Fortunately abortions were not yet legal.  On November 9, 1966 (Daddy’s birthday) in a church I’d never attended, I walked down the isle on the arm of my father, legs barely able to walk for all the quivering.  My high school sweetheart, the father of the baby in my belly, Ed, stood near the alter facing us.  Unsure if I was shaking because I was four months pregnant, getting to marry my two-year boyfriend, or I was crying from sheer happiness, I carried a wad of snotty Kleenex in my free hand.  I would say quite likely all of it, plus the added bonus of getting out from under mother’s thumb.  A Hail Mary, if I were Catholic or sports minded.

Ed and I made our first home in Oakland, California.  He was stationed at Alameda Naval Station, where our apartment bedroom was a converted walk-in-closet...wall-to-wall double bed.  Good for newlyweds.  The bigger I grew, the smaller our bedroom, the less space for making love.  He swore he could feel the baby’s head when we did.   I knew better, just didn’t know it was called a G-Spot.

Our bliss was short lived, the Viet Nam War needed another aircraft carrier, his.  So I said “goodbye” when he sailed off to war and went home to mother and father.  You do not argue with the military.

Things were markedly different.  Somehow mother saw a woman in me now, one she could not control.  I had earned her respect in a bizarre way.

I was always Daddy’s girl, even when I knew he had the affair with my best friend’s mother and busted him on it.  (Never said anything to anyone until now.)  Funny, even as a teenager I thought he deserved to have some fun, like anyone in her orbit.

When labor began around midnight... after returning from a drive-in movie where I saw “In Cold Blood”, I squatted over the toilet to relieve the fierce pressure.  Within in a few hours the water broke and I had to wake up my mother.  Her expectations were simple; be like her, stoic, silent, rigid.

Off we went to Tripler Army Hospital, perched quietly on a lush green hillside, but with rules, always rules.

The last thing she said to me, before I was wheeled off to the maternity ward was, "If you so much as scream, I'll hear you." She needed to say nothing else.  Understood.  I would have saluted her if not for being double over in pain.

I lay in a room with three other women in various stages of birth, all were screaming out in pain. One called out, “Mary, Mother of Jesus”. Another let go with primordial, guttural, piercing screams of pain, while the other cursed like a drunken sailor. I was too petrified to make a sound other than an occasional moan, even those were only when I could cover my face with a pillow trying to muffle the pitiful, swallowed sounds from reaching mother’s never-miss-a-thing ears.

The four hours of stifling moans were almost as hurtful as the labor pains.   Finally, when I dilated to the proper size, they wheeled me into the delivery room. I was by then eager to lean back quickly into the long epidural needle, having been assured this would finally end this pain. It did.

I watched my son's birth in the overhead mirror, detached but mesmerized, nothing short of being miraculous, welcome, and finally over.  I asked mother to check his ears for me. To this day I do not know why, but she  did and assured me they were

fine. Hello son.

I would open an eye some nights and see her in my rocking chair, back and forth, burping or feeding him.  I wondered if she had been as mechanical with her three?  Of course she was, but I also glimpsed moments of extreme tenderness, perhaps sorrow.  Neither would I have immediately recognized on her face.  Maybe she was not the bitch she later apologized to me for being, while on her deathbed.  Of course she was, but I was not an easy child either.  But she bonded with my son, something I should have been doing.  Hindsight is a bitch sometimes.

After two weeks back at home, I got a job, working in a five-and-dime.  Mother graciously offered to watch him, for free, while I worked. It was a minimum-wage job and part-time at that. After only a week there, I knew it was not for me.

I put in an application with Hawaiian Telephone Company, and was hired immediately as a long distance operator.  A girlfriend who also married a serviceman was hired too, except she was stuck in Directory Assistance. Never mind, we rode to our respective trainings together.

I first encountered real discrimination in the work force at this job, directed against me. I was shocked.  Solely because I was not Hawaiian or some mixture of it, I was segregated at mealtimes. It was very difficult to eat lunch alone, amid a crowded room of laughter. I needed to fit in, but it seemed not this time around either.  I was white, not good enough to mingle. 

While I worked on the switchboard, I was okay usually. I say usually because even though I would sit next to  "locals" (on either side of me) they normally would ignore me. This is not to say we were allowed to talk, because we were not.  We just sat in front of the switchboard putting the plugs in, dialing numbers, and when the call was finished we pulled the cord out.  Repetition at its finest.

