell phone. Then the house phone again.

I stumble out of the shower – soapy hair, dripping wet and grab the phone. It’s Kate’s school.

My heart sinks. “O no,” is the only thing that passes my lips as I’m told she’s had another episode.

“I’ll be right there,” I tell the teacher and scramble to drag on Rick’s sweats and a t-shirt. Wet hair and all I head out the door.

I don’t feel the panic that I’ve felt in previous weeks. I drive fast, but then, that’s nothing new. I’m running though all the questions the doctors tend to ask me so I can ask the T.A.

I’m worried. I’m sad. But my heart isn’t beating like an African drum. Sometimes I’m amazed at what the human body can get used to.

As I drive I leave a message for Kate’s neurologist. Something in my voice must have indicated the urgency – or my lack of patience – because I’m assured that I’ll have a call back the same day.

I reach the school. Kate is lying on a gym mat. She’s wonky. She’s off kilter and moves like she’s had too much peach schnapps.

She’s wet herself twice and doesn’t look me in the face.

This time I opt for home instead of the emergency room. They’ve done all they can at emerge. At this point we’re waiting for the MRI, scheduled for next week.

She’s silent again. A rag doll that looks like my girl.

Her usual squeal as we pull in the driveway is absent and I feel an icy dagger through my stomach. I can’t let her see me cry. It isn’t fair to upset her – she’s the one going through this. I’m just along for the ride.

As we approach the house Kate leans heavily on me. She’s forgotten how to unzip her jacket or how to take off her boots and as I kneel before her removing them I wonder how much more she’s forgotten.

I must have stared too long at the floor trying to blink back tears because she leaned down and touched my face to make me look at her.

She’s my girl. She’s not easy. She’s sometimes not fun. But she’s my girl. And my heart breaks for the things she’s had to bear. When does it end?

She wants me to cuddle on the couch. That I can do.

I hold her hand until she falls asleep and I wait for the tears to slip down my face – but they don’t come.

I’m mesmerized by the sunlight on her red hair. And how her eyelashes are the same colour. I remember watching her sleep as a baby amazed in the same way and I’m overwhelmed.

My strength has been depleted. And I feel a shift. I’ve switched into automatic. As if I’m on autopilot I’m back to going through the motions. What I wouldn’t give for him to be here.

Day 206

The Army Giveth And The Army Taketh Away

I should have known!

I freaking knew better than to get my hopes up!

Remember that “light at the end of the tunnel thing”? Well it turns out it’s a freight train – not the end of the tunnel.

The army, in it’s infinite wisdom and all powerful omnipotence, has decided that my husband is needed in Afghanistan and all our plans are out the window.

I shouldn’t have told the boy that his daddy would be here for his birthday. But when Rick called a week ago and said he would be home in March instead of April I figured it was a safe gamble.

He’s devastated. I’m devastated. The other kids are devastated.

Sigh – so now what?

I had my heart set on relief coming. Rick’s parents were even making the trek from Newfoundland. Help was on the horizon.

Not so much anymore.

He called me two days ago and said that it was a distant possibility that he could be extended and he would let me know as soon as he knew. When I answered the phone today and heard his voice say “Hi Baby” I knew.

The rest of the conversation was irrelevant. And, in all honesty, I don’t even remember it.

I’m sure he gave me a reason. I’m sure he outlined the importance of why he had to stay. But for the life of me I wouldn’t be able to give you that information if I tried.

All I know is that I was excited and happy and had hope for the first time in months. And now it’s gone. It’s gone, and I feel as bereft as when he got back on that plane after HLTA.

When he said good-bye I just sat here. I sat here and cried. I think Kate even sensed what was happening because she started to cry right along with me. Sometimes I forget that she knows what’s what.

So, the countdown has been suspended. The party revellers are dismissed from Times Square and we continue to slog through this winter alone.

Day 202

An amazing display of courage

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Daw-jhNQ1vw

The above link will connect you to the most moving interviews I’ve ever seen. Michelle Brown, widow of Warrant Officer Dennis Brown recently killed in Afghanistan, stands before the cameras.

I’m purposely distancing myself against the news again. The insurgent attacks are increasing again and I’ve nearly got myself worried sick with Rick’s return so close.

I’m aware of the Canadian losses. I feel pain at the announcement of each new name. And I continue to marvel in anger at the collective rudeness of a majority of comments at the tail of each story on the CBC and CTV websites.

Yet in the midst of this one woman has gathered the courage to address the media.

It’s been less than a week since her husband was killed by an IED, and Michelle Brown decided to speak to the media. Not just in a prepared statement that so many families issue, she was willing to stand up and answer the media’s questions.

I wonder if she realized at the time that she was putting into words what so many of the wives are feeling. I wonder if she knew how proud we would be of her.

I’d like to think that if anything happened to Rick I would have the wherewithal to stand in front of strangers and tell the world that I am proud of him. I would like to think that I wouldn’t break down into a sobbing mess and that someone wouldn’t have to lead me off stage left.

