Shifting Ground

By Ruth M. McVeigh

This autobiography traces the authors tempestuous 22-year marriage to an undiagnosed manic depressive (Bipolar Affective Disorder) with whom she raised two children. Throughout the years, the emotional and geographical ground under the authors feet kept shifting, There were travels, adventures, job changes and financial disasters, love and fun, but also violence and pain. Throughout this story, the benchmarks of manic depression can be clearly identified as can the repercussions on relationships and family life.

Two years in Guyana, South America, provided memories no one else could share and kept the couple close when circumstances tended to separate them. They camped and canoed in isolated regions of Algonquin Park, Ontario, explored the streets of London, England and beach-combed on Vancouver Islands west coast. In addition to the unhappy and perplexing aspects of marriage to a manic depressive, this book illustrates the positive side of life with a partner who does not fear consequences, who is adventurous and willing to risk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 19, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462828593

Ruth M. McVeigh

Ruth (Major) Jones McVeigh, born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, has been a writer most of her life. She worked at the Halifax Herald and Mail as a cub reporter and developed a couple of by-line columns. She wrote entertainment reviews for the Toronto Star, feature articles for Halifax and Toronto newspapers and Western Living Magazine as well as book review and opinion columns for B.C. weeklies. She was editor of Family Pages and Entertainment Guide for the Campbell River Courier and Upper Islander and in addition to being a general reporter for the North Island Gazette, wrote the Tourist Guide for the North Island. Author of two non-fiction books: Fogswamp (published 1976 by Hancock House) and Close Harmony (published 1984 by Theytus Books). Founder of the Mariposa Folk Festival, 1961, now Canada’s oldest.

Book preview

Shifting Ground

Ruth M. McVeigh

Copyright © 2006 by Ruth M. McVeigh.

Back cover photo by Susan

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

THE EARTH MOVED!

FAMILY TEMBLORS

VANCOUVER ISLAND

ONTARIO, TOGETHER AND ALONE

NORTHERN IRELAND

THE GUYANA INTERLUDE

RETURN TO NORTH AMERICA

UPHEAVALS

UPS AND DOWNS

EVERY WAY BUT EAST

TURBULENCE

LOOKING BACK

CHANGES AND CHALLENGES

SPLIT

THE WALLS CAME

TUMBLING DOWN

SOMBRIO BEACH

GOOD AND B.A.D.

PORT ALICE RETREAT

POST DIAGNOSIS

RECONSTRUCTION

BENCHMARKS,

DYNAMITE AND GLUE!

RESEARCH MATERIAL

Dedicated to the unique man who was the focus of my life for over a quarter

of a century, to my six remarkable, beloved children and to all the other

characters who complete the cast of this adventure … my life.

INTRODUCTION

After we had been married for twenty-two tempestuous years, my husband was diagnosed with Manic Depression, (Bipolar Affective Disorder). I then read everything I could find on the subject, including many books written by medical and psychiatric experts and by manic depressives themselves, but could find next to nothing written by the unwitting partner of someone with this mental illness.

Although there may be some errors in fact, I am quite sure of my own experiencing of events as I kept a daily journal starting in 1974, five years after we were married. In reviewing them, I noticed that for long periods of time almost every entry included a report on my husband’s mood. Subconsciously, I knew his state of mind was a huge factor in how my day was likely to go.

Ultimately, I became increasingly aware that he was losing his ability to support his family and that it was up to me to ensure my own future and to be a resource for our children. It was a heartbreaking decision for me to walk away from a man who had given me such happiness, taught me so much and with whom I had shared such a huge chunk of my life.

I was a long time coming to grips with what was wrong. To some extent this was because of the times in which I was raised. Although my mother was an extremely independent woman, way ahead of her time, it was simply accepted that a woman should always put her husband first and that marriage was forever.

