The Bridge

I’m driving with her sitting across the cab from me.  The brilliant, glowing sunlight is cut by the sharp shadows cast by the supports of the bridge we are driving across.  Over the last decade all of our holidays had been driving holidays.  We had always found peace in the sanctuary of a vehicle but this drive was different.

The counselling session had been our last and we both knew it.  For now, she is still my wife and the fact that I know we are going to be separating doesn’t change this fact.  She is the love of my life and has been for most of my adulthood.

​            We haven’t said anything aloud so for now we are still a couple.  I look across the vehicle and see her face – now haloed by sunlight, now cast in shadow – beautiful and calm.  Life has shown me how fleeting memories can be and I want to capture this image of her: the peaceful look, hint of a smile, a curl of hair that has flipped out from where she tucked it behind her ear.  That curl of hair annoys her like crazy but always makes me smile, makes me reach over and tuck it back in place.  I want to tell her that I still love her but I can’t break the silence and end the moment.

​            The traffic is crawling now.  We are sitting in the middle of the bridge.  I look around at the other vehicles and wonder if their lives are in a state of turmoil too.  I am feeling fairly calm and probably don’t look like my world is rocking on its axis.  Nobody looking at us could tell.  I hear her sigh and feel the seat move as she leans back.

​            Last night we’d had one of our first honest conversations in a long time.  We had been laying in bed beside each other, not touching.  The ceiling fan was ineffectively trying to blow away the oppressively hot evening air.  “I think we can be good roommates after this.”  “I agree.  I really think we could be.”  “I don’t want a roommate.”

​            Our hands meet in the middle of the cab.  The CDs scattered on the seat feel cold and foreign against the back of my hand as the radio plays some nameless forgettable song.  I wanted to grasp our relationship the same way I was grasping her hand but most of me knew it wouldn’t change anything.  I knew that she didn’t want the loveless marriage that her parents had, that my parents had.  I didn’t want that either.  We had just finished detailing that with the counsellor.  We both knew.  Neither of us liked the truth.

​            “I’m going to miss you.  I still…”

​            “Don’t!  Don’t you dare say anything.  Can you just shut up and let me have this last drive with you?”

​            “Yes.”  I didn’t mean to whisper, to choke over the word.  “Yes,” I say louder, more firmly.

​            The rest of the ride home is quiet.  The moment, the marriage, and the memories are behind us now.  The bridge was long but we’ve crossed it.

Last Night

          He laid there quietly as the sounds started to make sense.
          The whir of the ceiling fan.
          The droop of the tap in the ensuite.
          It was when he heard the soft rhythmic breathing behind him that he fully woke but still he didn’t move.  He laid there listening to the calming sound of her breathing and let himself be wrapped in the serenity that it had always given him.
          This happened every time.  The middle of the night waking only happened on his last night before he had to leave.  It was such a part of the routine that he would have felt unbalanced if he slept through the entire night.
          Before he began the slow process of turning to face her without waking her, he already knew what he’d see: the streetlight through the window would give him just enough light to see her face; her dark brown hair would look black in the half light; the lines of worry that had been steadily growing on her face over the past few days would be relaxed by sleep.  Softly, gently he turned to her.  She was as she always was.  The peaceful look on her face seemed to impart peace and he felt himself relax.
          He took a deep breath as a small smile brushed his lips.  As he exhaled, his body relaxed and he found a comfortable position on his side that would allow him to look at her, to see her.
          She was beautiful.  He didn’t need bright light to see her beauty, it glowed from within her…probably because that was where it started.  On the heels of thoughts about’ how lucky he was’ came the ‘I don’t deserve her’ thoughts.
          Sadly, this too was part of the routine.
          How can I keep her happy? She deserves a husband that can be beside her all the time. I have no idea why she stays.
          He took another deep breath.  This deep breath wasn’t peaceful.  It didn’t help him to relax into the pillow.  This deep breath was more like the breath one takes before going into battle.  After all, that’s exactly what it was.
          With every deployment he had to convince himself that she’d be there for him to come home to, that she’d think he was worth waiting for.  With every deployment, his confidence seemed to diminish.  He squeezed his eyes shut, and with incredible effort was able to stop his breathing from becoming raspy enough to wake her.  A few more deep breaths and he was able to open his eyes and look at her again.
          With the same wish he made every last night with her, that some part of her sleeping brain would hear him, he spoke to her with an honesty he could never duplicate if she were awake:
          “I love you.  I love you more than anyone I’ve ever known and I love you more than I’ve ever known I could love. I hate leaving your side, leaving you alone.  This wasn’t the life I wanted when I asked you to be my wife.  I wanted you to be there to have my back because I knew you would every single time like nobody else could.  And I wanted to be here to have your back every single time you needed me to because you deserve that.  I hate leaving, I hate hearing people tell me how brave and wonderful I am because the only person in the world that I want to hear those words from is you and I’m walking away from you.
          We talk about duty, about how we owe it to this or that.  How do I tell people, how do I tell you, that I feel like I’m abandoning my first duty, my duty as a husband, every time I go.  How do I do it?  I don’t.  I can’t.  It’s not how it’s done.
          I want to tell you these words when you’re awake.  I want to tell you how much it kills me to leave you, how my heart breaks a little with each step.  I want to but I can’t because you already have enough on your plate.  How could I burden you with more?
          And even as I say those words, I wonder if there’s a part of you that needs to hear them.  I wish I had the courage to take a chance and say them but I don’t.  The risk of saying words that burden you more is too great and so I stay quiet.  I stay quiet and I wonder if we can survive one more deployment, one more period of being apart.
          I know I seem cold before I leave and I’m sorry, love.  I don’t know how I could leave at all if I didn’t start putting on my game face before the time comes.  I know you understand but I also know that it hurts you.  I know you feel the emotional distance I create.
          I almost wish you’d find someone else and go with them.  Then you wouldn’t have to worry about getting a knock on the door, about hearing that I didn’t make it back.  That’s part of why I put the distance there.  In some stupid way, I hope that if this is my last tour that it’ll be easier for you to move on.  It’s stupid.  So stupid and I’m sorry.
          I wish I was strong enough to tell you how incredible you are, how wonderful you are.  I wish I was one of those guys that could express emotions clearly.  But I can’t.  When I try to talk to you about how I feel about you, about being over there, about my fears or my love I get tongue tied and feel like a fool.  And I feel like if I give in and let those emotions out, I’ll never be able to bottle them up the way I need to so I can get through the tour without going crazy.
          And so I talk to you now.  Every last night before I leave I talk to you and hope that some part of your brain is hearing me and making it a part of your thinking.  Every last night I hope you are actually awake and hearing me.  Every last night I hope more than anything that I’ll get one more night with you at the end of the tour.  I love you.  I love you more than anything.”
          As he turned his head away and sank into his pillow, a tear slowly traced it’s way down her cheek.

