Epiphany

I went through my file, Wednesday.

Now, you might be asking, “What file?” to which I respond, “The file of my life.”

It is exactly what it sounds like. It is a file, the kind you find in a file cabinet, filled to bursting with records and rewards, documenting my life.

I was looking for my immunization records because the Evergreen State College requires them. While digging through my file in my search, I found many other things that tell an interesting story about me—more interesting than I’ve ever given myself credit for.

There’s something about seeing an accomplishment written on paper—by someone else—that finally made it click in my mind that maybe, just maybe, I actually had accomplished something in my life. Maybe—just fucking maybe—I wasn’t a complete piece of shit, after all.

Ever since my diagnosis from the VA of “major depressive disorder,” it’s been a far more real and difficult battle than I’ve previously encountered. Fresh out of the military—thrown into adult life as a civilian with absolutely nothing—in addition to a brand-new baby and post-partum depression, along with the feeling that waiting simply wasn’t an option…

I’ve felt like a fuck-up since the day I set foot into the operational Air Force, but that feeling was the feeling of success compared to the feeling of utter failure I’ve felt since the day I separated.

But, then, I went through my file and found certificates of achievement, one after another.

Bethel High School Cultural Fair, Most Informative Booth: GSA Booth, Aleashia DeLaVergne.

Bethel High School Cultural Fair, Best Visual Display: GSA Booth, Aleashia DeLaVergne

Bethel High School Cultural Fair…

I think I have 5 different awards for “best booth” in one form or another from my sophomore year in the GSA club. My booth was about equal rights for the LGBT community and it displayed the violence perpetrated against gay people, particularly gay men and even more particularly, Matthew Shepard, whose story was the most detailed one I could find.

Lenderman’s Academy of Martial Arts… awards Aleashia DeLaVergne… yellow belt… orange belt… purple belt… green belt… first blue belt… second blue belt… first red belt.

Each belt is an accomplishment. I completed the requirements as a white belt to earn my yellow belt. I completed the requirements as a yellow belt to earn my orange belt. I completed the requirements as an orange belt to earn my purple belt, and so on until I earned my first red belt.

All this time, I’ve focused on how I hurt myself because of how badly Sifu had pressured me. I’ve focused on how hurting myself caused me to quit martial arts before I could earn my second red belt. Before I could earn my first or second brown belt; before I could earn my black belt. I wanted my black belt… I still do.

Then, finally…

I saw my reviews from National History Day, written by the judges of my performance, which I had the opportunity to perform twice at the regional competition. They all say such positive things—“Well done.” “Voicing the American People was a brave choice.” “Smooth character transitions.” “Well done.” “Good voice.” “I learned a lot from your performance.”

All this time, I’ve focused so hard on how I didn’t make it to the state competition. I was so focused on getting all the way to State—hopefully even Nationals—that when I didn’t make it past Regionals, I broke down. I remember—and now, when I remember the event, I am filled with humiliation, but at the time, I couldn’t have been bothered with embarrassment—exactly how I practically hyperventilated, I was crying so hard and so insistently. I remember distinctly how concerned Joey was—my classmate; my friend.

All this time, I’ve had six—at least SIX—positive reviews from the judges at that competition. And I burned my fucking script because I threw a fit and destroyed everything I’d worked so hard to achieve. I burned the papers, deleted the files.

If I still had my script, I would take on those roles once more, to perform as my final project in my Acting & Movement class. As it is, I’ll have to settle with singing the German National Anthem, and simply remember the competition more fondly by looking at my reviews every so often.

I also came across an essay I wrote for my AP Junior English class, my grade for which was above A+. I also found my report card for 9^th grade geometry—a solid, resounding “A” grade. Both of these things were great accomplishments for me; I felt so proud of them that I wanted to save them in my file.

In the very back of my file, there were two folders. One had my grandmother’s name on it, but the one with my name on it included my medical files from the years 1999 and 2000. In this stapled stack of papers were my immunization records, somewhere near the back.

My medical records taught me some things about my child self, at ages 7 and 8—the ages during which I lived with my mother. I have always remembered those years as the worst of my life and my medical records did little to disperse such reverie.

It was written in my medical records that we had 5 paper routes beginning at 03:00—that’s 3:00am for those of you who don’t deal with a 24-hour clock. It was written that my teachers reported my having “lots of attitude” and being “bored in class.” It even said, “Smartest kid in class.” It said I was doing 4^th grade work in the 3^rd grade because I was bored with the 3^rd-grade work.

I remember this. I don’t remember being the smartest kid in class, though; because I remember the test I took to skip the 3^rd grade. That’s right—I took a test to skip the 3^rd grade and I could have passed it. But, I didn’t. It’s probably better that I didn’t; I was always the youngest in my class, anyway.