So this is the story of my life, told as I lived it. It encompasses every kind of shifting ground; geographical, as well as the ups and downs of life with a manic depressive—pain, joy, confusion, anger, fear, frustration, excitement and a wide range of wonderful adventures. Despite everything I now know, I would gladly live my life all over again for the incomparable happiness of having my children and watching them grow and for many other experiences I would not want to have missed either.

Sharing what I learned and experienced has been cathartic as well as eye-opening. Over the years, I have developed a very strong bias. While I agree people have the right to make decisions for themselves, I do not believe anyone should benefit from government assistance if they are unwilling to help themselves. There are two sides to the question of patient rights. I have presented my beliefs and in an effort to be fair, have quoted advocates for the other side, including my former husband. In regard to mental illness, the only certainty is that people on all sides are hurting.

THE EARTH MOVED!

It all started with a pain in the butt, and grew from there! That was the laughing response one of us would give whenever we were asked how we met.

While my seventeen-year-old daughter was recovering from surgery at Vancouver General Hospital where I was employed in public relations, she made friends with Derry, a patient in the next room. They were discharged the same day, so as we waited for paperwork to be completed, Derry’s sister Maida and I chatted. I learned he was a professional forester, working on his Master’s degree at UBC and living close to where my children and I did. As we all prepared to go our separate ways, I casually suggested he drop in for coffee some time when he was out for a therapeutic walk.

A few days later, there was a knock on the door and there he stood—the massively-built, handsome, bearded man I had met in the hospital. His merry brown eyes, distinctive Northern Irish accent and somewhat diffident smile made it easy to give him a warm welcome.

Come on in. We’re all in the kitchen.

Over endless cups of coffee, we talked. I challenged him to a game of Scrabble, and found we were good competitors. We agreed it was no fun going to movies alone, so a few days later, I phoned to ask if he’d like to go see April Fool, with Catherine Deneuve. He seemed wary of any kind of relationship, so I suggested we go Dutch.

A week or so later, we went for a walk in Vancouver’s Lynn Canyon Park and Derry showed me the marks on trees that had been used as survey points. I’d always wondered about the notches in huge stumps and was fascinated to learn they had been used by loggers in the old days to lever a plank to stand on so they could swing their axes above the thick underbrush. Over the next few weeks, we went for many walks and I learned to identify trees and animal spoor. We always walked hand-in-hand and I loved the feeling of my hand in his much larger and always warm one. I felt perfectly comfortable just being myself, without the need to play any role or game. Although younger, he had travelled much more widely than I and seemed very mature.

He made no allowances for me when we went hiking, and I relished the challenge, scrambling over rocks, climbing hills and wading streams. He made me feel alive in every cell of my body. As summer faded, we were spending an increasing amount of time together. When the winter rains began, we shared many evenings watching TV, cuddling during commercials.

The conversation we had the first time he asked if he could borrow my car became a standing joke.

That depends, I answered. How good a driver are you?

I’m a good driver—as long as I remember I’m driving, was his amazing response.

I lent him the car. But I often recalled that exchange when he would spot a soaring eagle, or a deer half-hidden in trees at the side of the road, yet fail to notice the loaded logging truck bearing down on us—a slight exaggeration, perhaps.

One evening he arrived very drunk, with a friend who was even more so. I was upset. As a child, I’d had a grandfather I adored. He was an alcoholic who kept himself under control most of the time, but could never have just one drink. Occasionally, when he came to visit us, he’d observe my father shouting at my mother. Rather than make things worse, my grandad would go out and have ‘a beer’ with a friend. Eventually he would come back, drunk. In that state, my beloved grandfather was sloppy and his language was foul, a total contrast to the warm, fastidious confidant I loved so much. I didn’t understand what caused the change in his personality, but as I grew older and the truth percolated through, I became quite intolerant of the misuse of alcohol, particularly by people I cared about.

