"Wow, Wasn't I Strong?"

If only this old rocking chair could talk. It has seen almost 50 years of loving service, but it sits alone in my basement now. It has outlived it's purpose. Note how the finish is worn off the arms from constant use. How many houses still have one of these?

As a newly minted graduate from Souris Regional High School, and at my new job, my very first paycheck, which was about $65.00, a fortune in 1975, bought this beautiful rocking chair for Momma. The one in our old kitchen was so worn that the rockers were actually taken off, and it sat on it's legs instead. It was great for me because I'm so short, my feet never touch the floor when I sit, but in the broken old rocking chair, I could. It must have looked awful.

So with my first paycheck in hand, Jamie took me to Charlottetown, I don't remember what store or how we got it home, but I knew Momma would love this new rocking chair. I was so proud.

And it sure got used, everybody loved it. Who doesn't love the rhythmic motion, the easy chatter, the complete comfort of a nice rocker? Every visitor would throw his coat on the back and get rocking. The wood stove beside it would be warm and cozy, the kettle murmuring, people chattering.

As my babies started coming, the rocker was busier than ever. It rocked each and every one, and sometimes me, into a soft sleep. The chair sat in the same place for years as we moved walls and doors and everything around it. It got a good going over when a storm was howling, or a teenager was late getting home. The cats soon learned that the best seat in the house was the seat of the rocking chair, which continued a soft motion as they curled up into a ball and they soon learned to avoid those rockers. You could lose a tail!! Babies learning to walk and climb found a real sense of accomplishment when they reached the seat, turned around, and slid into place. Dangerous, but so much fun! We were on our toes at all times! That rocking chair equals love.

But in my last Blog I alluded to my state of mind after Baby #3 was born. I never shared my problems with a doctor, or with my friends, so unfortunately I was never diagnosed. But hindsight is a wonderful thing, and I know I wasn't alone.

To say I was tired would be an understatement. I had two little girls and a new baby, of course I was tired. All. The. Time. Jamie was a wonderful Dad and from the minute the doctor handed him the scissors to cut the cord, he was all in. He adored his family, but somebody had to work, so that was that. He did night feedings and cloth diaper changes as much as I did, so he was pretty tired too.

But all of a sudden I was incredibly sensitive. Suspicious of people and things. So unhappy. I hated how I looked, how I felt. I cried all the time, over nothing. Normal right after a baby, right? Not for every mother, and not for every pregnancy, but this one was different. The feelings were new to me. I was the proverbial baby blues mother who turned the washer on, or the shower on, to hide the sound of my crying. At times I would pass the three kids to Jamie as he came in the door and I'd escape to the shore where there was no one but the gulls to listen to me as I bawled my eyes out. I was extremely irritable and cranky and I didn't care who knew it. And no amount of crying helped either.

Sometimes after supper Jamie would send me out for a walk, I was missing them, since I've always been an avid walker and enjoyed outdoor activities. I still do. But coming back down the driveway I would hear the baby crying and my nerves would be just screaming. I just wanted to run away. But of course you can't and I had to drag up the strength to come back in the house and act "normal" and look after my kids.

My girls will remember the day I flipped out and went berserk. Talk about a red flag. I had been after them to clean up their room, and really what do you expect from little girls aged 7 and 4. They were kids. But I lost my temper and went into an intense rage and threw all their dolls and toys into black garbage bags, because if they didn't care enough to keep them off the floor, why should I care? I dumped their dressers out and threw all their clothes in a pile. I roared and slammed things. I was completely out of control and I've never been more ashamed of my behavior in my life. I think I gave them a bit of a scare, and I know I scared myself. It was devastating. I'd never, before or since, ever experienced such uncontrollable rage, such powerful anger and although as time went on they understood that I wasn't well, it was all my fault. I know they remember it still. How could they not.

I thought I was getting better until the day I found my hair falling out by the fistfuls in the shower, and it started up again. I realized then it was hormonal, no excuse for my behavior, but I was kinder to myself after that. I realized that I'd had an awful year, nothing seemed to go right after the miscarriage, Momma's fall, then dealing with her passing, my new pregnancy and all those feelings. I guess I was empty. I had nothing left to give.

But I toughed it out on my own. It's awful how we bury our pain and think we're strong. "Wow, wasn't I strong!" That wasn't strength, it was weakness on my part. I should have told the doctor, he could have helped me. But I was so ashamed. So I fought it alone.

I also found out they don't give medals for that. But I learned one thing: if for any reason you feel helpless, or scared, or depressed or whatever, don't be dumb like Nova. Ask for help. So many people would have been there for me. Academically I knew what was wrong and I was in the middle of a wonderful life, I just was numb inside at the time. Here I was with a beautiful healthy little family. A husband who worshipped the ground I walked on, and proved it all the time. He was a non-drinker at a time when drinking a lot was pretty common, so again, how lucky was I? Momma had left the house to me, so we had a place to live, although it needed a lot of work, as we were outgrowing it. My younger brothers were leaving the nest to make their own starts, so everything seemed to be coming up roses.

