“The additional miscarriages, please tell us about those,” Rachel suggested.
“Tragic, of course, but I had my other children to occupy me. My oldest daughter stepped up when I became depressed following the miscarriages. She did her best to engage me in conversation, and made sure I was busy so didn’t dwell on the loss. And my second husband didn’t belittle me as the first one did. He reminded me I was a good mother and my children needed me. Benjamin constantly reminded me that we married to share a life as a couple, not only for the purpose of having children.”
“Your friend?” Rachel asked.
“Kiana passed twelve years ago. Lives with the angels, I’m certain.”
“In your opinion, how did she help?”
“I’m not a professional but, looking back, she acknowledged that there had been a living being in me. That was important as it validated the feelings that I was a mother.”
“Do you believe you would have been more upbeat, avoided depression possibly, if you had strong support from your family?” one woman asked.
“In those days, people didn’t talk about some things. Miscarriages were one of them.”
“We should know better today,” a second women said.
Most nodded agreement.
“But still, with all the medical knowledge we have today, it continues to be painful,” Rachel said. “Thank you for sharing your story with us, Majella.”
After two more women voiced their experiences, she announced a break. She and Brian brought out tea and soft drinks.
Brian leaned toward Rachel and whispered, “At least two of the speakers are showing signs of PTSD.”
“At the end of the meeting, I’ll mention you have cards of a therapist.”
Following the break, Rachel called on Chana Goldberg to detail her experience.
The thin woman shook her head and wouldn’t stand until Majella, who sat near her, took her hand then said in a quiet voice, “You’re surrounded by friends, dear. We’d love to hear from you.”
Trembling, Chana stood and spoke while staring at the fire. “Even with my mighty college degree and all the books I read about a miscarriage not being the mother’s fault, to this day, buried deep inside me, there exists guilt which is my constant companion. I lost my child four years ago.”
“Did you have support from those around you?” Rachel asked.
Chana closed her eyes, sighed while shaking her head, finally looking at the others. “I tend to be withdrawn. I would do anything to avoid painful situations. I couldn’t voice my shame let alone initiate a conversation, until today,” A nervous smile crossed her lips. “Y’all are the first to know.”
A few people clapped, many smiled encouragement. “Did the child’s father know?” Rachel asked.
Chana’s eyes tearing, she swallowed hard. The woman next to her held up a box of tissues. Chana thanked her, lifted a tissue, and dabbed at her eyes before continuing. “I’m ashamed to say,” she paused to take a deep breath, “I had a number of partners during a night of drunken revelry. No clue who the father was. Losing my child, and the way I became pregnant, was a shameful, devastating experience which I kept to myself. It has inhibited my behavior in a myriad of ways. I believe it has prevented me from staying in relationships with men.”
“In what way?” Rachel asked.
“I’m an honest person, so eventually I’d have to tell an intended life partner what I did. The thought of that overwhelmed me, causing me to find a reason to end any promising relationship.”
“Thank you, Chana,” Rachel said. “I encourage you and everyone else to make a new friend today. What could be better than a new friend who understands what we’ve all been through?”
Another women detailed her experience then Rachel spoke. “The same night I lost my child, my husband, who was home safe after surviving a year in Vietnam as an infantry soldier, was shot and killed. I entered a deep depression. Even my choice in clothing reflected my somber mood. The days immediately following were little remembered. The trauma so great, I experienced short term memory loss. I loved, and still love Noah like every mother who was able to hold their child in her arms. As others have stated, I was his mother from the moment I was aware I was pregnant.”
She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands before continuing. “I withdrew from many activities, considered giving up on my lifetime goal of becoming a pre-school teacher.”
“How did you get over your sadness?” a woman asked. “Four years after that tragic event, and still trapped in a deep depression, a man with a three-year-old son entered my life. Suddenly, two people needed me. I refused to allow the depression to overwhelm me as my new responsibilities kept me focused on using my energy to help raise that child, and making a home for him and his father. The times when my depression was close to overwhelming, their love lifted me.” She turned and smiled at Brain as she spoke. “They will never understand how close I was to throwing my life away.” Rachel turned back to face the group. “But I suspect many of you will.”
Many heads nodded agreement.
Rachel continued after looking around the room at the diverse group. “I know my behavior is still inhibited by the loss of my child. My mood darkens every year on the anniversary of Noah’s death.”
She gazed around the room at faces which understood and felt her pain. The thin lady wiped her eyes. “Before you leave today, please make a new friend. Call that friend during the week, get together, and talk. For anyone interested, my husband has cards from a therapist he recommends.” Rachel took a deep breath and her expression brightened. “There’s still tea and coffee. And please, help me finish the pastry!”
“When are we meeting again?” a woman called out.
Rachel appeared surprised then replied, “How does the second Sunday, same time, next month sound?”
Many checked appointment books and wrote notes to save the date.