But now I see, my entire life, I’ve only focused on how I failed the test—not on how few other children were testing to skip grades. Not on how none of the kids I wanted to be friends with had the opportunity to skip a grade. Not on the fact that the very fact that I was taking the test meant that I was extremely intelligent. No. Instead, I focused on how I failed. Suddenly, failing that test meant that I wasn’t smart at all. In fact, it meant I was stupid. I didn’t know anything.

I feel as if my life has been completely turned around. Looking through my file, reading my certificates and accomplishments, has done a great deal to go to my ego and boost me. Looking through my file has made me think to myself, “I am smart and capable.” I don’t remember the last time I thought something like that.

Looking through my file made me realize just how self-deprecating I’ve been in my life, and for how long. I’m so glad I have this organized collection of significance in my life—my SAT and ASVAB scores; my AFJROTC awards; my birth certificates. Those things are my life. My file doesn’t have an ounce of failure in it, but it does demonstrate some ways my mother failed me. It also demonstrates that I have been sick for a very long time and nobody had been able to notice it because of how bright and highly functioning I was. Not even I was able to see how bad it was because I believed that it was all in my head; I believed that I was just “feeling sorry for myself” for no reason, every time I cried over the petty losses and the small setbacks—tears I shed because I believed that they were colossal failures in my life.

Molehills were mountains. Mountains were insurmountable. I didn’t encounter a mountain until I separated from the military.

The thing is, when you come to a mountain, you have three choices. You can try to walk around it and probably spend your entire life figuring out directions; you can climb over it; or you can stay on your side of the mountain, unmoving and helpless.

My depression wants to hold me back from climbing the mountain, because the gods know that I do not have the patience to walk around. After all, what I want is on the other side, and I will do everything in my power to take the most direct path to get it. The most direct path from point A to point B is a straight line; a straight line goes right over that fucking mountain. I’m a monkey; I’ll manage. My depression tells me I’m a failure, that I can’t climb the mountain because I didn’t skip 3^rd grade, I didn’t get my black belt, I didn’t make it to State, I didn’t complete my enlistment in the Air Force. My depression told me that I couldn’t take care of my daughter because I don’t have patience, I raise my voice when I’m upset, I’m not capable of handling my emotions. My depression tells me I’m stupid and helpless.

Helplessness has never set well with me. It’s time to climb the mountain.

The Happiest Baby

                I’d have titled this entry, “The Happiest Baby on the Block,” but that’s probably a registered trademark, as it’s a DVD of tips and tricks to calm a fussy baby. I gave birth to my daughter, Persephone Anne, on August 11^th—about a month ago, now—and from the very start she has been an absolutely wonderful baby. She doesn’t fuss much, and when she does, she’s very easy to soothe. This entry is the story of having the baby and how I’m doing a month later with her.

                I was worried from the moment I found out I was pregnant and it was too late to terminate that I would end up with postpartum depression after birth. Deep down inside, I knew with a morbid certainty that the mental illness would rear its ugly, tar-black face and there would be no avoiding it. What I didn’t know was how soon it would show up. After all, baby blues are normal and postpartum depression usually kicks in a little later, right? That’s what I’d heard and gathered from all the research I’d done prior to having my baby.

                The afternoon I broke my ankle, I went to the hospital and was in the ER for many hours before moving up to the Labor & Delivery Triage to be monitored. Ultimately, the hospital staff decided to induce my labor and it was decided that I would have my baby. I mentioned this in my last entry, which detailed how I broke my ankle. I was given an epidural and labor didn’t last too long, really. I’d say it didn’t last more than twelve hours, but I don’t think that’s quite accurate, so I’ll say it didn’t last longer than six hours after the nurse broke my water. I didn’t feel it until the baby started moving out—and then she was pressing hard against my right hip and it felt like the hip would split open!

                It was a smooth delivery. My baby was, and still is, completely beautiful and I received a few stitches to aid recovery from a small tear the baby caused. We were later moved, a few hours later, to a different room, where we were to stay for about 48 hours while they monitored the baby and me. Everything was going well…until maybe 24 hours later.

                From the moment I started actively pushing the baby out of my body (a little before that, actually), up to the next night, I got no sleep at all. I might have napped a couple of hours, but it was certainly nothing significant. On top of that, I was beginning to have difficulties breastfeeding. Persephone, my new daughter, wouldn’t take enough of my nipple into her mouth for a proper latch, which left both of my nipples blistered and feeling pinched. Come Tuesday night, I couldn’t latch her on for the pain and I couldn’t manage to make the nipple guard stay on a nipple for her to eat that way.

                With my broken and sprained ankles inhibiting my movement, the pain from childbirth, and the pain in my nipples all piled on top of a baby screaming from hunger, I couldn’t handle it anymore and I was sobbing along with my newborn. Words came out of my mouth and I don’t remember all of them, but among them were things like, “I’m sorry, but you’re hurting me!” and “Why are you crying?!” Looking back, the second quote looks completely wrong; I knew exactly why she was crying and I was feeling completely inadequate and useless with the pain in my nipples rendering feeding her impossible.