Daddy’s Silent Trauma

The other day I was looking through the art work of an acquaintance.  Rick Weston is a somewhat twisted guy who manages to create disturbing yet humorous pieces of art.  When I saw his piece that I dubbed Prolapse the Clown, memories of the birth of my first daughter washed over me.  I understand that you may not expect adjectives like “twisted” or “disturbing” to be appropriate for the miracle of childbirth but that would be because society has not confronted the reality of the birthing experience from the male viewpoint.

There are numerous books and websites available for prospective mothers or parents.  I’m quite certain that my wife bought all of them and gave me instructions to pay particular attention to the dog-eared pages.  I read some of the book.  (Ok, I skimmed through the books until I got to the sections about sex during pregnancy.)  I have to admit, I had trouble reading the sections talking about the minute growth of the cells, the development of eyelids, which vegetables were best for stimulating intellectual growth.  It was boring and I wanted something exciting.

You see, none of the books really talk about how horrific and disgusting the scene is in real life.  We had gone to a childbirth and parenting class.  We watch through half shut eyes as they played a movie of a birth.  I don’t know how many takes they used to sanitize it the way they did but it certainly wasn’t anything like the reality I was facing.  Even the “must have” pregnancy book, What To Expect When You’re Expecting, didn’t discuss the horror other than a very short comment about how “the blood, sweat and tears” would be offset by an “amnesia [that] sets in pretty quickly once that little baby finally arrives.”  What isn’t in the book, and should be, is a paternal disclaimer.  Attention Would-Be Fathers: you will not get amnesia and will remember every twisted and disturbing detail.

Listen, I understand that mothers do have the difficult task.  They carry all of the risk.  The weeks and months leading up to the delivery were a never ending series of heart stopping information sessions.  Was this going to be in the 2% of pregnancies that was ectopic?  Would my wife be in the 18 percent of women that develop gestational diabetes?  Would she be one of the 5.5 in 100,000 women that died during childbirth?  Would she be one of the 6% of women that suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of birth trauma?  Would she kill me and become part of the 5% of women arrested during pregnancy?