Anyone who wanted to call, anyplace other than the island we lived on, had to dial “O” and go through an operator. All day/night shift long I would choose random lights indicating incoming calls, plug into it and say, "Operator."  I had devised a repertoire of interesting ways to say “Oper-A-tor”, with and without accents.  People would tell you where they wanted to call and I would dial it, putting the two calls together. At any given time we could listen in on the conversations, but mostly we would listen in to make sure the connection was valid. I say most times, because there were a few  interesting ones; sex by phone was popular even then.

The eight-hour shift flew by, and often volunteered to work overtime, up to a double shift. Time going quickly meant I would be reunited with Ed sooner. When I was lucky enough to have a girl sit next to me and talk a little, the supervisor would yell at me, sometimes slamming me on the head with the rule manual.  The other two looked away.  I said nothing.

One day in the lunchroom I opened my wallet to show someone a photo of my baby, and the gal I was showing it to happened to notice a photo of my husband. "Is he Hawaiian?"

"Yes."

She stood up arms waving and got the entire lunchroom's attention. "Eeeehhh...Sheila is MARRIED to a LOCAL boy, da kid is Hapa!  She’s da kine," It was like a switch had been flipped everyone came around to look at the photos all talking at once.

She turned to me, "Why you didn’t say you married a local boy?"

"I didn't know it would make any difference."

Things got so much easier  after that, at least at work. From this point on no more books upside the head or being ignored. I was no longer "invisible" to them.

I was a hard worker during this time nearly every soldier who could get to call home would. It seems in Viet Nam, or Wake Island or wherever they could call from, tents and ships, the guys lined up for these MARS calls. That meant they were using radios I believe...it stood for Military Army Radio Signal, if I remember correctly. I would answer a call, some soldier would say, “Operator, this is a MARS call, I have 20 (or whatever number of calls were to be made) to be made."

I would fill out a card for each one with the soldier's name and number they wanted to call.  They were always collect calls. One day, one of the calls I answered was a kid I went to high school with and knew pretty well. When his turn came I broke a cardinal rule by telling him who I was. But it was wonderful to get to speak to him for a few seconds, to know he was alive...at least for the moment. I felt every MARS call I got was special, each man I was able to connect with a loved one.  I felt I was doing something important in my life. I was proud to be serving my country in the one way I could.

I was run down from giving birth, working double shifts, stubbornly did not take the advised six weeks off afterwards,and came down with  Mono. It took the doctors awhile to diagnose it, but I could barely stay awake long enough to feed my son. Some days I woke up feeling halfway decent, would go to work only to have to go home after an hour. Life was tough. I grew up faster than I should have. Maybe.

Once I healed and went back to work, it was not long before my husband would get his "leave". I knew wherever he would be stationed Mike and I would join him. I got notice his ship would be back for three months, to Alameda. Finally, he would get to meet his son.

By late 1967 we were back on a United Airline flight from Honolulu to Oakland, a mother and her infant son. The diaper bag was stowed underneath the seat in front of me, my son was fast asleep in my lap. I lit a cigarette thinking about how it would to be to present our son to his father. I was very nervous and excited to see him again. I was going to be with my husband, now six months after giving birth to our son. I knew he had already chosen a suitable apartment and car for us.

I saved most of my money during the entire time he was away, as he had done. I splurged on a new dress, a black and white polka-dot, fashionable "baby-doll" style, but I knew he wouldn’t care what I was wearing after all of this time. I also made a special diaper cover for my son, a blue and white Hawaiian print. I knew how much my husband missed Hawaii, and this was my way of bringing a piece of home to him. I also packed a few of his favorite snacks; dried sweet and salty seeds, Aloha Soy Sauce, and some dried cuttlefish.

About four hours into the flight, I smelled something foul. I realized my son had dirtied his diaper, but it was not until I maneuvered him into a position to change him did I see it leaking our of his diaper, soiling my new dress. Between fragile nerves and this accident, I was on the verge of tears. I changed him and desperately tried to clean off my dress.  First using water, then soda water. Frankly, all it did was create a huge wet spot on my lap, I cried.  Now sobbing and just thirty minutes from landing, I frantically aimed the overhead air vent towards my lap to dry it off. It worked, however because of the fabric, it shriveled and now was wrinkly, and made the dress shorter in front when I stood up. I calmed myself, reasoning Ed would be too excited seeing both of us to give a damn about my dress. Besides I figured, it would be coming off soon enough. Nine months without sex had to be made up for.