                Multiple nurses came in during this episode and tried talking to me. Randy took the baby to another room and a nurse tried talking to me—continuously saying my name wrong, pronouncing it like uh-leash-uh instead of the correct uh-leash-ee-uh. I couldn’t handle it the third time she said it and I yelled at her, “It’s Aleashia!” She promptly got up and walked out of the room. I was later given a breast pump to express enough milk for Randy to feed the baby while I got some sleep; then, I was provided some Benadryl to assist with the actual sleeping.

                When I woke up, I didn’t feel much better, but I’d gotten a few hours of sleep. I immediately wondered where my baby was and pressed the nurse call button to ask. A few minutes later, Randy came in with her and said that all was well. I was still relatively miserable, but it was good to know the baby was doing well.

                It wasn’t long after that—the next day, maybe—that I was getting everything situated to feed Persephone. I moved to get my blanket out of the way so that I could position her properly to feed when all of a sudden she flipped over and off the bed—landing on the floor. It was so sudden, I immediately had Randy call the nurses in. The baby hadn’t landed on her head; she’d landed on her side, maybe her shoulder, but I was worried that she might have hit her head.

                The next thing I knew, we were still in the hospital long after we should have gone home and when we asked what was going on, we found out that the pediatrician had called Child Protective Services.

                Ultimately—long story short—CPS closed our case the day we went in to talk to them. The baby is safe.

                Now, for the best part of this entry: The fact that I have the happiest baby I’ve ever known. Persephone isn’t particularly fussy, but when she fusses, it’s usually really easy to find the problem and fix it. Most of the time, she wants my nipple; popping one in her mouth will calm her down immediately. Every parent knows the checklist: Is the baby hungry? Does the baby need a diaper change? Is the baby hot or cold? Is the baby bored? Does the baby just need to cry for a while? Does the baby need to burp? There’s more to it, though. If you go through the entire checklist and the baby is neither hot nor cold, nor bored, nor hungry, nor dirty, nor gassy, and the baby continues to cry, there are ways to easily calm the baby.

                In the film, The Happiest Baby on the Block, the man I will call the Baby Whisperer has what he calls the five S’s: Swaddle, Side/Stomach, Swing, Shushing, and Sucking. When Persephone continues crying for no reason, I swaddle her. It almost never works by itself, so I put her on her side and begin swinging her. Usually, this is enough to calm her down; other times, I have to shush her on top of it. Other times, I have to pop a pacifier in her mouth on top of it all and simply work with her for a few minutes, but ultimately, the five S’s work wonders. I have an extremely happy baby, ultimately, even though these past couple of days have been a bit more difficult than usual.

                I love my daughter so much more than I thought possible.

Dealing with Becoming a Mother

                The third trimester has brought with it more difficulty, discomfort, and moodiness than the previous two trimesters of pregnancy combined. At this point, I am about 29 weeks and a half along, which is a little over 7 months. My birthday was two weeks ago—right around when I had just begun the third trimester. Since that day, things have gone downhill in many ways.

                My moods have been worse. My first two trimesters were rather unmarked by changes—I didn’t feel particularly depressed, I was comfortable and could move around easily, and for the entire first trimester, I didn’t even know I was pregnant! In fact, I was absolutely convinced that I was not pregnant, particularly because I’d had a pregnancy test in January and had been told it came back negative. Since my birthday and the start of the third trimester of pregnancy, however, my moods have been generally negative. I have struggled with depression for the majority of my life, and for the first two trimesters, my depression was in remission. I didn’t feel depressed anymore; things were okay, even after discovering I was pregnant. Yes, dealing with the fact of being pregnant in and of itself was difficult, stressful, and terrifying, but overall, I didn’t find myself thinking badly of myself. Since my birthday, however, that has been changing. The depression seems to want to be sneaking back into my life and a recurring thought is this: Postpartum depression is inevitable. I am going to have it. That thought alone isn’t the most disturbing, but when combined with other thoughts, which seem to be only reinforced by aches, pains, and discomfort in my body, I have become overwhelmed more than once. I never wanted this. It’s only getting worse and these are the reasons why I never wanted this. I didn’t ask for this. I did everything I could to prevent this from happening. I never wanted to be pregnant. These are the thoughts most prominent in my mind as it seems to be overcome yet again with depression.

                Everything hurts. Everything is uncomfortable. Sleeping is difficult; trying to position pillows around me in bed so that I might get comfortable is a chore, and some nights, it’s impossible to get comfortable no matter what I do with the pillows. In addition to that, I wake up three or more times every night, regardless of how comfortable I may or may not have managed to get before falling asleep. Getting out of bed every morning is a chore; it’s an uncomfortably slow process and it is painful. Standing causes pain in one or both of my feet and walking around causes pain in one or both hips and sometimes my back. Everything hurts! It’s too difficult to try going for a walk when my feet and hip are killing me, so I sit around as much as possible so that I don’t hurt at this point, but the sedentary lifestyle only increases my depressive thoughts.

