I’m scared.

No, make that terrified.  I’m terrified about writing my new book, INCENSE & PEPPERMINTS.  And it’s because I’m afraid I won’t be able to do it justice.

For months now, I’ve been researching material about the Vietnam War, and specifically about the heroic Army nurses who served there.  Their stories will be imprinted in my mind for the rest of my life. 

I look back on 1971, the year I joined the Air Force, a naïve, frivolous girl just out of high school.  I didn’t join the military out of any sense of patriotic duty as many of those Army nurses had done.  No, my motives were more selfish.  I wanted to get out of my home state of Indiana, and since my father had no intention of paying for college, the military looked like my only option.  My best friend, Susie, had gone off to Goshen College to major in nursing, and I hoped for a career in the medical field as well, but I went into the Air Force with no guarantee of career choice. 

Luckily, after taking my aptitude test in basic training, I was assigned to Sheppard Air Force Base in Texas for medical technician training. 

I guess it was while serving at Sheppard that I came the closest to a Vietnam experience.  Near the end of the four month course, each med tech had to participate in an exercise known as “bivouac training.”  From the moment of my arrival at Sheppard, I’d heard these two words uttered in ominous tones from previous students.  The horror stories relayed to my innocent ears grew in proportion with each telling.  Stories of mock plane crashes where instructors could flunk you and immediately send you back to Sheppard because your incompetence had killed a “patient.”  Stories of crawling through obstacle courses on your belly, dragging a “patient” on a litter as smoke bombs exploded overhead.  Stories of being left in the wilderness without food, awaiting troops to find you.  By the time I climbed aboard the bus transporting us newbies to Oklahoma where the three-day exercise would take place, I was a trembling mass of nerves.

And it was every bit as awful as I’d heard.  The obstacle courses and smoke bombs were for real.  They did leave me out in the cold Oklahoma forest (it was December) where I shivered for hours until I was “found.”  The mock plane crash was gruesomely realistic—the fire from the fuselage lighting up the night sky, injured survivors scattered on the cold ground, screaming (quite convincingly) in fear and pain.  And then the final test—an evaluation of our emergency care skills. This final exam was set up like a relay race—ten stations, each of which held a medical dummy with a specific injury—sucking chest wound, snake bite, shock…etc.  An instructor stood at each station with his clipboard, evaluating our treatment of our “patient.”  Our decisions had to be immediate and correct or our patient would die.  A dead patient meant failure—and a return to bivouac training the following month—something no one wanted to do. 

Somehow, I sailed through the final exam, attending my “patients” on some kind of medical auto-pilot.  And in those three days in the Oklahoma wild, I metamorphosed from a young scared student into a medical technician in the United States Air Force.

I look back at my sense of pride back then, my feelings of accomplishment for surviving—and doing well—during that bivouac training, and an overpowering sense of irony settles upon me.  During those days of “play-acting” in Oklahoma, young nurses—most of them in their early 20’s, just a couple of years older than I was–were being thrown into real mass casualty situations on the other side of the world.  They were working on soldiers in real life-or-death situations. Many of them held dying soldiers in their arms as they called out for their mothers.  They were the last faces those young men saw as their lives slipped away. 

And I feel humbled.  And heartbroken.  Those young women lived through experiences that would send today’s typical young woman into a catatonic state from which they’d never recover.

Those nurses, most of them, anyway, still walk among us.  God knows the scars they carry with them from their experiences in Vietnam.  Their lives were irrevocably changed by what they saw, the soldiers they lost, and the ones they saved for what most certainly would be an uncertain future.  Many have been treated for Traumatic Stress Syndrome.  The Vietnam War occurred over forty years ago, but for these brave women who served there, it is still with them every day.

So, that’s why I’m scared.  I want to write a novel that will make them proud.  That they’ll read and say, “Yes, that’s what it was like!”  I want to write a book that will be as heroic and human and vulnerable and heartbreaking and beautiful as the souls of every nurse who served there.

Can I do it?  I don’t know.  But I will try.  I owe them that. 

Congratulations to Diane Fondelheit of Dayville, CT, my April website winner.  Come by my website and enter this month’s contest.  www.CaroleBellacera.com. 