At last the doors to the airplane opened. I gathered up my newly changed son and our belongings to begin the long walk down the crowded isles into the terminal. Once through the doorway I saw a sea of white sailor hats. I searched through the faces looking for his familiar face, his big brown eyes. Suddenly I saw him standing there in his freshly creased white uniform, his face bronze with a broad grin beaming across his handsome face.  We ran towards each other, crowds be damned. We kissed deeply. After a moment in the silence of our private world, it was shattered by a whimper. "Oh." We both laughed as we realized he had not been introduced his son yet.

"Mike, this is your father. Ed, this is your son." I held him out so his daddy could finally hold him for the first time. I saw tears well up in those brown eyes, the exact same eyes his son had. There was softness, a quiet pride I never noticed before. He looked at me and then back at Mike, smiling.  I knew everything had been worth it. I sighed with relief.

The apartment he rented was in the basement of a Victorian style house in Alameda. It was an odd layout; you had to go through the bedroom to get to the kitchen. Oh well, it was amazing enough to have a separate bedroom. There were two closets, one we decided to make into a bedroom for Mike by taking off the door. There was enough room for his crib, giving us a little privacy, or the semblance of it. We set about bonding again as a couple, and in time, as a family of three.

Nobody ever spoke about the difficulties of the military wife; especially how you bridge the gap of time you were separated by the necessity of his job. Even while he was stationed back in the states for a few months, there were those nights he was required to stay on the ship/base. It was not easy. Mother never shared details of her life as a military spouse, how she handled it all. It is a good thing some of us lived near each other, for support, the kind of morale boosting we needed. It is not enough to only  support the guys, because we had a job too. Money was always an issue. Though when he was away, he got an additional amount for "combat" pay, about $90 a month. Still, along with his regular pay it was woefully inadequate for as much as we wanted, much less needed.

I let a month go by for "family adjustment" before I looked for a job. In those days, there was no shortage of work, especially in military towns. I took a job as a receptionist for a car dealership. I was the only woman working there. I was able to find child-care easily. In those days, it seemed far easier to find someone willing, someone you trusted. I never worried about it. Perhaps it was because it was a military town and everyone tried to help each other out.  Even so, the cost was reasonable. 

Soon enough it was time for his ship to deploy again. As sad as it is to be pulled apart again for another six to nine months, it was a way of life, the life of a war bride.  I knew, as well as any wife, it did not matter how much I did not want him to go, he had to. Before long we were standing on the pier saying goodbye again, this time I would not be going back home; instead I would stay and keep the home fires burning.

Mail service was sporadic, I wrote daily, but it seemed it would be weeks of waiting until I got a letter. I cherished the few letters he wrote to me, full of longing and love for us. I reckoned he was really busy. In reality I was too, being a mother and working woman.

As the months slowly passed by I decided it was time for us to move, to a two bedroom apartment; one where other wives lived, a modern apartment. It was also within walking distance of my job so I could come home and see my son at lunch. I got us moved easily enough considering we did not have much. I notified the base of our new address.

I also called the base Chaplain, the man we were told to "lean on." I wanted him to let my husband know he needed to write to us more. The constant waiting, worrying and responsibilities weighed heavily on my young mind.  I needed more support.

The men at the car dealership were only too happy to pay attention me. They probably think I never noticed how they stood at the bottom of the stairs every time I went up to my office. Miniskirts do make it hard to cover up. Being young I wore the fashions of the time. Some might think it was wrong, but I enjoyed the men’s attentions. I was not getting anything from my husband.  I felt alive at work.

Even when I did get his sporadic letters I noticed a difference in him. His letters were now arriving with drawings on the envelope and decorations in the borders. The content was just as baffling, a rambling style unlike what I had grown accustomed to. I was confused. I wrote him back telling him I missed the man I knew, the one who loved chocolate pudding, blue holy tennis shoes, his Hawaiian songs, our reminiscing, his lovemaking. It was an appeal to not forget us, our love, his son.

I wanted to scream, “Doesn't anyone hear me?”