I hated to see Derry inebriated, although he was a ‘happy drunk’. As time went on, I realized he regularly drank a great deal of beer. We had some serious arguments over it, loud quarrels which frightened me. My father’s temper, expressed by bellowing and slamming doors, had scared me as a child and I grew up hating being shouted at. But by that time I had fallen in love with Derry and was convinced that once he felt secure in a relationship, he wouldn’t need to drink. I knew it wasn’t easy for him to accept the fact he loved a woman who had an established family with whom he had to compete for attention. He was so good-looking I was surprised he had remained unattached, particularly after something overheard in the ladies room during a party at UBC.

Did you see Derry?

Yeah. I’ve never seen him with a date at a party here. He’s usually just roaming the field. Wonder how she landed him.

Just lucky, I guess, said the first voice as they left the room.

I felt very lucky indeed and smugly checked myself in the mirror before rejoining our group. We were with friends I’d only just met but who had known Derry a long time. The husbands were all taking postgraduate forestry. Later, I asked the advice of one of the couples. They dismissed my concerns about our age difference and encouraged me to go for it, saying Derry needed stability in his life.

A few weeks later, Derry got a job which took him over to Vancouver Island. By that time he had moved in with me, an arrangement which required adjustment on everyone’s part, especially my four teenagers.

Whenever I picked him up from the ferry or the airport, I’d be eager to tell him everything that had happened during his week’s absence. Derry, tired from work, found this stressful and was quite snappish. I tried to slow down the stream of information. Each time he came home for the weekend, I had to strive to reestablish the closeness that had seemed so natural when we were living together.

You’ve been overworking those bricklayers again, I would tease, meaning walls had been raised.

Let’s go to bed and tear the walls down then, was his standard reply. That was his answer to any problems. Having been alone for a long time before moving from Toronto to Vancouver, I hungered for closeness, but wished I could sometimes just have a hug without triggering his sexuality. Whenever I tried to say something along those lines, he became angry, so I just went along with what he wanted.

Before moving in with me, Derry had been boarding with mutual friends who had youngsters. As I saw them together, it became obvious that he adored children and would be a good Daddy. By that time we were talking about getting married. Actually, it was I who first said, not entirely joking, Will I marry you? To which, after a moment’s consideration, he replied: Probably! Not long after, he did the proposing and we became engaged on September 16, almost six months after we had met.

Our rings were designed especially for us. My godmother had given me two raw sapphires her father had brought back from India. These fascinated jewellery designer Ragnar, who probably saw us as unpolished too. He set the larger of the two stones into an engagement ring fashioned to link with a wedding band. The smaller stone was incorporated into a wider band as Derry’s wedding ring. The gold on all three rings was carved to look like tree bark, symbolizing the groom’s occupation. The day we picked them up, we went for a celebration lunch at a small nearby restaurant where Derry announced to everyone within hearing that we had just become engaged.

The wedding was set for November 21. Among the invited guests was the sister I had met at the hospital, as well as another who was visiting from Northern

Ireland. We had lots of mutual friends so it would be a full house. Money being in short supply, I made my own wedding dress, a royal blue velvet jumper over a delicate long-sleeved white lace blouse. I also made the wedding cake, most of the refreshments and bouquets for me and my bridesmaid to carry.

On the day of the wedding, Derry came back to the house after his morning walk and cigarette. Neither of us was superstitious about seeing one another before the service.

What on earth is that smell? he asked, as he came in the door.

Darned if I know, I answered. Now that you mention it, it is very strong … and fishy, too.

Next thing I knew, Derry was bellowing at one of the university students who boarded at my place. Paul had been out scuba diving early that morning.

You stupid bloody idiot, Derry roared. What kind of madman would hang a wetsuit over the air intake? It’s our wedding day, for God’s sake. Get that stinking thing out of here. Derry stormed up the basement stairs carrying the wetsuit, which landed with a splat on the lawn. Back in the house, he threw open the windows as he sputtered to himself and the entire world.

You’re supposed to call your mum, don’t forget, I reminded him.

Well, I’m not going to call her until things calm down. The first thing we need to do is make sure the place doesn’t smell like a badly run brothel when people arrive.