Blessings,

Carole

I purposely put off writing my April newsletter this month because I really didn’t have anything interesting to say.  We were leaving for our annual ski vacation in Vermont, so I took my AlphaSmart along, hoping that by the last few days of the vacation, I’d have something to write about.

            And I do.  But it’s not exactly what I had in mind.  Before I tell you what happened, let me go back in time to 1994.

            That’s the year I skied for the first time. I’d always had a secret desire to try skiing, but you know, that’s just something that seemed impossible for a middle-class citizen who’s never laid eyes on a ski resort. But my daughter, Leah and her friend, Jen, wanted to try it, so we drove up for the day to Bryce Resort in Virginia, about two hours away from home, and took our first lessons.  It didn’t take long for me to get hooked, even though I later realized I really hadn’t learned much at all about skiing that day.  I recently came across a picture Leah took of me that day; I was pretty much just sliding straight down the hill, clutching my poles as if they were lifelines, my butt stuck out as I crouched over my skis to give myself some needed momentum.  Staring at that picture, I couldn’t help but laugh.  I’d been so proud of myself, thinking I was really skiing! 

            But that first ski trip to Bryce was the beginning of my love affair with the sport.  The following December, our whole family went up to Ski Liberty Resort in Pennsylvania, and there, my husband and son fell in love with skiing, too.  And that’s how our annual ski vacation came about.  At first, we were happy with places close to home—Massanutten in Virginia, Camelback in Pennsylvania, Canaan Valley and Snowshoe in West Virginia.  But back in 2000, we decided to go to Vermont because we’d heard that the Green Mountain State had the best skiing in the Eastern United States.  The first resort we tried was Smuggler’s Notch, rated the # 1 Family Resort by Ski Magazine several years in a row.

            How could I know then that Smuggs might turn out to be our last ski resort as well?  Because right now, I very much fear my skiing days are over.

            It happened on Thursday, April 3^rd sometime between 3:30 and 4:00.  As we rode up in the chairlift together, Frank told me he was going to head to the condo after one last run.  I said I wanted to do one more if there was time. The lifts closed at 4:00, and since this would be one of our last runs of the season, I wanted to get in as many as I could.

            Frank waved at me from the bottom of the hill and clicked out of his skis while I turned to the chairlift for my last run.  Little did I know that that last run might just turn out to be the last one ever for me.

            It was a good run, even though the warmth of the beautiful sunny day had turned the snow to crystallized slush.  But I skied it fast and flawlessly, enjoying every smooth S-turn, relishing in the joy of a sport I’d loved from that very first day at Bryce…even before I actually learned to ski.  It’s impossible for non-skiers to understand the passion we avid skiers have for the sport—the exhilaration of flying down the mountain in complete control.  It’s so easy to forget how quickly you can lose that control—and how your life can change dramatically in an instant.  I remembered my fall last year at Killington; it happened just like that.  One second I was skiing in total control, and the next, I hit the snow hard, knees first, then my chest—and just like that, I had two fractured ribs.  And I still don’t know what happened to make me lose control. 

            But on this last run, everything was perfect.  I reached the bottom of the slope, clicked out of my skis and headed back to the condo. 

            When I opened the ski locker, I was disappointed to see that my sister’s skis were not there.  And the vague worry I’d had earlier in the afternoon resurfaced.

            I’d last seen Kathy at the summit of Morse Mountain, the smallest of the three peaks that make up Smugglers Notch.  As we’d rode up in the lift together, she’d been contemplating taking the one blue run on Morse.  Even the lift operator knew about it because as we got off the lift, he asked her if she was finally going to try Snowsnake. Frank was in the chairlift behind us, and as Kathy headed toward Snowsnake, he called out to her.  “Break a leg, Kathy!”  Horrified, I chastised him, informing him that that particular saying should be used only for theater, and he quickly corrected himself.  “Good luck, I mean.”  Kathy smiled and waved—and we headed off in different directions.

            That was the last I’d seen her.  After watching for her, and not seeing her anywhere, I asked the lift operator if he’d seen her lately.  He remembered her right away, and said he thought she’d headed over to Sterling Peak, the second largest mountain that had nothing but blue runs and black diamonds.  Alarm bells went off in my mind.  Kathy was a good skier, but she hadn’t skied for two years, and our first two days of skiing here at Smuggs had been tentative for her.  I wasn’t sure she was ready for the blues on Sterling. 