When I wasn’t worrying about my wife, I worried about my unborn child.  The threats that loomed before our unborn child were equally frightening.  I began worrying about the fetal heart rate more than I did my own heart rate.  I would hold my hand on my wife’s stomach to feel for movement.  She thought it was a loving bonding gesture, it wasn’t.  I wanted to make sure that all was well, I wasn’t imparting loving thoughts, I was assuaging my own fears.  Were fingers and toes, heart and lungs, eyes and ears all developing as they should?  Was there some infection attacking even as we slept?  Were the pickles and cheese slices giving her heartburn? After getting past the threat of these issues in utero, the poor kid then had to face actually coming into the world.  According to, 2% of stillbirths are caused by the trauma and 8 in a thousand babies suffered injuries during childbirth.  Bruises, broken bones, hematomas, and burst blood vessels also threatened to interfere with a happy entrance.

All of those numbers, illnesses, and issues vanished with the moment of birth upon us.  I had heard stories about the beauty of childbirth, about how I would cry when I first beheld the new life that I had helped create. My mom had called me just this morning and told me how she still remembered my birth and I could hear her voice catch as she related the tale.

I remember looking down at my loving wife – she on the cusp of delivering our child – and feeling emotion well up in my throat.  No.  Not emotion, bile.  Definitely bile.  I was going to be sick.  Her body was transforming into something alien.  In fact, her body was becoming something from the movie Alien.  If you haven’t seen childbirth, you can experience the disgust like this: download Aliens with Sigourney Weaver, watch the scene where the alien explodes from the guy’s chest. Add realistic screams.  Make the guy the woman that you love. And THEN make the alien come out of her vagina.

A million thoughts raced through my mind.  None of them were appropriate to my role as the strong, supportive “birth partner.”  I wanted to call my mom and ask her what sort of drugs she had been on during and since my delivery to remember it with anything other than horror and revulsion.  With the number of stories I had heard about the beauty of the moment, the sight of my child being pushed into the world had me wondering if I had fallen asleep and was merely having a nightmare.  I wanted to look away, to preserve the image of my wife that I had carried so fondly until now.

My wife’s body was…wrong; completely, totally wrong. And, horror of horrors, what was wrong about my wife’s body was wrong in exactly my favorite place. It was stretching out.  (By the way, this was the image that Rick’s art had reminded me of.)  The body part that I loved precisely because it was an innie was becoming an outie.  And it was a huge outie. How could I ever fool myself into thinking that I could re-enter her and have a hope of pleasing her? Have a hope of her even noticing me in her.

At this point I think I need to make one thing clear…I love my wife. Dearly. Completely. Totally. But if I had to pick a favorite body part of hers, I would not choose her gut.  And, yes, I realize that there is more to her than a vagina but right at that moment, it is all I can think of.  As I write this, it’s still all I can think of.  I wanted to look away, to preserve the image of my wife that I had carried so fondly until now.

I went back to the pregnancy books to see if there was any information about the trauma I was feeling.  There wasn’t anything to be found.  Apparently, the anguish of the father is not just secondary to the mother and child but it is so insignificant that it isn’t even mentioned.

An internet search for help only found one source of information.  An article published in The Journal of Men’s Studies showed that men do suffer trauma when present during childbirth but they went on to say that the trauma was generally the result of a lack of preparation.  This information was useless to me now.

The thing I found that was helpful were accounts of police officers and soldiers who keep reliving the trauma of battle and are unable to shake the images that they lived through.  These brave men and women are often diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).  According to the Brain & Behavior Research Foundation, people suffering from PTSD are said to have flashbacks, nightmares, and anxiety or frightening thoughts about the event.  Check.  The information indicated that those suffering from PTSD often engage in avoidance behavior so as to not experience the traumatic memories.  Check.

The question at the end of this is this: What do I do?  I can’t raise this issue with anyone in person.  That might result in physical, rather than emotional, trauma.  I don’t want to go to a psychologist and detail my affliction, that just doesn’t sound comforting.  The other dad’s in the play groups don’t say anything, but I know they are suffering too.  Whenever the talk turns to the birth, they get a distant look in their eye and nod at the right times, say the right words but they aren’t fooling me.  I know they are suffering exactly as I am; quietly, shamefully.

Personally, I will continue my silence.  I saw what my wife went through, I know how strong she is.  There is no way I’m going to chance upsetting a woman that could go through that.



In order to ensure planned pregnancies still occur I should let you fathers-to-be know something: there is nothing more magical than the power of the vagina to regain it’s shape after childbirth.  I have no idea why millions of dollars are being spent to develop anti-aging compounds.  The vagina holds the secret.  I’m positive that ground vaginal tissue mixed into a cream would eliminate wrinkles after only a few applications.  In fact, my respect for the regenerative powers of the vagina goes so far that I’m looking into technology that would allow me to have the front end of my car wrapped in vaginal tissue.  I’m positive that this would allow me to cut down on repair bills after my frequent car accidents.


I have had a few friends read some of my Ramblings and ask me to start a blog. After a long time thinking about it, I decided to do it. Hope you enjoy it.  Feedback appreciated.