Lost and Found

By Lauraine Mercer-Leblanc

Lost in the bush for eighty-four hours at the age of three, recovery was slow. During the doctor's visit when she was seven, she overhears the physician tell her mother, "Your daughter is cognitively deficient." Years of mental calisthenics and low self-esteem ensue, God's interventions teach her not to believe the lies people tell her and the bigger lies she tells herself. The sudden loss of an older brother carves a hole in her life so deep; it disconnects her from God. This story is about faith, family, love, tragedy, and trusting God even when you're mad at him. Set in the Canadian provinces of Ontario and Saskatchewan, the backdrop for this autobiography is the lifestyle of two-mining communities in the fifties and sixties. When the author finds she must start life over for the third time, she's relieved. Now, she can pursue a dream. Hard work and tenacity, regardless of a disability, takes her to the top of her field of nursing practice. This story billboard's the reality "you are what you believe." Guard your heart. The issues of life truly do flow from it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781098004132

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Lost and Found

Lauraine Mercer-Leblanc

Copyright © 2019 by Lauraine Mercer-Leblanc

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Getting Lost

Bush Babies

Moving into Town

TJ Dies

Life after TJ

Visit to Inui’s Family

Moving West

Life After Marriage

Moving North

Escaping Anglo Rouyn Mine

A New Life in Ontario

Oh Me, Oh My

Overview

Getting Lost

One bright summer morning when I was three, I wandered away from my mother’s side while she washed clothes in a manual washboard tub outside our half-tarpaper, half-red-shingle, two-bedroom shack in Northern Ontario, Canada.

Eighty-four hours later, a friend of my father, Clem St. Paul, found me unconscious, leaning against a deadfall full of ants. Brushing dirt, bugs, and excrement from my swollen body, he gently gathered me in his arms as the last vestiges of twilight faded. A hard rock miner who wrestled precious metals from the earth for forty years, he frowned at the outline of a large opening a few feet away. He knew uncovered mineshafts were death traps. Mentally, he marked the spot so he could retrace his steps and cover the hole.

Picking his way through dense trees in the dark, another hour passed before he could safely deliver me into the arms of my anxious mother. A search party of dedicated townspeople watched the joyous reunion in stunned amazement. They lingered even though it was dark because every soul present knew, once the stragglers left for the night, the three-day search for me was over.

Sick and near-death, somewhere in the week-long delirium, a part of me was lost, a part I’ve struggled to find for years.

In the ’50s and ’60s, only physical trauma received credible medical support. Psychological and emotional injuries—even the deaths of parents and children—elicited an outpouring of sympathy, but clinical help was woefully lacking.

Hollywood portrayed emotional trauma as fiendish people with visible defects: stiff-legged, tortured souls stumbled around, committing senseless murders. Gruesome, hack ‘n’ slash entertainment forced the paying public to endure nonstop mutilation of an entire cast of C-grade actors, all within the space of an hour or so. Ultimately, the National Legion of Decency re-rated C and B films an O, which means morally offensive.

Is it any wonder the concept of whole-body healing struggled for so many years to receive due recognition? But for me, healing did not come soon or easily.

My biggest fear was the Windigo (Algonquin for cannibalistic monster). Grotesquely deformed, this tormentor visited almost every night. A creation of a fertile three-year-old mind, the hairy beast crept out from behind the corner clothes closet, a rod cut from an overused straw broom and suspended from the ceiling by bailing wire. The flickering shadows from the coal oil lamp spawned huge hairy arms that reached out for me, and the yellow light accentuated the beast’s mesmerizing dance in and out of the hanging clothes.

Terrified, I’d stare unblinking. Holding my breath, I made myself as small as possible and waited. When a flicker of movement caught my eye, I’d flip over, bury my face into the back of my sleeping younger sister and try not to scream.

From repeated nightly visits, I knew soon I’d feel the beast’s searing hot fetid breath against the nape of my neck. When I could no longer stand the anxiety, I’d shut my eyes tightly, shove my elbow back as far as I could reach, and with an extended hand, frantically thrash the air. Cold sweat drenched my hair and nightgown. Only when I was sure the smelly evil had gone could I slowly turn around and open my eyes. Often, relief was so profound I’d wet the bed; then, exhaustion would claim me for a few hours.