Fortunately, very few guests were punctual. By the time the minister arrived, the offending odour was too faint to notice.

The phone rang and Derry answered.

Hello mum. No, I’m not married yet. Yes, I know it was supposed to be at three, but it will be a little late. I can’t explain just now. Call back in a couple of hours.

Derry’s mum was holding a party at her house to celebrate her eldest son’s wedding in Canada. By the time Mum called back, it was clear that she and the relatives had spent the intervening time drinking.

We were going to Vancouver Island’s Long Beach for our honeymoon. As my father had come over on the ferry from his home on the Island, we offered him a drive to the terminal.

What? Take your father with you on your honeymoon? he barked.

No, Dad, not on our honeymoon, I laughed. But we’re going to the ferry anyway. It doesn’t make sense for you to take a taxi. You don’t even have to sit with us on the ferry if you’d rather not.

Well, all right, he agreed reluctantly.

We drove off, Derry and I in the front seat, Dad looking exceedingly uncomfortable in the back seat as everyone shouted good wishes at us.

Two blocks along, Dad abruptly ordered Derry to stop the car.

What for? asked Derry, braking.

Dad didn’t say anything. He jumped out of the car, briskly removed the tail of clanking tins and got back in.

Drive on, he commanded.

In Nanaimo, we deposited him at the bus terminal, then checked into our hotel. The next day, after arriving at the rustic cottage on Long Beach, we were up early. The sky looked somewhat threatening, but we weren’t going to let west coast weather rain on our parade. We walked a long, long way on the beautiful beach, listening to the crash of waves, stopping every so often to share a hug or pick up a particularly beautiful polished stone, a shell or piece of weathered driftwood. When it was time to turn around, we noticed it was pelting rain on our little beach cottage.

When we got there, we looked back to where we had been and it was pouring. But not a drop fell on us. It was an enchanted interlude. For a week, we had no responsibilities and could do anything we wanted, whenever we wanted to do it.

We talked a lot, sometimes spending the entire night cuddled together, sharing stories about ourselves and our families. He was the eldest of five with three younger sisters and a brother who was born just as he was leaving home for university. I too, was an eldest child, with only one brother, twelve years younger. We both had extremely strong mothers with careers of their own. His was a teacher, mine a writer. His father was quiet and unassuming, while mine was a dominant military figure with a trigger temper and an authoritarian manner. Although Derry had been raised in Northern Ireland and I in Nova Scotia, there were many similarities in the values and principles we had been taught. The biggest difference I could see at first was the amount of drinking that was accepted in his family. Other dissimilarities became apparent as time passed.

I grew up with chores and responsibilities. As the brilliant eldest son in an Irish family, Derry received a higher education than his siblings and, according to his sisters, was relieved of many household chores with which they were saddled. He was very active in sports, which also took up time.

After graduating from the University of Aberdeen, he emigrated to Canada, having set that goal when he saw the country as a teen-aged King’s Scout representative to a Jamboree. His first job in Canada was as an arborist in Toronto. Comparing dates, we were astounded to realize we had both lived in Toronto at the same time and that the walk to my office had taken me along the street where he was pruning. I could remember having had to cross the street to avoid falling branches.

He had spent a couple of years in Kenya on a forestry contract and showed me pictures of the impressive house he and his fellow foresters had shared near Nairobi. He told me a story about a time he had been drinking and a huge Kenyan had grabbed his wallet and run off with it. Not stopping to consider the thief’s size, Derry took off and caught up with him a few blocks away. Somehow, in Derry’s inimitable fashion, he and the man who had stolen his wallet came to an agreement and the two went off to drink beer together.

He vividly described trips to the bush, including once when his jeep broke down. He and his companions were able to push the vehicle off the main trail and set up camp. In the middle of the night a herd of elephants walked by, their footfalls shaking the ground. Derry’s rapturous description of the sounds and smells of Kenya instilled in me a strong desire to visit that country. He promised to take me there one day.