                Things were only getting worse. Earlier this week, I was working on out-processing the base at which I’m stationed—a process which, by itself, is long and grueling, but for me is even more difficult because I’m not simply moving to another base, I’m separating from active duty entirely. The paper I needed to have filled out wanted me to make a 12-month budget and lay out a specific plan for how and where I would find employment outside the military. Here’s the problem: My husband is separating from the military as well and there is absolutely no way we can project a 12-month budget when we don’t know how much money we’re going to be making or when! On top of that, I’m about to have a brand-new baby—I’m not going to be trying to find full-time work outside of the home, I’m going to be taking care of the baby because I don’t trust people to take care of her and I will not take her to a daycare—they’re filthy and filled with nasty, snot-nosed creatures other people have spawned! I couldn’t see past these problems. My overwhelmed mind wanted to focus on how much none of what I was told needed to be done actually applied to me. I didn’t want to sit there and try calculating how much money we would need to bring in.

                That was one of my worse days. Then, things suddenly changed.

                I walked in to the O.B. office for an ultrasound appointment, yesterday. Somehow, I had missed an appointment I’d made for Tuesday, which was also the day I was so overwhelmed with trying to out-process for separation, so the secretary at the gynecologist’s office rescheduled me for the very next day, just an hour later than the original time had been the day before. So, Randy and I went to the hospital to see our baby.

                At our last appointment to check up on the baby and see the ultrasound, all of the images were blurry and I couldn’t make out a single bit of the baby on the screen. I’d left the hospital relatively frustrated and quite disappointed that there were no clear images. Yesterday’s appointment was different.

                The ultrasound images were extremely clear, and our baby’s face was even open for 3D pictures! I’ve never been a fan of 3D ultrasounds—they’re creepy as hell. But seeing the clarity of the ultrasound and looking at my baby suddenly made everything seem better. The voice in my head that kept screaming about how much I never wanted any of this was suddenly quiet. I didn’t mind that I’m pregnant; seeing the baby on the screen just quieted everything.

                Granted, 3D ultrasounds are creepy. But these 4 images, repeated a few times on a disc, show the creature growing inside of my body and somehow, these pictures in their clarity helped quiet the turmoil inside of me that insisted I never, ever wanted any of this.

                I still wouldn’t think less of a woman for aborting upon finding out about her pregnancy at 18 weeks. Part of my depressive thinking has been that I should have aborted when I found out, that things would be easier now if I had. I’ve wondered if I wouldn’t have been so tortured afterwards with the knowledge that in order to abort a fetus so developed, they would have had to cut her into pieces and remove the body that way. Then, I see her face on the ultrasound. I see her long legs—legs like mine—and I remember that the biggest reason I didn’t abort her was because, that day I found out, she had a gender. She wasn’t some raptor-like thing anymore—6 weeks had passed since she’d developed beyond looking dinosaur-like or less than human.

                I’m still dealing with the idea that I will be a mother. The fact remains that this is something I never wanted, that this is something I worked to prevent from happening. Time will tell, but for now, I can say this: My daughter looks just like me.

An Admirable Woman?

It’s common knowledge among those who know me that I absolutely never, ever wanted to get pregnant and make a baby. Ever. Even if I were to change my mind and decide I wanted a kid later on in life, I wanted to adopt one. There was no way in hell I was going to use my body to bring a brand-new human life into this world, especially when our planet is overpopulated by humans and there are so many other people out there who are contributing to the problem.

It has been extremely common during my life, whenever I would express my vehement abhorrence at the idea of making a baby, to hear from family and friends, “You never know!” So often, as well-meaning as they may have been, I would hear, “Stuff happens,” and, “You might change your mind!” My response to this would be to think, and sometimes say, No. I know myself, goddammit, and I do not want to make a baby. Even if I want kids later, I do not want to make one, goddammit.

So, when I found out I was pregnant, I was absolutely devastated. It was too late for me to stop it—I was going to have this baby whether I liked it or not and I most certainly did not like it, not then. In addition to the devastation, however, I was petrified of the idea of all of the friends and family who had mocked me, coming back and saying, “I told you so!” in one form or another. When I posted the first ultrasound photo, I added to it, “No gloating.” My biggest fear was my father—he had been my greatest antagonist.

I posted a couple of text posts about the pregnancy on Tumblr. The responses I received—surprising as they were, considering nobody ever messages me about anything on that site—were mixed. The first told me to abort it. Another told me that I am a “ridiculously abhorrent person” and that I don’t deserve my pets or a child. I responded rather well, I think, but the words still stuck with me. As someone who has struggled the majority of her life with depression, the fact that someone—even a complete stranger—had called me a horrible person stuck in my head and circulated throughout my cerebrum. Never mind that this person knows nothing about me or my life.

I’m not sure how I dismissed that message and managed not to let it bring me down, but I did. Somehow, I brushed it off and moved on.