            So when I saw that her skis weren’t in the locker, I had a gut feeling that something was wrong.  And it wasn’t more than a minute before I found out I was right.

            I opened the door to the condo, and Frank met me in the kitchen.  “I’ve got bad news.  Kathy took a fall on Madonna and she’s at the ski patrol office.  They’ve called an ambulance.”

            That’s all he knew. In a state of panic, I took only enough time to get out of ski boots, and we were in the truck, heading for the Madonna lodge.  I didn’t even think to grab my purse or my cell phone. 

            A few minutes later, I burst into the Ski Patrol office, and saw Kathy on a stretcher.  She had an oxygen mask glued to her nose and mouth, but she was conscious.  Her ski suit had been c cut away to reveal a swollen right leg. An IV dripped a solution into a vein in her hand. The ski patrol couldn’t tell us much, but it was obvious they believed she’d suffered a fracture of her femur—the large bone in the thigh.  The ambulance arrived, and I rode with her for the hour long trip to a trauma care center in Burlington.  The rescue guys were great; the drive took so long because of the winter condition of Vermont roads—the pothole and bumps and frost heaves which would add to her agony if we went too fast.  They kept her sedated with pain medication throughout.  In the Emergency Room, the real pain came when they had to remove her ski boot, and then later, when her injured leg began to spasm. 

            The trauma team did a portable X-ray, and a few minutes later, I saw the film myself, and even a grade schooler could tell she had definitely fractured her femur.  An orthopedic surgeon was called in, and within two hours, she was in surgery. Gone are the days of a hospital stay in traction for weeks on end.  They inserted a nail into her bone to bring the two pieces back together, and the next morning, they had her up and walking with a walker.  She won’t be able to put any weight on her injured leg for at least four weeks.  She won’t be able to drive for probably three months. 

            I’m writing this from the back seat of our car as we head back to Virginia. Kathy is in the front passenger seat, her right foot cushioned by a pillow on the floor.  Frank is driving.  Every two hours, we have to switch off—Kathy moves to the back seat with her injured leg stretched out on the seat.  Frank moves to the front passenger seat, and I drive.  It’s going to be a long trip back home.  We’ll have to stay in a hotel tonight, and with any luck, we’ll get home before dark tomorrow night.  The biggest danger for Kathy now is the threat of a blood clot; that’s why she has to move and change position every two hours.  They’ve put her on a blood thinner to help prevent this from happening, and it’s administered every day through an injection into her abdomen. 

            Kathy has a long road of recovery ahead of her.  She can’t go back to her home in Kentucky because she drove out to my house, and that’s where her car is.  And even if she could, she lives alone, and there’s no one to care for her.  Staying with us is the only option, and of course, I’d have it no other way.  She’s my sister, and I want to help her in any way I can.  But there are all kinds of logistical problems—ongoing medical care, the rental properties she owns in Kentucky, and most of all, her animals.  She has two cats and a dog.  We have to figure out what to do about them.  The dog is being boarded, but obviously, having him stay there for three months isn’t an option.  She’s hoping a neighbor will take him in and care for him.  The cats are outdoor cats, and with spring coming on, she’s sure they’ll be fine with my dad coming over to leave food for them.  Still, she worries that they’ll go off, and she’ll never see them again.  Personally, I think having Jasper and the kitties, Alvin and LBK, out here with us would be good medicine for Kathy, but with the price of gasoline, it’s just not practical to have someone go get them and bring them back to Virginia. And having them flown out?  Well, God knows that would be exorbitant, too.  And with the medical bills Kathy will be facing, I just don’t think we can justify the expense. (And on the issue of practicality, although her animals would be good medicine for her, they’re also a lot of work, so even if we could bring them out, should we?)

            So…there are all kinds of problems were going to have to work out.  All because of two seconds of skiing.  Two seconds that I know Kathy would like to have back.

            It’s times like these where it’s natural to play the “what if” game.  What if she hadn’t decided to take one more run?  What if she hadn’t decided to go over to Madonna, the largest of the three peaks?  What if I hadn’t chosen Smuggs this year?  What if we’d taken our usual trip to Stowe?  What if Frank hadn’t unwittingly told Kathy to “break a leg?”  What if I hadn’t been reading Amy Tan’s THE BONESETTER’S DAUGHTER?  Perhaps then…it wouldn’t have happened. 