Not long after he had returned to Canada at the conclusion of that contract, he headed for the west coast. We had arrived in Vancouver about the same time. Clearly, the fates were at play.

His decision to return to university for his Master’s degree was precipitated by a job loss.

What happened? I asked.

Just a personality conflict, he replied. The man was a damned fool and I hate working for people who know less than I do.

We talked about children, and he made it clear he’d like to have one, at least, of his own. I was a little surprised I hadn’t become pregnant during the six months we had lived together. Without saying anything to him, I resolved to find out what, if anything, was wrong. When our blissful week had drawn to a close, it was time to return to Vancouver and all our responsibilities; my job, his studies and four teenagers.

FAMILY TEMBLORS

Shortly after our return, my youngest daughter Brenda was in the kitchen with the radio on when Derry came downstairs. Without a word, he walked over and turned it off. What’s your problem? asked sixteen-year-old Brenda.

I don’t want the radio on, was the gruff response.

Brenda walked out. A few minutes later there was an uproar in the living room where Brenda had been listening to the radio, turned low to avoid trouble. Derry, feeling his authority was being challenged, again turned the radio off, precipitating an extremely noisy row. For Brenda, the incident was a turning point. She was no longer open to accepting him as a father figure. What I found hard to understand was that when he was listening to music, he turned it up to a deafening level and no amount of protest could get him to turn it down. Derry announced a change of plans. He was quitting university.

Now that I have a missus, I don’t need a Master’s, he laughed. What I need is a job.

One evening during the job-hunting period, Derry and I happened to come home in the same bus. When we opened our door, we were met with loud music and the messiest house imaginable. I was tired and not in any mood to make a meal for youngsters who hadn’t lifted a finger. Derry and I had instant communication.

That’s it, I announced to the kids, who were looking at us rather apprehensively. No supper for you guys tonight. I’ve had it. We’re out of here. With that, we turned and walked out of the house, four pairs of anxious eyes staring after us.

Now what? I asked Derry as we drove away.

Well, I don’t have much money—I guess the White Spot.

However, as we drove up, we saw a big sign: CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS.

So much for that idea, I said. Next?

Well, we could try the little place on the corner. I can’t remember the name, but you know—where they have that great lasagna.

OK. Arriving at Luigi’s we could see through the window that the place was jammed. I was ravenous by this time. Looks like we’ll have to go home after all, I said.

Oh no, we won’t. There’s a lesson they have to learn. Let’s drive around and see if we spot a place.

About three blocks away, Derry noticed a sign on a house.

Stop, he said. Let me have a look at that.

He jumped out of the car, took a look at the menu, then gave me a thumbs-up sign. I parked and joined him, scanning the menu. The food looked great, but the prices were way out of our league. When I protested, he told me not to worry about it—we’d put it on his VISA. I was too hungry to argue.

We were shown to a corner table in the attractive room, candles on the table, linen tablecloths and interesting menus. The waiter came up almost immediately, took our order and brought us rolls and a bottle of house wine. Every time there was a lull, the waiter would come back and continue talking with us. Time passed—a lot of time. Everyone else had left and the waiter-owner, was getting ready to close up. He came over to our table with the bill.

I’d like my wife to meet you folks. I always have some down time over a drink before going to bed. How about coming over to the house for a nightcap?

We followed Don to his place, met his wife Katrine and stayed an hour or so before heading home. By then it was well after midnight.

WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? All four kids were at the door to greet us. It was hard not to laugh, realizing they’d had a taste of what it was like to worry about someone they loved.

We went out to dinner, I answered calmly. I trust you were able to fix something for yourselves.

Yes, Mom, and the house is tidy, said Brenda. You scared us.

Walking out had achieved what shouting and nagging would probably not have. And Derry had done what he so often did when we went out to dinner—made it into a memorable event by ignoring social convention and talking to whoever was nearby. We met many interesting people that way and had some extraordinarily good times over the years.