I’d like to think I could stand there and tell them how much I love him. I’d like to think I could hold it together when the liberal media asked questions like whether or not I thought this war was in vain.

I would like to think all these things. In reality I know that I would stand there with tears running down my face while my throat closed off and reduced my speaking voice to an inaudible squeak.

So, to see her standing there, with such poise, made my heart swell and made me sit with my head a little higher. Her strength was enormous and I hope her message reached out and touched the Canadian public.

Wherever her husband is he must be so proud of her. I haven’t even met her and I’m proud of her.

Thank you, Mrs. Brown. Thank you for representing your fellow military spouses with the dignity, grace and courage we would all like to display. Your family is in my prayers, and thank you for your husband’s sacrifice.

Day 197

Dusting the Elephant

We’ve got a date!

An honest to goodness return date!!

I can scarcely allow myself to believe it. It’s been so long.

I can count down sleeps. I feel like a five year old a month before Christmas. It’s so close! So close I can almost reach out and touch it.

He’ll be here before Liam’s birthday, but I’m afraid to play up that fact yet, in case the army pulls one of it’s famous hurry-up-and-wait deals and he doesn’t get here until after his birthday.

My boy looked up at me at breakfast the other day with a mouthful of cereal and said –“my bestest present ever would be my daddy for my birthday.” I nearly cried.

I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he gets to jump into his daddy’s arms. They’re close and it’s been difficult for him to find a place in this world without his Rick’s presence.

I have to force myself to break down the time.

People keep saying, “it’ll be soon now” or “it will go fast.”

They have no idea – not a clue what we’re going through. They’re mouthing platitudes in order to fill the space with sound. And I fight the urge to reach out and smack them in the head.

If anything this last month will be harder on us. We know how many have been injured or killed within weeks of their return dates. We’re aware of the fact that our husbands are tired and it doesn’t take a genius to know that when you’re tired accidents can happen.

The coming weeks will be filled with anticipation, preparation, and a whole lot of worry and prayer.

At the outset I didn’t think it was possible to feel worry every minute of the day.

Looking at us – you wouldn’t know what we’re feeling half the time. We’ve learned that people are uncomfortable around the worriers and that we’ve got to suppress our true emotions a major part of the time. But it’s the pink elephant in the room.

It’s there.

We can pretend for you.

We can play the game of “everything is okay”.

But until he is home – until he is here, in my arms, Dumbo is in the corner gathering dust.

Day 191

Fighting the Darkness

Everyone has bad days.

It’s part of life – the ups and the downs are regular occurrences.

But if you heard someone say “next Thursday I’m going to have a bad day” you’d think they were nuts.

I know 365 days in advance that I’m going to have a bad day on the 19th of February. I can even plan for it. No meetings, no appointments, no plans. I’m useless.

It didn’t used to be this way.

With the exception of the year I was twenty, the 19th was always a day of celebration. Two cakes, silly hats, home made pies, a special supper, singing loudly, and finding the perfect silly cards to make them smile.

It’s not been that way for some time. Nine years to be exact.

Oh, we celebrated half-heartedly for a few years after that. But he was her favourite – mine too. So, for several years the day was spent on the phone, or in person, cajoling her to get out of bed and celebrate, or at least to live a little.

Then, when we lost her and, well…the whole world changed.

I was good for the days following her death. There’s the “business” of burying the dead, the arrangements that have to be made, the checklist of things that need to be completed, and then we returned to New Brunswick.

Few people know what I went through in the weeks following our return. It was as if some part of me longed to follow them into the dark earth and never return. I stopped sleeping. For twenty-two days I did no more than catnap. Every time I closed my eyes I could see them and I wanted to go with them.

Through it all, Rick was my rock. As I slowly found my way back to myself he treated me with more kindness than I thought possible. With his support, medicinal intervention, and an extreme amount of patience and love I fought through the grief that gripped me so tightly.

In the end, in some weird way, I made a Faustian deal. I could stop mourning every day and get on with life in return for one day of sadness. Twenty-four hours of remembering everything in exchange for a “normal” life the rest of the time.

In the intervening years I’ve tried to trick myself into ignoring the calendar, into being so busy that I wouldn’t notice what day it is. But just before midnight on the 18th I wake up crying. Rick usually reaches for me in his sleep and holds me close. But this year I’m alone with the children.

And I long for his arms to encircle me.

I wake up with that morning after headache. The one where you’ve got puffy eyes, a runny nose, and a throbbing behind the left temple.

I get the kids off to school and then sit. The TV is on whatever channel Liam was watching. The radio is on in the kitchen. The dogs curl up next to me as I try to get my brain to stop - to shut off so I can shift it into neutral and coast through the day on auto-pilot.

I need to get out before the snow starts. I need to get groceries, and medicine and the list is endless. But an hour later and I’m still sitting here in my robe.

Tomorrow will be better.

Day 183