Despite never wanting pregnancy or anything that comes with it, I decided I wanted to get involved in my base’s New Parent Support Program (NPSP) and take some classes. A nice lady named Tara called me from the program after, while at an orientation related to O.B. visits and available hospitals and so forth, I filled out a paper indicating that I had interest in what the NPSP had to offer. From there, Tara and I set an appointment for her to visit my house and give her “Babies 101” class.

Randy and I found the information absolutely invaluable and I set my next appointment with Tara to learn about breastfeeding. I didn’t think Randy would need to be at this class, so I didn’t have him set the time to get out of work for it. The day of the appointment, Tara forgot her breastfeeding materials and the class became Babies 201 instead. I took the information given to me, as well as a video, and shared with Randy what he had missed. We watched the video—all about newborns—and he was absolutely engrossed.

The next appointment taught us how to swaddle and bathe a newborn, as well as what to pack in a diaper bag. It was great—all of the appointments were great and I loved learning, because I had no idea what it would take to raise a baby prior to having taken these classes with Tara.

What Tumblr might not know, due to my lack of sharing, is that I plan to breastfeed and homeschool my daughter. I don’t trust other people to take care of her and I think daycares are disgustingly filthy anyway, so I won’t be working outside the home (at least not full time). Do I truly not deserve to have her, when I am planning to do everything in my power to give her everything I never had, growing up? Public schools in the United States are a joke, but even if they weren’t—even if they had decent systems of education in place—there’s the fact that there have been at least 74 school shootings since Sandy Hook Elementary School, and I will not risk my child’s life by sending her to a school that could be shot up any day by some crazy kid.

I told Tara I plan to breastfeed and do homeschooling. She told her assistant, who came to two of our last three classes alongside Tara so she could learn the job she was taking on. Both women told me they really admire that I am “opening myself up” to this baby, even though I never wanted any of this. They think it’s admirable of me to plan on breastfeeding and homeschooling.

I’m not so sure. I just want to do what’s best for my child. I’m actually highly judgmental of parents who do not do research or take classes like I’ve been doing—parents who think they know it all but really don’t; parents who will choose to formula feed when there’s nothing wrong with their breast milk; parents who will willingly send their children to public school even if they know it’s a terrible option; parents who will send their kids off to be taken care of by other people, rather than take care of them personally when they could be doing that. I am judgmental. Am I really an admirable person for wanting my child to have the best upbringing possible? Am I really admirable for wanting her to have all of the health benefits of my breast milk, for wanting her to have a good education that I can monitor for quality?

I don’t know, but it was certainly a wonderful—if uncomfortable and difficult to swallow—compliment.

Surprise! You're Pregnant

                The morning of March 21^st was painfully ordinary. I had been assigned since December to snow removal shift—a special duty during winter time with one focus: Remove any and all snow that falls on the flightline as quickly as possible. Due to lack of snow this past season, however, those in charge saw fit to end snow removal, and I was sent back to my ordinary workplace—my shop. I’d been back since Monday, having somehow shifted my schedule over the past four days from night shift to day shift. I was also assigned to the Unit Fitness Improvement Program—a required program for anyone who has failed a physical fitness test. I’d been on the program, making slow but steady progress, since I failed my first ever fitness test in July, last year. This morning—Friday, March 21^st—was the defining morning of my time in the program. The plan this morning was that I would take a “mock” fitness assessment—basically, a fitness test that doesn’t get recorded officially, as a means of measuring whether or not I was ready to take the official test again and pass it. Upon passing—and I was absolutely certain I would—I would be scheduled for my official test, which I would then take and pass, and I would no longer be required to show up every morning at 05:30 to the gym (although my plan was to continue going for further improvement). I was excited and nervous at the same time.

                Commence the test! I passed my push-ups and sit-ups without problems! It was time to run a mile and a half. As I stood after completing sit-ups, however, I felt a horribly sharp pain in what was undeniably my uterus. My first thought was that something had gone awry with my Intra-Uterine Device—the lovely little T-shaped doodad that acted as a contraceptive. The pain was stabbing, but I thought, if the IUD had moved, then I would simply walk it off so that I could do my run, finish the test, and have the Unit Fitness Program Manager schedule me for my official test before the middle of April.

                As I walked, though, I realized something. First, the pain in my uterus was not abating. Second, trying to jog in order to warm up only made the pain worse. I began to worry that I wouldn’t be able to run for the test, and would therefore forfeit the entire thing that morning. What was even worse was that the plan for Squadron PT that morning was a mile-and-a-half run that involved a very large hill. If I couldn’t run for my fitness test, only to miraculously recover to run for PT, how would that look on me? I’d look like I’d pretended pain just to get out of the fitness test!

                The UFPM came up to the track and I approached him after trying another warm-up lap with no lessening of pain. He asked if I was ready, so I told him what had happened and explained that I had already scheduled an appointment with the medical clinic for the following Monday. I didn’t give him all the details, but I’d scheduled that appointment because I had been missing periods for a couple of months and having strange pains on occasion within my uterus. I attributed these things to a problem with the IUD—not to mention, skipping periods has been normal since adolescence. What’s more, I was told that a pregnancy test conducted in January was negative! So, here I was, in the gym with the UFPM, telling him that I had pain and thought my IUD had moved.

