beyond. When I discovered I was pregnant for the fourth time, I feared I’d never be able to carry another baby full-term. My bladder was in need of repair from the strain of multiple childbirths in such a short period. Sometimes I’d hemorrhage between my normal periods, and there was often a severe pain in my right side that indicated I might have a cyst on my ovary. I was only twenty years old and already had three children under the age of three and a home that felt like a concentration camp. I was totally exhausted, both physically and mentally. My spirit was dying and the pills I was taking were aiding in my self-destruction.
In addition to the problems I was experiencing with bleeding and pain, my doctor found a small growth on my uterus. The gynecologist suggested I consider abortion; however that was out of the question. I asked my doctor to wean me off the antidepressants and stopped taking Valium as the baby grew. When I felt the new life stirring inside me, a glimmer of my old optimism returned.
I called my mother to tell her the news. “Well, it doesn’t look like I have an ulcer, Mom.”
“That’s a relief,” she said. “Did the doctor say what it could be?”
“As a matter of fact, he told me I’m pregnant.”
“You’re expecting again?” she asked, a mixture of surprise and concern in her voice.
“Yes, I just found out.”
“Well, I was going to wait a while to tell you, dear, but so am I.”
“You’re what, Mom?”
“I’m expecting, too. In June.”
Mom was nearing menopause so this wasn’t a planned pregnancy, but even at forty-two, she was excited by the prospect of new life. We were both due to deliver in June 1972. Mom had learned through a friend that her firstborn daughter, who none of us had ever met, was living in Moncton and was also due to have a baby the same month. It must be a sign, I assured myself. A sign that life will get better.
Mom delivered her fifth son on June 5, 1972. They named him Steven. My baby, Jennifer Ruth, arrived ten days later in the same hospital in Oromocto. She resembled Stan, but her hair was curly and a rich brown with auburn highlights, like mine. I burst into tears when I held her for the first time. Not only was she my baby, but she was a symbol of new hope. I just knew she was a special angel sent from God to help me. In spite of the doctor’s warnings, she had arrived safe and sound. And I was feeling happier than I had in months. If I hadn’t promised Aunt Lena I’d call her Jennifer, I would have named her Hope. Three days after Jennifer was born, Mom’s first child, the sister I’d never met, had a baby girl named Anya.
While I was still in hospital the doctor performed a tubal ligation because I was hemorrhaging off and on. No more babies for me.
When I left the hospital, I required extra help because of the surgery. Stan was attentive and reassuringly calm. Mary Westall, the mother of the girl, Judy, who had helped out before, had taken care of my children while I was in the hospital. When I came home, Judy took charge of the domestic duties again for a couple of weeks. There was no postpartum depression this time and no mind-numbing pills to interfere with offering my children the love I felt for them in my heart. I spent most of my time with my babies—all of them—and tried to give Sonya just a little bit more time than the rest to make up for our rough beginning. She was the most inquisitive about the new baby. One day, thinking Jennifer was a doll, Sonya tried to drag her out of her carriage. Jody and Heather spent most of their time playing together. Sonya was the odd one out.
After Judy left us, I found it hard to cope with housework and four children, but Stan assisted a great deal. And there were no angry outbursts for a while. I wondered if we might make it as a family, after all.
Six months following Jennifer’s birth I hemorrhaged so badly I was rushed to the hospital. An emergency hysterectomy was the only solution to my life-threatening condition. I was only twenty-one. No more babies for sure. I stayed in bed and cried for days.
SOOTHING THE SAVAGE BEAST
Shortly after Jennifer’s birth, Stan decided to leave the armed forces and take a civilian job. He went to work for a company that manufactured eyeglass frames. We moved out of our military house and into the top-floor apartment of a home in Oromocto West. It had a huge kitchen, a small living room, and three modest bedrooms.
Fortunately some of the congregation at the church were willing to lend a hand with the care of the children or I’d never have been able to manage. As it stood, Sonya spent a great deal of time with Mary Westall, the jolly mother of six children, including Judy. She adored babies. Mary attended our church and was always supportive.
Stan was a little easier to get along with after he changed jobs. On Sundays we would often go for drives to Crabbe Mountain just to take in the magnificent scenery or down to Burton to visit Frank and Deana. We ate at fast-food restaurants often. The playrooms gave us a chance to have coffee in peace. Stan sometimes took the children to Wilmot Park in Fredericton to splash around in the wading pool. During those times, there was absolutely no sign of the menace I’d been living with for almost five years.
We were eating supper one evening and Stan was watching Heather and Jody, making certain they ate every scrap off their plates. He would force them to eat everything, even if it made them sick. He wasn’t as hard on Sonya or Jennifer because they were still considered babies, but for some reason Stan expected Heather and Jody to act older than they actually were. I was watching him, feeling sick in my heart, tired of the heated, confrontational mood at each mealtime.
“Stan,” I finally blurted. “Why don’t you just let them eat?”
He stared at me, desperate affliction in his deep brown eyes. “Be quiet,” he snarled.
I ate another forkful of casserole, checking the children.
“I’m full, Mommy,” Jody said. Recently turned three, he was a quiet little boy who seldom uttered a word.
“You eat,” Stan barked, stabbing a finger at Jody’s plate. “All of that. Eat.”
“That’s okay, Jody,” I said, rising to my feet. “If you’re full.”
Bolting up, Stan turned on me. The arm he had been pointing with swept down to whack me soundly across the face. I staggered back but didn’t fall. Jody went berserk. Uncharacteristically he leaped from his chair and started screaming at his father. He ran over and pounded Stan’s leg with his little fists.
“Leave Mommy alone!” he yelled. “Leave Mommy alone. I’ll kill you.”
Stan was so surprised, so astounded by this show of retribution, that it took him several moments to react. When the outrage finally sank in, he grabbed Jody by one arm and flung him across the room. Our son crashed against the bottom cupboards and collapsed onto the floor.
I ran to Jody and swooped him up. He was weeping chest-deep sobs. I glanced back at Heather’s shocked face. She was terrified, unable to move a muscle. With tears in my eyes I glared at Stan, but I couldn’t say a word. All of us remained still, as if frozen in a family portrait.
