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Show in my father's house/ 104 pathy machines or file genealogy and write in his journal, sometimes so absorbed he didn't speak until my mother came for me. Other times, he explained the function of each heat lamp or vibrator, or took me on his lap and taught me to read his ornate handwriting. Aunt Helga came to him, speaking in a low tone so my mother couldn't hear. "She's getting worse, Rulon. Everyday she's more depressed. And the massages don't help like they used to. We've got to find something to make her well!" "Try the infra-red lamp," my father murmured. "Remember how that helped Brother Anderson when nothing else would?" My father had grown accustomed to success with his patients. Many sought him as a last resort, after visiting a string of medical doctors. Those who improved called him "gifted" and "healer." "It's a miracle!" they declared. But nothing my father prescribed for my mother seemed to help. His frustration grew as days went by. "I've seen post-partum depressions before," he told Aunt Helga. "But this...is something else." He seemed to question whether my mother was truly sick. But she had lost weight, her face was pale, and her fingers shook so that it was hard for her to practice when she forced herself to sit at the piano. "I can't understand it," she whispered when my father came to check on her. "I used to be so happy. What terrible thing have I done that the Lord would punish me this way?" And she |