But that wasn’t the only nighttime difficulty. The thing I hated most was getting up to use the commode, especially during the winter. Barefoot, I’d jump onto the freezing floor, bend down, and shove both arms under the sagging mattress until my hands touched cold steel. In a frantic attempt to keep the diable from grabbing my arms, I’d whip out the partially full potty, slopping its contents across the floor.

Desperate to limit my exposure to the thing, I’d force my feet into the freezing puddle and flop down on the wet seat; sometimes, I missed. Yanking my underwear up over wet skin, I’d leap back into bed, drying my wet feet on the sheets. Too scared to look behind me, often, I’d leave the commode out with the lid off—a definite no, no.

God’s Intervention

The distress of my nightly terrors strained our family and demoralized my mother. Most nights, I could hear her praying. The night terrors continued until my younger sister spent a week with one of Mom’s friends.

The thought of sleeping alone paralyzed me. To comfort myself, I grabbed her thin, flat pillow and hugged it. Pouting, I folded it and shoved it under my head. Suddenly, it was morning!

I was four. Mom had no idea what caused the amazing change in me, but joyfully, she praised God.

Unfortunately, when my sister returned so did the night terrors. Her second night back, the two of us had a bedtime altercation. She refused to give me her pillow, so I slapped her face and ripped the limp treasure out of her hands. My action received an immediate reaction from my mother; the board of education was applied to the seat of learning.

When everyone was in bed and the coal oil lamp was turned down low, once again, fear snatched my breath away. Oh, how I wished my sister would just go away again! Several times, I tried to sneak her pillow, but each time, she awoke. The last time she snatched it back, she hit me.

I tried to understand; I slept before, why couldn’t I sleep now?

Suddenly, I squealed, jumped out of bed, and raced to the closet. Praying the Windigo hadn’t arrived yet, I stuck my hand in and grabbed the first thing my fingers touched. Yanking it off the hanger, I jumped back into bed and shoved the garment under my head. To my astonishment, the miracle of sleep happened again.

Every day, Mom straightened the girl’s room early, but now each morning, she had to reclaim closet items from my side of the bed. I knew Mom wouldn’t approve of my nightly raids, so once everyone went to bed, I waited until silence rang loud in the house before turning into the closet-napper. Unhappily sometimes, the crumpled item under my head was Mother’s Sunday best.

But it wasn’t long until my side of the bed received a surprise: two worn pillow slips stuffed with rags. The pillows were hard and lumpy, but I didn’t care. I never loved anything as much before; except of course, Mom and Dad and my brothers and, yes, my little sister too.

Even now, sleep has a prerequisite: my upper extremity must remain elevated. When pillows are few, I use blankets or whatever I can find. Low light and unfamiliar surroundings still has the power to make my monster-sensor tingle, and disorientation during sleep can resurrect the Windigo any time of day.

I’m blessed. The God of miracles continues to provide dreamless sleep. But losing my pillows to restlessness returns me to the land of fear and shadows.

Then

During warmer weather, the commode was placed on the porch. I didn’t like going out there, especially at the night. Curious creatures came and went from the open-ended porch, and occasionally, a black and white visitor left his odoriferous calling card.

One summer night when the coal oil lamp went out, a frequent occurrence before dawn, I sleepwalked to the porch door and turned the doorknob. Wait, my foggy brain urged, The Windigo may be out there! Instantly, I was wide awake. I stood stalk still, listening. Each time I stretched out my hand to touch the doorknob, fear screamed, Stop!

I stood in front of the door, afraid to move. It was pitch black, and I didn’t know what to do. My pressurized bladder urged me, Do something. I crossed my legs and bent over, trying to think. Do something. Now! I groaned in pain. SOMETHING! Suddenly, a large stain appeared on the front of my nightgown, and a warm puddle soaked my feet. I stood in the mess, bawling my heart out. Mom got up and rescued me, but I knew the worst was still to