Up to that point in my life, I had often been frustrated by an inner battle within myself when my trained sense of responsibility got in my way and I projected a staidness or prudishness which was at odds with how I really felt. Derry somehow enabled me to throw over the traces and lose myself in the moment. Even with him, it didn’t happen often, but when it did, it made life an overpoweringly exciting adventure. It was one of the reasons I loved him.

As a sign of his devotion, Derry had taken on the revolting job of cleaning my cigarette filter. One day as I wheezed my way back up the hill after running down for a pack of cigarettes, I decided to quit. Earlier that day a Readers’ Digest test diagnosed that my reason for smoking was a need for security. Declaring that Derry’s love gave me the security I needed and the strength to quit, I began by smoking the whole package that night, with time out to be sick! Then I took the filter apart and threw it off the balcony. I never had another.

Christmas was approaching. For me, that meant traditions and baking—our first Christmas together as a real family. The season had been very special to me when I was growing up because my mother’s birthday was December 4th, followed by mine on the 20th, then Christmas. It all built to a happy crescendo.

Derry became increasingly tense and his beer intake went up. Christmas day was a nightmare. It was tough on all the youngsters to spend the holidays with a new father figure. Anne, first in the family to make friends with Derry, seemed especially on edge. Never particularly tactful, she talked unceasingly about her father and made unflattering comparisons. Derry snapped at her and when she answered him back, he slapped her. I couldn’t accept that. A terrible fight ensued. Derry slammed out of the house and disappeared for hours.

It wasn’t our first battle. An awful one shortly before we got married ended with my throwing the ring on the bed and telling him to leave. What provoked that particular argument was so trivial it made me laugh. Years later I discovered that he never, ever, forgave me for the incident. We were upstairs, about to make love. A yell came from two floors down.

Mom, where’s my clean underwear?

Eighteen-year-old Rick could never find anything and I knew if I didn’t respond, he’d come charging upstairs to find me. Knowing that his underwear was in the basket with all the clean laundry, unsorted, I decided it would be less disruptive to deal with Rick than to have him come upstairs.

I’ll be back in a sec, I said, throwing on my dressing gown, grabbing the clean shorts out of the basket and running downstairs. When I returned, Derry was dressed and furious. His interpretation was that I had put him on the back burner while I dealt with my ‘darling son’. That incident had a great deal to do with their interactions from then on and doubtless was a factor when they got into a quarrel some months later.

While straightening up Rick’s room, I must have moved a letter he had received from his girlfriend. When he came home from school, he accused me of having read it. That infuriated me. Having my honesty questioned always upset me because I felt defenceless and without access to justice. Derry challenged Rick on the issue when he came home. Rick refused to retract his accusation. Derry roared at him. Rick went out the kitchen door, slamming it behind him, then turned and drove his fist through the glass. I, the innocent bystander, got cut by flying fragments!

My eldest son, Art, entered the kitchen. Seeing only Derry and me, and noticing I was bleeding, he leaped to conclusions. Fortunately, his naturally cautious temperament prevented him from taking action before asking questions. The incident ended there, but eliminated Derry as an authority figure for Rick and did nothing to enhance his standing with Art.

Derry’s answer to everything was sex. He once told me if I wanted to defuse an argument or avoid a fight, all I had to do was take my clothes off. That suggestion made me furious and was a decided turn-off. Sex was becoming less and less enjoyable for me and I often used it simply to keep the peace and many times didn’t feel we were making love. I couldn’t make him understand that not being in the mood for sex wasn’t rejection. I often desperately needed to be held and hugged but that was never enough for him. He seemed to have an insatiable appetite, one I just couldn’t keep up with, despite loving him madly. I began to wonder if I was frigid although I had certainly never been before. Reading about women who complained they weren’t getting enough, I’d wryly think to myself that they’d probably like to be in my shoes. But no one enjoys a feeling of obligation and Derry was so intense, fervent, serious, passionate and focussed, I automatically closed down to avoid being consumed. I enjoyed the occasions when we made love light-heartedly.

