Mom holding me, and pregnant with #3 It was a kick to write about our mom’s ability to create magic in ISOPODS, JELLO 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 bravely and waved good-bye to Mom, Dad and my younger sisters. But I wasn't fooling myself. I was already homesick. At camp, I quietly cried myself to sleep and watched with envy as the 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 nine-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 quite 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 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 quite 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 she'd written them. As I’m sure she meant to.
Mom with our five-year-old sister Dalene Although, by that time in my life, I was sort of 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. And sometimes, that's exactly what she was.
Our "fifth sister" Rosemary on the left Of course, there'd be those amazing days, when we’d come home to the most 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 got thicker and the arguments grew louder. We'd sit around the kitchen table taking it all in, while our youngest sister, Dalene, who inherited Mom's gift of gab, joined the tea-with-milk club, until it was time for the moms to get back to business: fixing dinner.
Mom during a bout of depression But then there were those days when my prayers weren't 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. Sometimes she'd be in bed, unable to interact with us, or even recognize us. Most devastating for me were the times we'd come home to find out she'd been taken 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 we missed Mom terribly.
Mom feeling well When she was feeling well, Mom was so energetic it seemed like she could do almost anything—and she'd certainly try. A naturally festive soul, she'd be flying high long before the holidays arrived. Though we’d try to keep our expectations low, when Mom was "up," we were pretty much along for the ride. As the mania increased, Mom would take on more and more responsibilities, until she'd start feeling overwhelmed. A driven perfectionist, she'd stay up late at night to try to catch up—I remember getting up in the middle of the night to find her ironing sheets. Unfortunately, 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 us, and I’m sure everyone else, feeling helpless.
As a holiday approached, we'd brace ourselves for a crash—the nervous exhaustion usually culminated around the big day. Sometimes Mom managed to avoid a hospitalization, but the sadness we all 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 around the big day. Sometimes Mom managed to avoid a hospitalization, but the sadness we all 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, 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 loved and won trophies in. And she enjoyed fundraising, selling popcorn every Wednesday in the front hall of our school, Woodstock Elementary, where she also volunteered at carnivals and cake walks, and served as a PTA officer. Mom led our sister Carol's Camp Fire troop, where she came up with all kinds of interesting activities: making pincushions out of tuna fish cans, visiting a fire station, Christmas caroling at the Odd Fellow's Home. My younger sisters and I got to go along too, even on field trips to the extinct volcano on Mt. Tabor and on toboggan rides at Snow Bunny Lodge on Mt. Hood.
A, B, C, D, and E Most of all, though, she was a proud Mom, and to our embarrassment, she seemed to live 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 Amiable 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 partly the responsibility, lack of sleep, and endless workload of being a mom that prompted 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!) And I wouldn't trade my childhood with Mom for life with a "normal" mom—her triumphant ups made her heartbreaking downs bearable. 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 we had the incredible privilege of calling "Mom."
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