            But playing the “what if” game gets you nowhere. It is what it is.  That’s one of Kathy’s favorite sayings.  And that’s what we have to deal with.  What is.

            But having something this devastating happen does bring you to a crossroads.  That’s where I am right now.

            Is it time to give up skiing?  Is the Universe trying to tell us we should sell our skis on EBay and instead of heading up to Vermont every winter, take a cruise instead? 

            I turned 55 last month.  I know for a fact that my bone scan a few years ago revealed tiny pinpoints—the beginning of osteoporosis.  If I should take a hard fall skiing one day, I could fracture a lot more than a couple of ribs.  And after seeing what Kathy has gone through the last couple of days, I have to ask myself…is the joy of skiing worth the risk? 

            I don’t know.  I just don’t know the answer to that.  Maybe when winter rolls around again, maybe then I’ll be able to make a decision. 

            But if I do have to say goodbye to skiing, I’ll do it with a heavy heart.

***

Congratulations to my March contest winner, Paula Hafner from Norfolk, VA.  My new contest is up.  Check it out at www.CaroleBellacera.com.

Until next month…

Blessings,

Carole

Well, I’m happy to be alive and able to write this newsletter to you this month.  My husband and I went away for a two-day ski trip to West Virginia, and just got home this afternoon.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t such a great weekend.  We had a car accident on the way up—on the mountain road right before the turn-off to Snowshoe Ski Resort.  We’re okay, thank God, but the car is a bit damaged.  We hit some ice and had a horrible skid—ended up hitting the guard rail head-on, and I thought for sure we’d go through it and off the mountain.  I thought we were goners.  But thank God it held us, and thank God, too, that the air bags didn’t deploy.  We were able to drive the rest of the way to the resort and then back home today, so the only real damage is to the bumper, one fog light and a crack in the windshield.  That, and the damage to our psychological health. It was really a scary situation, and I felt really fragile while skiing, and never did get into the groove of it.   I’m just grateful the guard rail was there because when we drove back the same way this morning, I saw that there were places where there wasn’t a guard rail, and if we’d gone off there, we would’ve been killed for sure.  So, I’m saying a lot of prayers of thanksgiving right now.   

Thinking back through my life, I think there was only one other time I might’ve been close to death—and that was when I was about nine years old, and a tornado came through my small town in Indiana.  We heard the sound of it (yes, just like a freight train) as we hurried down into the basement.  I remember being frightened—but not nearly as frightened as I was in that car, watching us heading toward that guard rail.  All I could think was: We’re going off the mountain!  We’re going to die!  And let me tell you, that messes with your head.  And I think that’s why I never really had a good time skiing this weekend.  I just kept thinking about the accident…and what if? 

I was all set to write about something else in this newsletter this month.  But when you’re faced with your own mortality, it kind of drives everything else out of your mind.  So I just had to tell y’all what happened. Okay…so let’s move on.  I’ve started working on a new novel titled INCENSE & PEPPERMINTS.  It’s a novel about a Vietnam nurse, covering the years from 1966-1971.  While doing research for this novel, I came across a picture from one of my old photo albums of a pen-pal—a blond-haired soldier in Vietnam.  I was a sophomore in high school in Indiana when I began writing Danny.  I can’t quite remember how I started writing him, but I think my best friend knew him somehow, and had given me his address over there.  I also don’t remember how long we wrote to each other, but I do remember when he sent me this picture.  Being a boy-crazy girl at the time, I thought he was “soooooo cute!!!”  He even kind of reminded me of Gary Baldauf, a senior in my school whom I was madly in love with (and who barely knew I existed.)  I don’t know how long Danny and I wrote to each other; I’m ashamed to say that I don’t remember if I was concerned when I quit hearing from him.  As most 15-year-old girls tend to be, I was flighty and self-centered and totally oblivious to what was going on half a world away.   I guess I never spared another thought for Danny…not until a few weeks ago when I found his picture in my photo album. I decided to do an internet search on him, hoping that he was alive and well, living somewhere in America with a wife, children and a pack of grandchildren.  I turned over the photo and saw that a portion of it had been cut off.  But written on the back in ink were these words:ny Bruce                                                                