Balancing this problem were our countless interests in common. We were both political junkies and on the same, left page. I admired his almost total lack of awareness of differences in people regarding colour, race, religion or so-called social status. Both of us were passionate about the environment and loved hiking, canoeing and camping. One of our favourite things to do was find a new road and explore it. Our tastes in music were similar and we enjoyed the same kinds of movies and books. Like me, he enjoyed words and we were good Scrabble competitors, although he was far better at word games and puns than I. And we danced—how we danced! I had always loved dancing but with Derry’s confident lead and his infallible sense of rhythm, I was able to throw convention away and just move to the music. I discovered a streak of exhibitionism I’d never known I had. It is often difficult to get a party rolling, but Derry and I had no problem being first on the floor, and often the last as well. Altogether, I absolutely adored him and wanted to do anything possible to make him happy.

While Derry had a contract surveying lighthouses, we made a trip to Prince Rupert, a trip that remains in my memory for a number of reasons. On our way north we stopped at a restaurant and while there, heard the news that Pierre

Trudeau had declared the War Measures Act. It was also the first time I ever saw a moose and I could easily credit the myth that God had delegated its design to a committee!

Prince Rupert has a terrible reputation for weather but I was entranced with what seemed like theatrical lighting, with the sun shining a spotlight through clouds on a point of land or clump of trees. That night, Derry and I went down to the waterfront to watch the sunset, taking some pictures of the spectacular sight. When it was over, we drove up the hill and looked back. It was even more beautiful than before, so we got out of the car and took more pictures, then drove further up the hill. From that vantage point, the sunset was yet more amazing so we took even more pictures.

Back home, I kept my appointment to discover if there was a physical reason why I couldn’t get pregnant. The test, a salpingogram, consisted of having dye injected into the vaginal passage under enough pressure to reveal any blockage in the fallopian tubes.

«Let me know when it hurts,» said the doctor. I gritted my teeth and said nothing during the very uncomfortable procedure. At the end of that afternoon, I went back to find out what the results indicated.

«Didn’t that hurt?» asked the doctor incredulously, as he hung up the X-ray. It showed my fallopian tubes bulged like balloons.

«Well, yes. But not unbearably. I didn’t know how much it was supposed to hurt before I said anything.»

«You must have a very high pain tolerance,» he said. «I’m afraid the news isn’t good. As you can see, the tubes are blocked. Surgery could clear it, but it’s a life-threatening procedure and there’s no guarantee. I wouldn’t advise it at your age. Why don’t you consider adoption?»

Since I was over forty and already had four children, I wasn’t optimistic about our chances of being accepted as adoptive parents. There were other factors I thought would be seen negatively as well. My youngest daughter Brenda, had recently become pregnant. In addition, Derry had not been in his job very long, had been let go from the previous one and had failed to complete his studies. I was afraid to get my hopes up. However, I picked up the forms and took them home.

Together we filled them out. Derry was a little upset when he learned I had put them in the mail first thing next morning. He wanted more time to think about it.

«But Derry, we made the decision together. We know we want to do this. Why wait?»

Only a few weeks later, we were invited for an interview. Apparently the fact I’d urged Brenda to come home rather than kicking her out when she got pregnant, counted in my favour, as had my positive contact with Children’s

Aid when I had taken on a foster daughter some years earlier. We had stated on the forms that we were flexible regarding sex of the baby and were also open to an interracial adoption. We were adamant only in that we wanted a baby, rather than an older child. At the conclusion of the interview, the social worker, who was clearly taken with Derry, told us that all we could do was be patient. We had every reason to expect it would be a long wait.

Derry was away on a contract when I got a phone call from my eldest daughter, Anne. She had met a man while on Easter break in California and had decided not to come home and complete school. I was devastated. San Francisco in 1971 was not a good place for a young woman to be. My imagination ran riot. I decided to drive down and see the situation for myself but I didn’t want to go alone, so I telephoned my younger daughter.