It was early on a Saturday morning,1969.   I slept in for an extra hour. It was extraordinarily quiet. I practically flew out of my bedroom to check on my son, a very active two-year old. With a few steps I spotted him dumping a bag of sugar all over the kitchen floor. "N- O-O!" It took every ounce of restraint not to yank him up by his arm and spank him because I feared once I began I would not stop. Instead I fixed him breakfast and set about cleaning up the big mess.

The news of the war was depressing. I tried to watch President Nixon's talk on tv but it scared and confused me so I turned it off. I also heard the older guys at work talking in hushed tones, but in spite of it there were words I heard like "massacre", and " My Lai", and "protests". Things I tried not to let get to me.

I received so few letters from Ed. Intellectually I knew he was fighting the war, serving his country. I had to assume he was safe. I'm sure mail service to and from the ship wasn't easy, nor frequent, but I knew I wrote him every night, faithfully. Once and awhile I would get two--maybe three letters at once, but the dates on them revealed they were old and not consecutively written, much less than on the daily basis as he had promised me.

The simple truth was I couldn't imagine his life, nor could he imagine mine. Tt became increasing clear with each passing day. He spoke of faraway ports, taking leave and going drinking with his friends. I wondered if he had other women on those occasions? He loves me.  He loves me not? It could drive a young girl crazy. I wrote now, of his son who now walking, asking for "da-da", and of how empty I felt without him next to me during the long, lonely nights.

The phone rang disturbing another unsettling internal debate. It was the base Chaplain. I glimmer of both hope and fear shook me. He said he'd spoken to my husband, “... didn't know what my "problem" was.”   I should make some friends because "...you're probably just lonely". I thanked him for his advice and hung up, feeling even more...angry. Yes, I was livid, maybe for the first time. I was angry at the war, angry at the Navy, angry at my husband for not getting it, angry at the chaplain for his lack of compassion, angry that I was having to raise our son alone, and on top of it all-- I was tired of being the mommy, and filling in for daddy, and working full time. In short, I was angry at the world. I hated my life.  There were still a few more months before he would be coming back to us from sea duty, and then only for six-weeks. Six short damn weeks after nine excruciatingly long months of doing whatever it was he was doing. It was not fair.

I called my mother who was still living in Hawaii. While saying my goodbyes to her, I turned my back to my son, attempting to make myself heard over to his crying-- "Mommy... Mommy..." we both were screaming. All of a sudden I felt a blow to the back of my head. I screamed.  My child was holding a yardstick poised and ready to whack me again. I screamed at him, "No, you don't hit mommy. Ever!"  To my mother, “I have to go.” Click.

The truth is I was stunned. He wanted my complete attention, the same thing I wanted, only he figured out how to get it. "BAD BOY!" I screamed at him. I marched him into his room and closed the door saying, "You can come out when you are a good boy."

I sat down on the couch and began to cry. I cried for him, I cried for me. He was missing having a daddy and all he had was a part-time mother, evenings and weekends. Not his fault he wanted more of his mother, but the truth was I was out of me; utterly and completely on empty. He was wailing from behind his door, " Mama-daddy-mama-daddy." I yelled back to him, "You gunna be a good boy now?"

He kept on sobbing, adding defiantly, "No." This would continue for hours, it would be a very long day.

By July 20, 1969  most Americans were disillusioned about the war, yet we were also about to witness a moment of great national pride; Astronaut Neil Armstrong stepping on the moon. That night I had our black and white television turned on, so excited to get watch it broadcast "live". I was transfixed when suddenly I got an idea; to turn my little television toward the front door, open it and look up at the big full moon and then back at the tv.  I was trying to make reality from the surreal. My straddled stance, half-in and half-out of the doorway, juxtaposed with the two different (yet the same) images helped to bring even more wonder at hearing those first tinny words; "One small step for man...one giant leap for mankind". The words being uttered so far away from the first human fought within my brain. I tried to make sense of what my eyes were seeing, both outside and inside on the tv.

The momentary freedom to escape the world was irresistible. It was a collective uplifting we all needed at this particular time. It was a shame that exact moment could not have lasted longer for us all, yet oddly it became the path to a new, exciting kind of hope for us. Soon a different kind of door was going to open up both personally, and in many ways for all of us. The beginning of withdrawal of the first troops from Viet Nam had already begun.

I was a mere three weeks away from turning twenty-one.  That night as I lay in bed, the fissure in the foundation of my marriage was slowly expanding. Between sobs I felt a sore throat. Little did I know my world was about to rock.