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About the book:

“In Spite of All That”

This is the story of an ordinary middle-aged twentieth-century Canadian woman’s journey through adult life to late middle age.

Depressed and desperate, Mary is on the brink of suicide and looks back over her life as she writes farewell letters to those close to her. In doing so, she sees clearly, for the first time, the triumphs and failures of her life, and the environment in which she lived.

Born in the Depression years in rural Manitoba, into a strictly religious middle-class family, she was denied her passion – a career in the art world – and went reluctantly into nursing instead. She struggled to find herself through the circumstances of her life, her first teen-age love, her marriage, her Roman Catholic faith and university studies. She conformed to the mores of the time for women, but on this fateful weekend, she comes to a clear realization of how and why she has repeatedly sacrificed her freedom and independence. She sees that she has willingly accepted the constraints but has inwardly rebelled, at the cost of her self-hood.

Price: $19.95 (per autographed copy)

Shipping and handling: $4.80 per copy

$ 2.00 each extra copy

To order: Send cheque or money order to

E. Paul

P .O. Box 13694

Kanata, Ontario

K2K 1X6

Enquiries: esther@estherpaul.ca

Excerpts from the book:

Chapter 1

FRIDAY

She counted and recounted the blue capsules. Is 56 enough? Will they just make me sick? When shall I do it? This weekend? If I wait too long I might lose my courage. Or I might spill the beans to Donalda. She might read my misery on my face – she’s good at that – and I don’t want her to try to talk me out of it. Mary’s inner voices jumped from thought to thought. Or today – while I am still so determined? I might chicken out if I wait till Saturday! No, not yet – first I must write to those people who matter to me. I owe them that much.

As if they were dynamite, Mary carefully swept the capsules off the bathroom counter into her hand, funnelled them back into the bottle, snapped on the lid and set it back into the medicine cabinet. Unable to move for several seconds, she stared at her face in the cabinet mirror, her large grey eyes so sad and generous mouth so down-turned. Her dishevelled pepper-and-salt hair (more pepper than salt) stuck out from her head at all angles from the constant raking of her fingers. For the past hour she had restlessly paced her apartment floor trying vainly to escape the ache in her solar plexus. . . .

Chapter 4

LITTLE BROTHER

The four o’clock clamour of birdsong woke Mary with a start, surprised she had drifted off. The lightening sky revealed the darker masses of trees outside her window. Realization of what she was planning came flooding in all at once. She tiredly rose from the bed and headed to the bathroom, shedding yesterday’s clothes as she went. A shower and maybe some breakfast. Then I can finish the letters.

Back at the desk by six she began to write again, looking inward to the events of the past, to her friends, family and childhood home.

***

My dear Bob,

This letter will come as a surprise to you. I want to make things right between us for I am saying a final goodbye to you. I regret that we have not been close for many years now, and for my part, I really don’t know why. We were such good pals when we were kids and into our teen years until you went into the Jesuit Order at 18 and I was, by then, graduating from Nursing School. Aside from exchanging Christmas cards and my invitations to you and your family to come visit Rob and me (which you always declined), it was quite obvious you didn’t want to have much to do with me. I received news of you from Paula for you were very close to her, it seems.

I am thinking of you back when we were kids – happy memories really. Even though you were three years younger than I, you were a smart kid – I couldn’t fool you too often, although I tried.. . .

Chapter 7

HIGH SCHOOL DAYS

. . . A few days later her Dad asked her what she planned to study in September.

She had just finished her hour of piano practice and was passing his easy chair on her way to the living room door to escape the heat indoors, when her father posed the question. Surprised, she stopped in mid-flight. She had been oblivious to his presence behind her in the room, sitting in his favourite stuffed chair, as she concentrated on her scales and her assigned Chopin étude. A cigarette smouldered in the ashtray beside him.

“Ooh, to be a serious artist,” she replied immediately.

After a moment, during which he carefully folded up his newspaper and

removed his glasses, he looked directly at her, and said carefully, “Well, Mary, that’s not a very practical choice.”

“But it’s what I want most in this world!”

“Nursing or teaching would be much more practical. After all, you will find those skills a help to you all your life – especially when raising a family.”

“ But . . . I don’t plan on getting married right away . . . and besides, I can earn good money with commercial art. I can support myself . . .”

“If you get a job! I doubt there is too much opportunity in that field . . . for women anyway.”