And please readers, don't think I'm looking for some kind of kudos here or some lofty praise. I was going through what hundreds all around me did. We just didn't talk about it. Our own mothers and grandmothers would have had post partum depression, diagnosed or not. Baby blues and all, we need a little help sometimes. By the time it happened to me, I had no Momma or mother or anyone else to ask or to notice that something was wrong. Remember that I named my Blog "Everybody Has A Story," and this one is mine, warts and all.

Well, life goes on, as it must, and I got better. I don't know where I found the strength or the hormones, but gradually I crawled out of the hole and noticed the sunshine again. B.J. was our beautiful baby boy, but it wasn't long before I got that longing for another baby. After what I'd gone through, who in their right mind who take a chance? But funny how you forget all that, and just focus on the future. Thank God, or there'd be no babies born!

With two beautiful little girls and a boy, wouldn't it be wonderful to try again and get another boy for a perfect set? And you know what? That's what we did!

Back in our courtship days, we would dream and talk about a family and we both had the same idea. Wouldn't four kids be nice? Two of each? Well, soon enough I was preggers again, (you couldn't fault Jamie for trying) and nine months later, that sweet little boy was born and our family was complete.

I waited anxiously for that same onslaught of feelings, a sign that I was going to suffer again. I knew enough this time to get help early, but it never happened. There's no reasoning to it. Not every mother and not every pregnancy. I was so grateful.

I thanked God for my healthy children since with five pregnancies, I suffered from "Hyperemesis Gravidarum" every single time. What were the odds? I know of two other women in my circle who had the same condition, and to hear us trade stories would either set you howling with the laugh, or cry with us.

It is the term used to describe the most extreme "morning sickness" which again, must have been named by a man, since it has nothing to do with mornings and the word sickness just doesn't cut it.

My illness was so complete that I could actually smell water. Thank god it was fall, as I couldn't deal with heat, it sickened me. I couldn't bear the sight, smell or thoughts of food. I vomited non-stop until only blood came up. Morning, noon and night. I remember Jamie coming home to tell me that he had stopped at his Mom's for lunch, and as soon as he said the words "corned beef hash" I had already thrown up on the bed. I didn't even have to see food, just someone mentioning it would trigger a round of sickness. There was nothing I could take by mouth, every day it got steadily worse. By three weeks, I was skin and bones, if you could imagine. I couldn't even stand up. I didn't need any doctor to tell me I was pregnant, by week 4 I knew it.

Jamie poured me into the car to get to Dr. O'Brien, and he had to stop twice to let me out, sick on the side of the road. There are no words to describe the hot torment of trying to sit still in the office, waiting my turn. I was misery personified. Reta clued in and rushed me right in. He wasn't long in his diagnosis and admitted me to the hospital immediately. I was so severely dehydrated that they couldn't find a vein and I was already hallucinating. My temperature was so high that the nurses placed bowls of ice on the bedside table and kept a fan on, blowing cold air on me, and with the ice packs on my head, it felt mighty good. Dr. O'Brien came in and gave me a shot of liquid gravol in both hips because there wasn't much they could do for me if they couldn't keep my stomach down. After a day or two, I could sip water. And it stayed down. Not much nourishment for baby, so another round of shots. Now I could sip a little broth, a little juice. A week later I showed signs of improvement but they wouldn't release me until I could keep a decent meal down and stand up on my own. About week 2 in hospital, I was feeling good and wanted to get home and back to work at the Bank. And Momma needed me. I would like to say that was the end of it, but it's never that easy. I was terrified that once I went back home, the symptoms would come back, and I wouldn't wish that on a dog I didn't like.

But Dr. O'Brien sent me home with a perscription for a morning sickness drug that would help. And help it did. I turned out to depend on that drug for all my pregnancies, that severe condition never went away with subsequent babies. I spent a few days in hospital in the first month of every pregnancy, but this time we all knew what to do, and didn't let it go on as long before I got their help.

And all I could think, and still do, is how did women years ago do it? It was terrifying to trust that this med wouldn't start the Thalidomide scare all over again. Apparently no woman had ever died with morning sickness, nor the baby, but I was weak and trusted the doctor. And I made it and so did my kids.

But the first question I asked my daughters when they shyly announced that a grand baby was on the way was, "Are you sick? Is there any morning sickness?" I was so scared. But thankfully they weren't plagued past maybe the smell of coffee wasn't the most fun. But we can fix that.

Everything was going along so nicely by now, the kids were growing, I was a full time stay at home Mom, Jamie had started working for Irving oil, but as sure as you're born, dark clouds were brooding, and out of left field I was about to be sued for everything I had.

But I guess that's another story for another day.....