«Brenda, I’m going to San Francisco to meet Anne’s Jeff. Want to come?»

«Sure Mom. Do you plan to strangle him?»

«No—I just want to meet this man and look him in the eyes. Then I’ll decide whether to come on home, or just slit my wrists!»

The drive back home to Vancouver was considerably more relaxed than the drive to San Francisco had been. While I remained unhappy about Anne’s decision, I liked and trusted Jeff.

My trip and my conclusions upset Derry. With Brenda pregnant and Anne, he felt, likely to get pregnant too, he was bitter about the fact I wasn’t. I tried to talk reasonably with him but he only got more and more angry. His swift mood changes always confused and upset me. However, since he was leaving that night for Vancouver Island, I decided to send him off happy.

We had submitted our adoption application in November. Only three months later, we were invited to come see a baby girl who had been born February 1 at Vancouver General Hospital. We both fell head over heels in love with the adorable blue-eyed, blonde morsel. A week later, we joyously took home our ten-day-old little girl and soon after, settled on a name after agreeing we wanted one which, like his sisters’, Maida, Julia and Nana, ended in ‘a’. I was reading Mitchener’s The Source, and came across the name Lana, which in Sabra means ‘young tree’. As the daughter of a forester, it seemed absolutely perfect. Together with the name of her godmother, she became Lana Margaret.

In all the excitement of settling in with our new daughter, I failed to notice that something else was happening—or rather, not happening.

One Friday in March I went to pick Derry up from the ferry terminal. I was seething with excitement, but managed to contain myself by babbling about all the wonderful new things our little girl had done that week.

Anne picked her up when she was crying and she just stopped in the middle of a sob and smiled at her big sister, and when Brenda took her out in the carriage everyone stopped to say what a gorgeous baby she is …

Derry was silent. It was one of those silences I had learned to dread. Suddenly he snapped.

Seems everyone is enjoying my daughter, he shouted. Everyone except me. Not much need for me, is there? Just take me to my sister’s. I’m not going home.

I remember checking the rear-view mirror before wrenching the wheel over and driving to the curb where I slammed on the brakes.

God damn you, Derry Jardine—I’M PREGNANT.

So much for my romantic announcement—but it got his attention!

A week later, I paid a visit to the doctor who had performed the salpingogram. I wanted to tell him my news in person. He was extremely surprised and figured the only explanation was that the procedure must actually have split the adhesions. Hooray for my high pain tolerance!

As Derry was working on Vancouver Island, and because we both preferred the lifestyle there, we began making plans to move. My eldest son, Art, was going into residence at university and Rick had gone to Toronto to live with his grandmother, who had somehow been declared his legal guardian with no advice to me whatsoever. Faced with the fait accompli, I was helpless. Anne and Brenda were talking about finding a place together.

My house in Vancouver overlooking Stanley Park went up for sale and we said goodbye to the room I had added to the top of the house, from which one could see forever, and packed to leave for Vancouver Island.

We were going to Tahsis. I had only a faint idea where that was, but it involved driving to Gold River to catch the Uchuck, a boat often and deservedly referred to as the Up-chuck. It was a very fitting name the day we set off with Lana and our young shepherd pup, which had just been spayed. The captain of the boat admitted he’d rarely seen such rough weather. After putting in briefly at Friendly Cove, a small Native village, we eventually entered Tahsis Inlet with the boat plunging violently up and down. Suddenly I noticed Heidi’s stitches had broken. I grabbed her, wrapped her tightly in a towel and held her close to me for the remainder of the trip. There wasn’t a vet in Tahsis, but the local doctor did a fine repair and Heidi made a full recovery.

Our family was assigned the former nurses’ quarters. There was plenty of room, but as Derry immediately noted, there was no double bed. He solved that by using clothes hangers to wire together two singles! That was fine for a while, but Derry assured me it was only temporary because when he accepted the contract, he had been promised a company house.

An uncomfortable situation soon developed. Throughout the