Nam, 1969 The one thing I did remember was that his first name was “Danny.”  I also was pretty sure he was from Indiana.  So I did a search, and found his name on a list of Vietnam casualties.  It listed his name as Private First Class Daniel Dean Bruce from Beverly Shores, Indiana.  He died on March 1^st, 1969.  When I read that, my heart kind of dropped.  I brought up his picture on the website.  And my heart sunk lower.  It looked like him.  Same face, same eyes, same expression around the lips.  Of course, in the website photo, he was in his dress blues with his cap, so you couldn’t really see his hair, but it looked blondish to me.  I showed both pictures to my husband, and he thought they looked like the same person.  My son said the same thing.  (He was the one who pointed out the slightly pursed lips in both my picture and the official one.)  I really felt in my gut that this boy who died on March 1^st was my Danny Bruce.  And it shook me to the core.  Especially when I read the following on the website: 

Citation:  For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as a mortar man with Headquarters and Service Company, 3^rd Battalion, 5^th Marines, against the enemy.  Early in the morning, Pfc. Bruce was on watch in his night defensive position at Fire Support Base Tomahawk when he heard movements ahead of him.  An enemy explosive charge was thrown toward his position and he reacted instantly, catching the device and shouting to alert his companions.  Realizing the danger to the adjacent position with its two occupants, Pfc. Bruce held the device to his body and attempted to carry it from the vicinity of the entrenched Marines.  As he moved away, the charge detonated and he absorbed the full force of the explosion.  Pfc. Bruce’s indomitable courage, inspiring valor and selfless devotion to duty saved the lives of three of his fellow Marines and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the U.S. Naval Service.  He gallantly gave his life for his country. It’s hard for me to describe how I felt after reading that.  A myriad of emotions went through me—sadness at his death, shame that I’d blithely gone on with my life, not even questioning why I never heard from him again, despair at the waste of the lives of so many of our young men over there, the fact that he left behind a young wife and a newborn baby—and more despair at the waste of lives of all the young people in Iraq today.  But most of all, I felt pride that Danny Bruce—and I’m 99% certain he was my Danny Bruce—died a hero.  I’m happy to have known him, however briefly, and however cavalier I’d been about him being in Vietnam in the first place.  I wish I could go back and be a different person at that time—someone who really gave a damn.  But I’ll try to forgive the fifteen-year-old naïve girl I was back then.  Maybe I can make amends by writing this book and giving the brave nurses who answered the call of duty the tribute they deserve.  That’s what I’m going to try to do.   

On a lighter note, my new book, TANGO’S EDGE, will be released in e-book format on Valentine’s Day by Cerridwen Press.  Order your copy at their website: www.Cerridwenpress.com.  In celebration of my new release, I’m attaching the prologue and first chapter of TANGO’S EDGE exclusively for my newsletter group.  (If you’d like to join my newsletter group, e-mail me at Carole@Bellacera.  If you’d like to win a copy of TANGO’S EDGE, go to my website and enter my January contest: www.CaroleBellacera.com.  I hope all of you will have a blessed February! Blessings, Carole  

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Happy 2008!

Well, New Year’s Eve was quite an eventful one for me, so I have to tell y’all about it.  First of all, I’ll just say “the Wife” made an appearance.  This is not a good thing.  But on second thought…that’s not necessarily true.  Sometimes, “the Wife” has to make an appearance.  Before I get into what happened on NYE, let me tell you how I came to get the nickname of ”the Wife.” 

It was way back in 1980.  I was a young mother living on Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado with my husband and toddlers.  My stint in the Air Force was long over, but Frank was still on active duty.  I won’t go into the long, drawn-out story, but let’s just say that I got into an altercation with the Barney Fife of Security Policemen when he tried to treat me like I was still an airman, giving me a ridiculous order that I had no intention of following.  That’s when he threatened to take me to jail, and I taunted him to do it.  He didn’t, and the little scene ended up with me taking my kids home, and calling up this loathsome little man’s supervisor to give him a piece of my mind.  Barney Fife got an official reprimand for overstepping his bounds, and I got the nickname, “the Wife.”  (I’d overheard the supervisor on the phone stage-whisper, “it’s the wife!”)

