Mom holding me, and pregnant with #3 It was a hoot to write about our mom’s ability to create magic in Isopods, Jell-O and Chicken Necks. But there's another side to Mom's story. After her third baby was born in four years, postpartum depression and sleep deprivation led to the first of many emotional breakdowns Mom endured throughout her life. She was eventually diagnosed with manic depression—called bipolar illness these days.
Mom was my best customer when I sold 110 boxes of Camp Fire mints to earn a week-long stay at Camp Namanu ...
Mom was my best customer when I sold 110 boxes of Camp Fire mints to earn a week-long stay at Camp Namanu ...
I'm in the middle row, far left As the camp-bound school bus accelerated, I smiled and waved a brave good-bye to Mom, Dad and my younger sisters. But I wasn't fooling myself. I was already homesick. At camp, I watched in envy as other girls opened packages and letters from home. You'd think I'd have been delighted when my name got called not once, but five times, during our last Mail Call on the bus ride home. But I was careful not to let anyone see my letters up close—I was afraid someone might notice Mom's unique backhand cursive. They might guess Mom was "nuts," like one of our neighbors called her. In my eight-year-old mind, what other explanation would there be for a mom to wait until camp was over to mail five letters?
I felt so conflicted as I read those letters on the way home. No one could write like Mom, and the letters didn't disappoint. But I was also frustrated and angry with her. Those letters would've meant so much more to me if she'd mailed them on the days that she'd written them. As I’m sure she meant to.
I felt so conflicted as I read those letters on the way home. No one could write like Mom, and the letters didn't disappoint. But I was also frustrated and angry with her. Those letters would've meant so much more to me if she'd mailed them on the days that she'd written them. As I’m sure she meant to.
Mom with our four-year-old sister Dalene Although, by that time in my life, I was kinda used to Mom’s ups and downs. Every day on the way home from school, I'd say a little prayer: Please, God, please let Mom be well when we get home. I didn't feel like I was being greedy. I wasn't asking that she be our magical mom every day. Just OK, that's all I prayed for. Sometimes, that's exactly what she was.
Our "fifth sister" Rosemary on the left Then there'd be those amazing days, when my sisters and I’d come home to an upbeat, "I'm on my sixth load of laundry" mom. Or we'd walk in the back door to be greeted by a cloud of smoke, the pleasant aroma of tea and the enthusiastic political disagreements of Mom and our fun Scottish neighbor, Norah, mom to our "fifth sister" Rosemary. I’m not sure if Mom’s hands or mouth kept busier on those days. She'd slice apples, oranges, carrots, and celery for our afternoon snack, as the smoke grew thicker and the arguments got louder. We'd sit around the kitchen table taking it in, while our youngest sister, Dalene—who inherited Mom's gift of gab—joined the sweet tea-with-milk club, until it was time for the moms to get back to business: fixing supper.
Mom during a bout of depression Then there were those gray days when my prayers wouldn't be answered, and we'd come home to find Mom distraught, pacing back and forth, looking lost, wringing her hands and pursing her lips. Or worse. She'd be in bed, unable to interact with or, at times, even recognize us. Most devastating for me were the times we'd come home to find that Dad had taken Mom to the State Hospital. Our Grandma from Minnesota or our local Grandma and Grandpa were there to care for us when Dad was at work. But without Mom, life was empty.
Mom feeling well A naturally festive soul, Mom would be flying high long before the holidays. Though we’d try to keep our expectations low, when Mom was up, my sisters and I were along for the ride. As the mania increased, Mom would take on more and more responsibilities until she'd start feeling overwhelmed and stay up late to try to catch up. I remember getting up in the middle of the night to find her ironing sheets. The less Mom slept, the more wound up she got. The more wound up she got, the more her mind raced and the less she was able to sleep. It was a vicious cycle that left my sisters and me feeling helpless.
As a holiday approached, we'd brace ourselves for a crash—the nervous exhaustion usually culminated on the big day. Sometimes Mom managed to avoid a hospitalization, but the sadness my sisters and I felt when Mom was down was overwhelming. At times we'd spend the remainder of the holiday visiting Mom at the hospital, where for the first few visits she'd be expressionless and mute, a stark contrast to our vivacious mom of a few weeks earlier.
As a holiday approached, we'd brace ourselves for a crash—the nervous exhaustion usually culminated on the big day. Sometimes Mom managed to avoid a hospitalization, but the sadness my sisters and I felt when Mom was down was overwhelming. At times we'd spend the remainder of the holiday visiting Mom at the hospital, where for the first few visits she'd be expressionless and mute, a stark contrast to our vivacious mom of a few weeks earlier.
Mom pregnant with #5 Then, after an evolving mix of antidepressants, psychotherapy, and Electro-convulsive therapy—a barbaric practice at the time, with no anesthesia—Mom would start to rebound. She'd make friends with the other patients, resume eating and smoking with gusto and start talking up a storm, anxious to get home and implement plans she was dreaming up in the hospital. An eternal optimist, there was always something to look forward to: a new project, a volunteer opportunity, an upcoming holiday. When she returned home, our joy was tempered by our fear she'd overshoot and end up right back in the hospital. But when Mom was feeling well, there was no holding her back or slowing her down.
Mom seated on left at a PTA meeting She volunteered as secretary of her bowling league, a game she won trophies in. She enjoyed fundraising, selling popcorn every Wednesday in the front hall of our school, Woodstock Elementary, where she volunteered at carnivals and cake walks and served as a PTA officer. Mom led our sister Carol's Camp Fire troop, teaching crafts like making pincushions out of tuna fish cans and leading field trips. My younger sisters and I got to go along--caroling at the Odd Fellow's Home, touring a local fire station and the extinct volcano on Mt. Tabor, tobogganing at Snow Bunny Lodge on Mt. Hood.
A, B, C, D, and E Most of all though, Mom was a proud parent and to our embarrassment, lived to brag about us—I'm guessing her Christmas letter was either loved or hated by its recipients. Blessed with a natural flair for vocabulary, Mom could make even the most mundane events entertaining. Her annual letter included the antics of Amicable A, Busy B, Carefree C, Dashing D, and The End, E—the boy she and Dad finally got after four girls—and if the letter didn't get finished by Christmas, to our chagrin, Mom added to it and sent it out at Easter.
Ally, Eric, Dalene, Dad, me, Mike, Mom, Carol It's ironic that Mom's enduring gift to me is my brother and sisters. It was the responsibility, lack of sleep, and endless workload of being a mom that brought on her illness. Yet Mom wouldn't have had it any other way. She wanted a basketball team (although I believe she was thinking five boys). Her triumphant ups made her heartbreaking downs bearable, and I wouldn't trade my childhood with Mom for life with a "normal" mom. She taught by example that no matter how bleak today seems, tomorrow holds new possibilities.
Mom with her snuggle-bug Drew Mom never truly left us—I cherish her presence in Carol's creative scrapbooking, my love of writing, Ally's musical talents, Dalene's flair for entertaining and Eric's ability to tell a funny story. My hope as a parent and aunt is that my siblings and I pass on at least a small portion of Mom's optimism and enthusiasm to her grandkids, most of whom never had the exquisite joy of getting to know the magical person that we had the privilege of calling Mom.
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