Three women approached Rachel. “I’m Anne Rubin, this is Tory Benson, and you know Majella. We propose the four of us, if you’d join us, and anyone else who is interested, should meet next Sunday at the same time to organize in a more formal manner, work out leadership, publicity, outreach and whatever else we can think of.”
“A steering committee,” Rachel said.
“Precisely,” Majella said, while the others nodded. “Ladies, I’ll have tea and coffee ready at two next Sunday.”
Rachel announced their intention and an invitation to the other attendees.
Chana remained to help with cleanup. She walked the room, emptying trash cans of tissue into a black plastic bag. Brian removed the folding chairs to the garage.
Willow-figured Chana approached Rachel and said, “A weight has been lifted. For the first time in years, I feel…this is what healing must be like, but I still have a long road ahead of me.” Chana took both of Rachel’s hands in hers. “Having you as a friend is a blessing.”
She embraced Rachel who said, “Steering committee meeting for this group next Sunday same time.”
“I’m not a leader.”
“Neither am I, but we need ideas. You’re a head full of brains. You should be here to give us your thoughts and ideas.”
Chana shook her head, took a bag of garbage outside. Upon re-entering the house, she announced, “Next week…I’ll be here.”
The willowy lady headed home wearing a broad smile. Rachel entered his office and sat in front of Brian’s desk.
He was reviewing the notes he’d made during the meeting. “Successful first get together,” he said without looking up from his work.
“It was. Next time, you need to disappear.”
Eyes wide and jaw dropped, he said, “What? Hell no.
These experiences will help my research.”
Rachel shook her head. “Having a man in the room, especially one making notes, was inhibiting to some of the women.”
“Did they say anything?”
“No, but I could see it. Particularly those close t
o you. They appeared anxious.”
“This was my idea.”
“An excellent idea but you won’t be visible during the next meeting.”
His voice getting loud, he said, “I’m a doctor…doing research. They should understand and accept my presence.”
“You were the doctor who caused anxiety. And as a doctor, you are a man not a god. Sometimes you forget.”
His face turned beet red as he attempted to control his boiling emotion.
Rachel expected a verbal explosion but instead he swore once then stormed away. Brian drummed for an hour then returned to tell her he would do as she asked.
“By the way,” Brian said, “short term memory loss is a symptom of PTSD.”
“What are others?”
“Let me get my list.” He dug through a drawer and removed a notebook. Flipping it open he said, “According to the Mayo clinic, post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms may start within one month of a traumatic event, but sometimes symptoms may not appear until years after the occurrence. These symptoms cause significant problems in social or work situations and in relationships. They can also interfere with an individual’s ability to go about normal daily tasks.”
Rachel picked up a pen and legal pad then began taking notes.
Brian searched through papers on his desk, picked up a report then told her, “PTSD symptoms are generally grouped into four types: intrusive memories, avoidance behavior, negative changes in thinking and mood, and lastly, changes in physical and emotional reactions. Symptoms can vary over time and may not be consistent from person to person. More specifically the first type, intrusive memories, are those which may include memories of some traumatic event which repeat, flashbacks of the event, nightmares based on the event, or emotional or physical reactions to reminders of trauma.”
He flipped through a few pages then continued. “Avoidance behavior, as is its name describes is avoidance of memories, such as, locations of activities, or people are a remainder of a traumatic event. With negative changes, one or more of the following may occur: negative feelings, such as a general feeling of hopelessness or memory problems like memory loss concerning details of a triggering event. In addition, difficulty maintaining relationships, feeling separated from family and friends, a lack of interest in activities enjoyed prior to the onset of symptoms, problems experiencing positive emotions, or feeling numb. A few or many of these may take place and are perceived as negative changes.”
“Give me a minute to finish my note on the last one,” Rachel said, writing furiously.
Brian paused until she indicated she was ready then began reading again. “The last group consists of symptoms of changes in physical and emotional reactions (also called arousal symptoms) such as, being easily startled or frightened, always being mentally alert for danger when there is little threat. Self-destructive behavior, such as drinking to excess or driving too fast, problems sleeping, trouble concentrating, feeling irritable demonstrated through aggressive behavior or angry outbursts may also be symptoms. In addition, all-consuming guilt or shame.”
“Are some symptoms more obvious than others?”
“They can vary in intensity. More PTSD symptoms may express themselves when the individual is stressed, or when he encounters reminders of what the traumatic event caused them to experience. Examples might be loud noises similar to those experienced in combat, which may cause an individual to feel like they are back in combat. Hearing or seeing a traumatic event may trigger a reaction where one may feel overwhelmed by the memory of his own traumatic event.” He paused for a bit, looked up at her then said, “You realize when I use the word ‘he’, I’m also referring to women, or children.”
She nodded, wrote a few more notes. “I understand. I’ll make a poster listing the symptoms. You will please, get me an easel so I can put it up at the next meeting along with the number of a therapist.”
* * *
They returned to the ranch after Friday night services. Brian held sleeping Seth in one arm. Walking up the few stairs to the front porch, Rachel said, “This is a bit embarrassing, but I’ve wanted to ask…you’ve had a number of partners…”
“Yes, but…” He unlocked the front door, stood aside so she could enter first.