The Wife hasn’t made an appearance in some time, but it happened on NYE.  But it all began on the afternoon before.  Frank & I had booked a condo at the resort where we own in Williamsburg, and our friends, Diana & Jim, joined us there.  As usual, when we checked in, we got the usual spiel from “the welcoming desk,” inviting us to attend a “welcome meeting,” the next day to update us on all the “exciting news” that Wyndham owners have in store for them.  Well, we’d been through this just four months ago down in Myrtle Beach–and we just weren’t in the mood for the thinly disguised sales pitch they called “exciting news.”  But Karen, the woman at the desk, was most insistent–even after we’d refused three or four times. 

“Tell you what,” she said.  “You come to this appointment, and I guarantee I’ll get you in and out in 45 minutes.  With $100 cash in your hands.”

That got my attention.  $100 cash?  Just for listening to them for 45 minutes?  As visions of outlet shopping danced in my head, we gave in to Karen, and got our appointment for the next morning at 10:30.  So we made our plans with Diana and Jim.  At 11:00 sharp, Jim would call my cell phone, and we’d tell the salesman we were meeting them for lunch at 11:30.  What could go wrong?

The next morning, we met our salesman–yeah, let’s call him what he is–a salesman.  He was nice enough I guess.  A typical salesman, though.  Real friendly at first, but as soon as he realized he wasn’t going to get anywhere with us, he got progressively cooler.  That happened pretty fast, actually, because the first words out of my mouth after our introductions were: “We’re meeting friends at 11:30, so we really can’t stay beyond the 45 minutes Karen said it would take.” 

At 11:00 sharp, my cell phone rang, and I spoke loudly for the salesman’s benefit. “Yes, Jim.  We’ll definitely be there at 11:30.”  I couldn’t have been on the phone more than two minutes as Jim and I arranged where we’d meet, but when I got off–the salesman was gone. 

“Bringing up our files on the computer,” Frank said.  Ten minutes passed, and Frank & I were still left cooling our heels at the table.  Finally, at 11:14, I got up and went looking for the salesman.  Found him behind a counter at a computer screen.

“Excuse me,” I said in my best “the Wife” voice.  “We have to go.  And I want my money.”

He looked up from the computer with this pained look on his face.  (Maybe it was gas.)  “But I’m just trying to help you,” he said.

“No, thanks,” I said.  “I just want my $100 cash, and we’ll be on our way.” Suddenly he wasn’t Mr. Nice Guy anymore. 

“Go on out to the front desk, and I’ll be there in a minute,” he growled.So, we did.  15 minutes passed, and he didn’t show up.  But several other salesmen did, and I sent each one looking for him.  I was just getting ready to ask for his supervisor when he appeared–with this dumbfounded look on his face.  “What are you doing out here?”  he said.  “I told you I’d meet you (somewhere else).”

“Oh, no you didn’t,” I snapped.  “You said at the front desk and that’s where I’ve been waiting for almost 20 minutes now.”

“Follow me,” he said, leading me and Frank back through another door.  Stupid me. I thought he was taking us to the cashier.  Instead…and this, I still can’t believe…he took us to another salesman!!!! 

So this new guy gives me this big, cheesy grin and sticks out his hand.  “Hello, I’m–”

“Oh, no,” I said, glaring at him.  “I’m not talking to anybody else.  I want my $100 and I want it right now.”

And before I could throw a real hissy fit, another man–his supervisor apparently, stepped in and said, “Give her the money.”

They led me and Frank to the cashier, and moments later, we walked out with $100 cash.  Total time spent: 1 hour and five minutes.  As we walked to the car, Frank snickered.  “You are the wife!“

 That $100 paid for our dinner at The Trellis that night.  Not a bad way to start the New Year.  Maybe next time, Wyndham won’t try to force us into one of their little “welcome presentations.”  But if they do, I’ll be more than happy to take cash off their hands.

Congratulations to Carol Ezovski from San Jose, California, winner of my December website contest.   Be sure and stop by my website, www.CaroleBellacera.com, to enter January’s contest.  And don’t forget–TANGO’S EDGE comes out next month on Valentine’s Day.  Check out the prologue on my website.  :)  And while you’re at it, stop by my MySpace page, http://www.myspace.com/carolebellacera and add me as your friend!!!

Blessings,

Carole   

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