                “I’d rather you be able to run for the PT test. It would be better for you to run the test than to run for PT with the squadron,” he told me. I completely agreed—but my uterus didn’t. So, we made a plan. My husband and I would try to find an opening at the clinic that very morning for me to have the issue looked at. If that didn’t work, we would go to the ER.

                Commence plan A: Find an appointment at the clinic that morning! This plan failed miserably. There was absolutely nothing open—not even for an urgent issue! Talk about useless!

                Commence plan B: To the ER! Now, this plan panned out. Randy drove me straight to the Bitburg hospital and we walked into the ER area and found a nurse. She didn’t really speak English, which left me to figure out how to tell her I had uterine pain… in German. It involved a lot of gesturing, but the nurse managed to get the gist of what I was saying and directed me, with some pointing and a little repetition of the word, to “Gynäkologie.” At least I understood that this meant gynecology and I already had a decent idea of where to go. Randy had recently had to stay a night in the hospital and had been on the gynecology floor. So, away we went.

                We arrived and found a waiting room, where we sat… for a while. Randy went off, got breakfast from McDonald’s, and came back. We ate the food. Then someone asked us what we needed. We told them and then we waited some more, until finally we were told we could wait outside the doctor’s office. We sat there for a while still, until finally a brown-haired man showed up with a strange voice and friendly mannerisms to lead me into the examination room.

                Naturally, the first thing he grabbed when I told him I thought my IUD was having issues was, of course, the speculum. It was terrifying! I’d never seen a German speculum before! This thing looked freaking primitive! It was like two elongated, curved slabs of metal that didn’t even connect. I stared at them as if they were going to tear me apart, rather than just make it possible for the doctor to take a look at what was going on with my hoo-ha. He laughed and told me that they were normal and it would be fine, and then he began an attempt at taking a look to see the IUD and what was going on with it.

                The PAIN! Dear gods, the pain! It felt like there were barbs on the speculum, like it was driving into me like some kind of sick drill—like the drill you see in Atlantis: The Lost Empire when they’re trying to dig through that wall of stone and earth! The speculum—a device made of smooth, round-ended metal objects that ordinarily cause no pain whatsoever—was like the tongue of Hell trying to enter my body via some kind of Satanic induction. My entire body tensed as I tried to let it be, thinking it wouldn’t be so bad, it shouldn’t take that long, the doctor should find what he’s looking for soon enough, or it’ll stop hurting so much soon… My jaw clenched between exclamations of, “Ouch… Ouch… Ouch,” while I made the most valiant attempt at keeping my voice down because dammit, I wanted to know if my IUD was moved! Hell’s tongue or not, Satanic induction or Angelic intervention, I needed to know what was going on with my birth control and I was determined to endure whatever torture was necessary in order to find out!

                After a handful of “Ouch!” exclamations from me, the doctor pulled the speculum out and observed that I was too sensitive for the instrument. I concurred as politely as possible, while secretly thinking, Gee, you think?! What he said after that, though, surprised me. He said he would need to use the ultrasound to see the IUD and check for infection or displacement. I’d had a little bit of experience with ultrasound in that hospital—Germans seem to use it for just about everything—and so I acquiesced. The ultrasound couldn’t possibly be as painful as the speculum, right?

                This time, I was right. The ultrasound instrument was only slightly painful, and only upon insertion! Once in, it was simply cold and uncomfortable—things I could deal with rather easily, considering the Speculum of Death I’d just tried enduring. The doctor moved the stick-like device around, searching my cervix and uterus for the IUD to see if it had become infected or displaced itself somewhere inside. On a screen for my viewing pleasure was what he could see on his computer—the images produced by the ultrasound, as typical of what you would see with, really, any ultrasound, ever. But then, I saw this:

                “What the hell is that?!” I demanded immediately. Seriously, look at that thing! It looks like some kind of tumour! Oh, and I’ll also have you know that all of the information you see there about “19 w 4 d” and “17 w 3 d” wasn’t visible on the screen. This is a print-out.

                “You don’t know what that is?” the doctor asked, sounding equal parts amused and confused—as if he couldn’t understand how I might not know what that image was showing.

                “No. Is it a tumour?”

                “That is a pregnancy.”

                “No.” No. No, it isn’t. “No, it’s not. It can’t be.” No way in hell. I’m here to have my IUD checked. The IUD is there to prevent this! This guy’s messing with me. It’s the only way. That has to be a tumour or something. Definitely. “Is it alive?” I suppose this question was the best thing to ask, considering what was really going through my head was more along the lines of, “KILL IT WITH FIRE!!!”