Mary’s mind whirled as she desperately tried to find a way to convince her father. She took a deep breath as she watched the slow upward advance of a fly on the window pane. It buzzed madly, angrily, as it attacked the glass. Can’t get out.

Buzzz, buzzz, buzzz.

“Well . . . illustrating for magazines, designing clothes . . .” she dared to venture.

“Maybe so,” he cut in, “but to be honest, we really can’t afford to send you to art school for two or three years, and pay board in Winnipeg as well.” He took a puff of his cigarette, blew the smoke into the air. “We must think of further education for one of your brothers; they’ll have families to support, and you will have a husband to support you in due time.”

She opened her mouth to say more, when he put up his hand. “No more discussion, Mary. I’m sorry,” he said firmly, putting his glasses back on and re-opening his paper with a snap, effectively putting a barrier between them.

She hung onto her tears until she was well out of earshot, then blindly rushed up the stairs to sob into her pillow. She considered appealing to her mother, but realized she would take her father’s side. She always defers to him; there’s no point in trying!

Chapter 9

LEAVING THE NEST

. . . On a warm September afternoon, with the leaves on the row of poplar trees behind the Oak Creek station beginning to turn a translucent golden yellow, and the smell of hot tar on the station platform pungent to her nose, Mary waited with her parents and younger brother for the eastbound CPR transcontinental train. Ahead of her were three years of study and hard work in the teaching hospital on the banks of the Red River. She had often enough heard her sister, who graduated from the same hospital six years earlier, complain about “slaving away” for her three years of training. . . .

Chapter 15

MEETING ROB SULLIVAN

Rob Sullivan was 33 and Mary was 21 when they met. She noticed him first at the bowling and curling leagues of Deer Lodge Hospital where she was the newest and youngest member of the staff.

“Who is that?” Mary asked Vic, captain of her bowling team. “Ah. That’s Rob Sullivan, our Fire Prevention Officer, a recent member of the staff and the only eligible bachelor at the hospital – can’t you tell, the way the nurses make eyes at him? All the old maids see him as a last chance at a meal ticket!” He laughed.

Over the next few weeks Mary observed him and she liked what she saw: his easy-going manner, his infectious laughter, his apparent self-confidence, his good looks, Irish features – sandy-red curly hair and freckles – rather opposite to Edward with his dark hair and flashing dark eyes. Rob was neat and slim, 5'9" or 5'10" – shorter than Edward by at least two or three inches, she thought. She also saw with her own eyes the coy looks and warm smiles bestowed upon him by the single nurses, whose average age was around 40. He’s a bit old for me, maybe mid-thirties, but he looks like fun. As a lark, she decided to capture him and steal him away from those eager nurses who so obviously vied for his attention; she had no intention of marrying him – at first. . . .

Chapter 29

LEAVING

Mary felt again the frigid cold of that February night in 1979, as she emerged stealthily from the front door of their suburban bungalow, arms full of clothes, and headed down the driveway to her car. The air crackled with cold and overhead the wide black sky was filled with icy stars. Thank goodness my car is parked behind Rob’s tonight. She slipped on the ice and nearly fell but managed to recover. I should’ve worn my boots. Throwing the clothes into the back seat, she decided she must go back for the boots and more of her belongings. He might not let me back into the house once when he finds out I’ve gone.

The note she left for Rob said, “I’m going to Tess’s. Will call you tomorrow.”

Driving through the nearly empty streets to her friend’s apartment in the east end of Ottawa, Mary had second thoughts. A sudden attack of nerves made her pull over to the curb, where she rested her head on the steering wheel for several moments. Am I really doing this? Leaving Rob after, what, nearly twenty-four years of marriage? Maybe I should go back, but he might hear me coming back into the house and then there’ll be hell to pay. He’ll be furious. I won’t be able to explain . . . With a sick feeling she set the car in motion again. “I’ve got to do this,” she said aloud through gritted teeth. . . .

What others have said about

“In Spite of All That”

“It is hard not to identify with the heroine of this book, whose life and feelings are so typical and yet unique to her. Reading this book I found myself smiling, crying, holding my breath in suspense and fear, and finally feeling wiser and more fulfilled as I shared Mary’s realizations about living and loving.” – J.L., Editor

“A fascinating story of one woman’s struggle to find herself in spite of the difficulties she encounters with parents, church, and male relationships.”

– H.S., writer

“An intriguing journey toward self-awareness.” – M.M., Psychotherapist