“Brian, do I take care of you…please you when we…”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re not just saying…”
“Let me put Seth to bed.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.”
He returned, took a mug of tea from Rachel’s hand then sat next to her on the front porch. A panoply of stars filled the sky while a raucous rhythm section of night time insects provided audio accompaniment.
Brian said, “There’s a strange component to sex. When you’re close to someone up here,” he tapped his forehead, “the sex is fantastic. I can’t tell you why but I know it’s true.”
“So…”
He put an arm around her. “Yes, pretty lady. You take care of me.” Brian evidenced a broad grin. The veteran nodded then giggled. “Oh, my Lord you do.”
A contented smile appeared on Rachel’s lips. “Thank you. I needed to know that.”
“And you enjoy what I do?” Brian asked.
She thought for a bit then, blushing and unable to look directly at him, replied, “Once, a friend told me her husband takes her there. When you and I… well…I know where her husband takes her, and it’s a great place.”
“Excellent.”
Brian noticed Rachel kept crossing and uncrossing her legs plus rubbing her hands on the tops of her thighs. “Something wrong?” he asked.
“I have news,” she replied, while using one hand to straighten her collar.
“Tell me,” he said.
“In a minute,” she said. Rachel stared at the stars then straightened her collar again.
Brian sipped his tea then shivered. “The temperature’s dropping. Perhaps we should go in.”
They stood.
Rachel smiled. “I love how Seth helps the other children at pre-school.”
“Is that the news?”
“He’ll be a great brother.”
“Some future day, I’m sure that will be true.”
Rachel cleared her throat, then said in a nervous voice, “Actually, in a little less than nine months.”
Brian picked her up then spun her around while giving her a long kiss.
“Easy,” she said.
“You nervous about another miscarriage?” he asked.
She nodded and said, “Terrified.”
“Whatever happens we’ll manage.”
“It could be a struggle.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I was made for struggle. We’ve supported each other no matter what the problem since you moved out here. Pretty lady…that will not change.” He held her against him.
Rachel slipped her arms around him and rested her head against his chest. “I know.” She sighed, then glanced at the stars. “Thank you, Lord. I know.”
* * *
Brian, Rachel, and Arnie, who was out for a week-long visit, gathered in front of the fireplace in Brian’s office.
From behind his desk he said to Arnie, “Couple incidents from the war have been coming up lately.”
“The exploded head our first night in combat?” Arnie said. “That one still bothers me…like it was yesterday.”
“The guy I killed with the pen,” Brian said.
“That was bad I imagine. Glad I didn’t see it…didn’t watch the guy die.”
Brian shrugged. “Not so bad at the time. Not enough time to bring my rifle to bare, so used the pen.” He stared at his lap. “In truth, I felt happy that I stopped him but I felt guilty afterward. Then felt worse due to the way people in the market, as well as my platoon mates, looked at me.”
“In what way?” Rachel asked.
“Like I committed an act of atrocity that a normal human being wouldn’t do.”
“It was bad for those who saw the guy
on the ground in death tremors,” Arnie said.
“A pen?” Rachel asked.
“I jammed it through his eye and into his brain.”
“Describe what led up to the incident,” Rachel said, rubbing her hands on her thighs.
Brian watched her reaction as he talked. “I stopped to write a note in a marketplace. For whatever reason, the eight of us, generally in pairs, had spread out and most were negotiating purchases. Dressed like every day Vietnamese, these, we think, three guys were just wandering the market about thirty-feet apart. They, simultaneously, pulled out frags…fragmentation grenades. The idea being, to toss them toward the Americans who were scattered around the quarter block square, market area. Also insuring many of the venders who were selling items to the G.I.’s, were also killed. One guy was next to me.” Brian took a deep breath, noted Rachel paying rapt attention to his description but still rubbing her hands on her thighs. He took another sip of his drink before continuing. “My rifle was between my knees so I could write a note. I didn’t have time to bring it up. Fastest thing I could do was the pen.”
Rachel shuddered. “Why did you feel you faced a deadly threat? You didn’t know what he was going to do.”
“I saw the frag…hand grenade…come out of his pocket. He was about to pull the pin.”
“I see,” Rachel said, rubbing her chin and appearing deep in thought.
“One of the thrown frags came in my direction,” Arnie said. “We were on the other side of the market.”
“Your reaction?” Rachel asked.
“Used my M16 like a bat, sending the frag toward the edge of the market…where it exploded, killing a villager and wounding many. The third grenade had a bad fuse, it went off just out of the enemy soldier’s hand, killing him and injuring a number close by. None of us were hurt.”
“Our radio man began yelling,” Brian leaned back, sipped his drink. “We had to get back to day position immediately. Lots of folks hurt and we were ordered away.”
“You must have felt terrible,” Rachel said.
“Orders are orders,” Brian said with a shrug. “You follow them, or people die.”
THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel Page 23