                The doctor didn’t exactly respond right away. He repeated somewhere in there, “That is a baby,” but then was quiet as he let it hit me that I was, in fact, pregnant. After a few moments, the nurse asked if my husband was in the hall and if I wanted her to bring him in. I said yes, and she brought him.

                Of course, he recognized the image straight away and broke out into laughter immediately. The sudden, nearly-overwhelming urge to either punch him in the face or strangle him rose like a tide within me. He sat in the chair beside the bed upon which I lay prone and laughed into a hand. I wanted to kill him and told him so directly.

                We left the hospital knowing two things. First, I was 18 weeks and 3 days pregnant. Second, the baby was a girl. We had a follow-up appointment Monday with the doctor to determine if we would keep the baby or terminate the pregnancy. Upon reaching the car, however, I already knew that it was too late. I was already in the second trimester and I knew all too well what would go into an abortion at my stage of pregnancy. Just thinking about a tiny female being cut into pieces and ripped out of its incubator filled me with a sense of hesitancy. Could I live with myself, knowing that I had killed something that was most definitely alive, moving, and most likely developing normally?

                The answer was no. I couldn’t terminate this far along. I had stated once, in a discussion with a rather ignorant, “pro-life” friend of mine that I am okay with abortion up to 12 weeks for any reason at all. Here I was, sitting at 18 weeks and 3 days pregnant. 12 weeks was a good 6 weeks ago. At this point, the development was too far along for me to consider the abortion a humane process.

                Decision made! Randy and I decided we were going to have a baby.

                “Now we need to think of names.” The words almost caught me off guard as they came out of Randy’s mouth. Names? It’s a girl, what’s there to think about for names? I had this decided years ago.

                “Oh, Persephone Anne.” The words came out of their own accord, flippantly, without a thought. I didn’t know where the “Anne” came from, but Persephone had been pre-determined for years, despite my desire to never, ever spawn children of my own. I’d always figured, “If I get a chance to name a girl…”

                I went home that day with printed out ultrasound images like the one you see above. I posted them on Facebook, making them visible to a very limited, highly select group of people on my friends’ list, with the words, “Surprise! You’re not allowed to gloat. D:” A kind of dread filled my being the way gas fills a chamber—surrounding, suffocating, creating a strange kind of pressure that is difficult to identify on its own. This dread carried a terror that someone, anyone, who knew that I was pregnant would decide to rub the fact in my face with gloating words such as, “I told you so!” “I always knew it would happen!” “I knew you would change your mind!” and so on. I was terrified that someone would laugh at me. I had done what I could to prevent this situation! My situation was different from all of those parents who say “I’ll never have kids,” and then end up with kids! I had contraception—highly effective contraception that had worked consistently well for a full year! I didn’t want to be pregnant!

                The relief that came when nobody laughed at me was so great that I didn’t quite feel it. Instead of what one might associate with the feeling of relief, the sense of dreadful terror simply crawled away slowly, inching out of my being the way a viscous liquid might ooze through a drain. As more people found out about the pregnancy and still no one gloated in the way I feared they might, I began to relax. It helped also that my best friend and my mother-in-law were beside themselves with excitement that I would have a baby.

                I decided that I would keep the baby. My baby would not be put up for adoption, I would take care of it with my husband and we would raise her as well as we possibly could. It’s hard to come to terms with the idea of having a child, after so long of vehemently denying the very concept and actively working against pregnancy. You really have to evaluate where you are in life and what your own morals are. If someone else ever found herself in my position, I would not think less of her as a person if she decided to terminate the pregnancy.

In Pursuit of Beauty and Hygiene

               (A few Saturdays ago, now), Randy and I decided to go on base for breakfast. We were awake early enough to get delicious pancakes from the golf course! I was super excited; pancakes are amazing and the golf course makes awesome blueberry pancakes. I ordered them along with biscuits and gravy and proceeded to devour the greater majority of my food. The biscuits and gravy were a bit salty for me that morning, so I ate about half of them before deciding to focus solely on the blueberry pancakes. Every bite filled my mouth with sweet, delicious, blueberry-tinted, syrupy deliciousness. There was a party in my mouth and I was having a blast! It was definitely one of the best mornings I’ve had in a while.

                That weekend, the Spring Bazaar was in full swing on base. Spangdahlem Air Base has two Bazaars every year, one in spring and one in autumn, where vendors from all over the local and surrounding areas come to sell their goods and market their products. In my first two years here, I volunteered for every Bazaar, helping set up booths, handing out raffle tickets, helping tear down booths, etc. This year, I opted out of volunteering. There was no way in any kind of hell that I wanted to be on my feet that long while pregnant. Randy, on the other hand, had to go to the Bazaar in order to perform standby duty for his shop, the electricians; they work shifts at every Bazaar in order to provide prompt service should anything electrical need fixing.

                Since Randy had to go, I went with him. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of walking around a couple of hangars, especially since it’s almost always the same vendors who come to the Bazaars, but I figured, why not? I could at least look around, even though I most definitely was not going to spend any money.

