The Story Of My Tattoo

Finding my drum circle

My family has seen my tattoo, but they wouldn’t understand its meaning if I told them. It is a feeling more than anything else.

As a child, my mother had an unspoken misogyny. Being a strong and independent woman, to her, seemed to mean being less of a woman. Coming from the “Boomer” generation, successful womanhood meant you obtained a husband to support you. That had not happened for her, and so, most other women were the object of her resentment.

Although she had some ‘girlfriends’ and openly admired the women doctors that she knew, most of the time her words towards the same sex were scathing. In particular, my step dad’s ex-wife was of angered obsession. Few days went by that I did not hear my mom telling someone, anyone, about that “expensive boob job” and how she only shops at the “finest stores”…as if working on appearance and buying things for yourself are ultimate crimes of disgusting proportions.

I never really understood her jealousy with other women. I had friends, but with my own depression and problems, I never really developed a deep bond with anyone. In the military, I defended my fellow female Airmen. We had enough BS on our plate, nobody needed to be attacking each other. Still. I got along better with a choice group of guys and just assumed that is how I was.

Fast forward to the age of 30. I was pregnant with my third child. Previous pregnancies and child birth had been less than ideal. I had them both when I was very young and nobody felt bad about criticizing me or treating me like an absolute idiot. I dreaded going to the hospital to have eyes rolled and be talked down to. I decided on a home birth.

For months I researched home birth to the best of my ability. I read studies, watched documentaries, joined home birthing groups online, and bought all of the relevant books. By the end of the nine months I was confident it would be just fine. After all, my previous labors had lasted less than three hours. Easy.

At this point I had made some women friends. I had left the military and was living as a military spouse overseas. They were there and I talked to them at group meetups or texted from time to time. We never “hung out”. What did women even DO when they hung out? I had no idea.

The day I went into labor started off fine. I had done my best to prepare my high-functioning-autistic husband for the process. At first he was excited and we performed labor dances in the kitchen. Soon, we began to set up the birthing pool. A test run had not been performed. The hose wouldn’t connect properly to the faucet. It became a bit of a struggle and he grew frustrated.

The labor was already lasting a little longer than I would have preferred, but I was older now and it could be expected. I got into the birthing pool too soon and it slowed things down even further. To make matters worse, it was difficult to keep the temperature of the water up. My husband had to start heating up big pots of water on the stove. He grew more frustrated.

It was also during this time in our lives that he was a heavy drinker. Every night he went through can after can, playing video games, and eventually passing out. The fool in me assumed he would forgo the ritual for his wife’s labor. Alas, he began to drink. There was no more labor dance. He was irritated with the process. More to the point, he figured I had done this twice already and it was in good hands.

I was left alone. The night grew darker. The pool grew colder. I became afraid. As the hours passed, I began to wonder why I had not given birth yet. My water had broken, but it was only a slow trickle instead of a gush. The isolation, pain, cold, and darkness made me wish I was just at that damn hospital. Sure, the nurses would be rude, but at least I wouldn’t be alone.

When he woke up in the morning, I told him to just take me in. I was crying. I had lost my chill. Which is always a bad idea with him, because his chill relies on my chill. He instantly became stressed and concerned. We drove to the hospital in silence.

The nurses, were rude as I expected. At one point I tried to make noises from my normally quiet mouth, and the nurse told me to just shut up and not waste my energy. I was sent to a room to continue my labor. I considered hiding in the bathroom, in a hot shower, and giving birth there. I started this alone, might as well finish it alone.

Before I could make it that far, the labor picked up. I tossed and turned a bit. An oxygen mask was slapped on my face. I had heard stories of this hospital. Their unusually high number of c-sections. I suspected that because it was a military hospital they would make any excuse to perform one, for practice. Tears once again streamed down my face. I panicked, thinking of the complete opposite from the natural birth I had planned for months.

I had asked for pain management. Screw it. I was at the hospital. Might as well take advantage of the one thing they had to offer. Drugs. My husband complained that he had to support my weight during the application of the epidural. What’s wrong dear? Hung over?

Something was wrong with the epidural. Only one side of me had gone numb. I kept telling them I was still in pain. I called out, “please help me. pain. pain.” Even the anesthesiologist looked stressed. Then I turned to one side and the block moved, I suddenly felt pain relief. My body relaxed. In less than a minute, my baby girl was in my arms. Followed by a snide remark form the doctor that I could have made it without the pain relief.

The rest of the hospital stay was very upsetting for me. I spent every minute I could bonding with my daughter. Constantly unwrapping her from the blankets the nursing staff put her in and holding her close under my own blanket. Skin to skin. Mommy to baby. I cried a lot. Silent tears. I worried I had made her entrance into the world a traumatic one. I regretted that I wasn’t stronger. More independent. Why couldn’t I be what my husband had assumed? Fully capable of just popping out a baby at home with zero support.

When we returned home, I checked my phone for messages. A local friend had asked how the labor was going and told me to let her know if all of our female friends needed to come over and form a drum circle. I was shocked. Why didn’t I think to call on my fellow women? Why was I going it alone? Who better to be there for me than other women who KNOW?

This was one of the larger lessons in my life. I learned in those moments that I could ask for help. That I could depend on other people. That I didn’t have to trudge through difficult times in silence. I learned I am part of a community of women. We can be there for each other. We can use our collective wisdom and hold each other up. We can form our drum circle and do big things.

This all took place in Okinawa. At the age of 31, I walked into a Tattoo parlor and got Okinawa (in Kanji) tattooed onto my wrist. For the average observer, it looks like I just love Okinawa…and I do. But, this tattoo was bigger than that. It was about remembering the place where I learned to love and trust my fellow women in new ways. A place where I learned I wasn’t alone. A place where I picked up my drum.

I am writing about improving myself, traveling, making money, paying off debts, figuring out how to help others, and all the thoughts and questions I have along the way. Consider following me to see what happens next!