                We took our time looking around and I was pleasantly surprised to note that I wasn’t in any excruciating pain while walking. My feet were still sternly attached to my ankles, with no swelling or aching, and my back carried me steadily without threat of falling apart. Randy and I walked around and looked at the items of each and every booth; I made comments occasionally, especially when we passed furniture. We can’t afford to buy any furniture right now, as we are separating from the military and can’t take on a new monthly payment, but I enjoy looking nonetheless.

                Eventually, we bought two rings—one for him and one for me. I chose an Irish Claddagh ring for its simplicity and symbolism; I truly enjoy the fact that turning it one way means something, while turning it the other way means the opposite. Randy chose a simple metal band that complements his hand quite well.

                Quite happy with the purchase and the way the day was going, we continued on our way, looking at the booths in Hangar 1. We had previously explored Hangar 2 and had no particular interest in anything they were selling. As we made our way around, we saw a setup from a spa in Speicher, a town about 5 minutes away from base where a lot of military members live, most of the community speaks decent English, and the people are quite friendly. Randy asked if I wanted anything done from them, but I said no. Spas tend to be quite expensive and I wasn’t making an attempt at running us broke. We had rings; I was happy.

                As time went on, however, and Randy and I found us in front of the spa setup, I reconsidered my options. Randy was offering me anything I wanted—anything at all. He wanted me to be pampered and happy. So, I looked at the menu and ultimately decided on a face wax and a pregnancy massage.

                I’ve never had my face waxed before. This was a new experience for me but I was prepared to deal with any and all pain involved, because I was seriously sick and tired of looking in the mirror and seeing hairs everywhere—my chin, my jaw line near my ears, my neck… I thought, hey, if Randy can afford this and he wants to make me feel special, this is the way to do it. This and a massage. I hadn’t had a massage since my 16^th birthday and was most definitely looking forward to one, especially since pregnancy has caused my back more pain than usual.

                The wax went as expected—mostly. The method of waxing was expected, even the pain. What wasn’t expected was how many times the lady had to go over the same spots—because, apparently, my hair grows in all different directions! Of course! I couldn’t have it easy, one rip per section of face, oh, no! That would be too much to ask! I had to suffer far more than the average face-wax victim (or so I assume).

                Finally, though, the waxing was done and I was allowed to regard the results in a handheld mirror. My face and neck were red. It was expected, of course, and I said I was happy—if only because I couldn’t see anything wrong with my face aside from the redness. The lady suggested I wash my face when I got home, so I agreed, raised myself off the bed, and sat in a chair to await the time for my massage.

                The massage was wonderful! The masseuse was a well-built man who knew very well what he was doing and he made an effort to keep the parts of me that he wasn’t massaging covered with the blankets the older lady who worked there put over me prior to his walking in. This very well protected my modesty (boobs) and made me feel at ease more than if there had been no blanket at all. I only wished I had removed my socks prior to the massage; my feet could have used a bit more attention than they received, but I hadn’t thought of my socks when I removed my clothes. Besides, bending over far enough and lifting my leg in order to get my socks off seemed like a lot of effort that I didn’t want to go to. Regardless, I was quite happy with the results and walked out of the booth feeling better and walking straighter.

                I felt oily—from the massage oil—and tingly in my face from the wax. I had a new ring on my finger to indicate my marriage. I was quite happy with how things went.

                Finally, Randy and I returned home and I cooked dinner. It was the least I could do for my wonderful husband, who had done so much for me that day. I cooked steak and mixed vegetables and Randy prepared the side of instant mashed potatoes (they seem to be his specialty); it was delicious and we were happy. I washed my face and we went to bed.

                Over the next few days, my face broke out like crazy. I used my regular face wash to clean my face and it began breaking out everywhere that I’d been waxed—red bumps raised like angry little volcanoes all over my skin and the redness of the skin itself didn’t seem to want to dissipate. Finally, I brought up my concern and my unhappiness with my appearance to Randy, who informed me that I’m not supposed to use my face wash after a wax. This was quite upsetting; I had blackheads all over my nose and the occasional zit on my face—I needed to use my face wash! But Randy told me it would just irritate my skin, and I did have proof of it doing just that, with spots of my cheeks being dry to peeling and red bumps all over my cheeks, chin, and neck.

                I’ve gone two days now without using my face wash. I left my face alone yesterday and washed it twice today with simple soap and water. The redness has cleared, as have the red bumps on my cheeks, but the acne on my neck, chin, and above my lip remains. I find it highly upsetting that I’ve broken out worse since the wax than I was prior. I’m not sure what I dislike seeing on my face more—hair or acne.

                I would post a picture of my face as it is today, but I’m quite self-conscious about it. I’m considering paying a visit to the spa in Speicher—it’s not that they did a bad waxing job, after all—and requesting a facial. Maybe they can clear my skin up and recommend something to use that may work better than the washes I own. They don’t seem to do much, after all…

Thanks for reading!