1 January 1637
Today is the first day of 1637! And I am starting the year with a cough deep in my chest. It's not as bad as it could be, but my lungs are rather unhappy with all the walking I do in my day to day work. I'm bringing Meulin with me when I can because I've been tiring so easily. Luckily she's enthusiastic about learning the trade.
She's going to help me with Bridget's baby in a few days. Bridget wasn't at the festivals for Christmas for long because she's so pregnant she has trouble standing up for long-swollen feet and all. I remember the feeling well. Meulin has been doing very well, so I may let her take a more active role in this one. I do want her to learn.
4 January 1637
Bridget had her baby today and Meulin did about half the work. She did so well, and I couldn't be prouder. She didn't even flinch at the blood, which used to bother me much more than it does now.
She did fall asleep as soon as we got home. But I can't blame her for that. It's hard work, helping someone give birth. I only manage because I'm so used to being so tired all the time. And because I have practice, I suppose. Heaven knows I have practice.
8 January 1637
I saw Patrik today, of course. We didn't talk about much, really. Sometimes we don't. Sometimes we sit together and eat our lunch quietly and just take comfort in the fact that someone cares, and someone would notice if we died.
That sounds terribly morbid, but it is on my mind. Meulin will be with me for a less successful birth sooner or later and she will have to see someone die. It is hard on the soul watching babies die, watching young women die, watching older woman die. It is hard to tell the other children, and the father, and the rest of the family. It is hard to wash off the blood and not feel like I should never try again.
But I do, and onwards I go.
13 January 1637
It's so cold. My fingers ache when I wake up. I'll have to start wearing gloves to sleep, I think. My goodness, I sound so old. Well, I feel old. My bones ache under my skin and I feel tired earlier in the evening.
Well, I suppose I have been ill lately. These things probably make one's body feel a little bit older.
16 January 1637
I know my mother was wrong. I love my daughters and I do everything I can to show them I do. I hope it's enough. Meulin's going to turn eighteen this year, so she'll be an adult. She clearly has a young man on her mind, so she might be marrying within a few years. She'll be all grown up and all I can hope is that she'll be alright. Maybe she will pass on the love to her own children.
I have a little more time with Nepeta, and I hope to make the most of that, too. She deserves every ounce of love I can give her. I love her so much. And when it is her turn, all I can do is hope she feels safe to come back to me when she needs to. I'll always be here for them. I can't imagine it any other way.
20 January 1637
Today a woman I've treated-Dye-came up to me in the market and said, "Mary?"
"Yes?"
"I just wanted to thank you for all the work you've done for my family and me. Please, these are for you." She handed me a collection of flowers from her garden and said, "I know it isn't much, but I appreciate everything you've done."
"Oh my goodness," I said. "It's beautiful. Thank you so much, Dye." I felt the tears welling up in my eyes.
"Anytime you need some laundry done, please feel free to stop by," she said with a grin.
"Of course," I said. "And please come to me if you need anything."
She nodded and we went our separate ways.
I put the flowers in water on the kitchen table and when my girls asked, I told them that there are rewards for the work we do beyond money. Providing for myself and my girls is the most important thing I do, but taking care of others is the second most important.
25 January 1637
It snowed today, a terrible blizzard. No one could see much of anything. My girls and I stayed inside and read today in the library, staying close to the fire. When it's so cold outside, and so snowy, and there's nothing to be done for work except put dried herbs in jars, it can be nice to take a few moments to rest.
We found a book today about making lace, and my girls and I decided to try it. None of us did very well! Between the three of us we had three messy, uneven scraps of lace. I couldn't help but smile. My girls are curious and intelligent like I was-or perhaps like I am, come to think of it. I did try my damnedest to make the lace.
I suppose there are parts of me are they same as they were when I was young. Perhaps I haven't lost everything.
30 January 1637
The snow was a bit better today, and so my daughters and I cleared a path to the village. It took all day, but we can get into the village quickly now and do what we need to do.
Luckily nothing happened while we were snowed in, but it could have, and that worries me. People rely on me.
It feels harder to walk to the village these days. I can feel my feet dragging as I go, and my legs ache at the end of every day. I don't know why. If I did, I might be able to do something about it. I know how to treat pain and soreness, but it keeps happening, every morning. It doesn't stop.
I wonder if it might be the melancholy. I recall reading that it can hurt one's body as well as the mind, since the two are so connected. I've had it so long but perhaps it can still surprise me. Or perhaps I need to drink more of my tea.
Either way, I ought to treat myself for this pain. I just won't dare use any of the heavy pain medicine for myself. They can do terrible things to a body if taken for too long, and then do even worse things when taken away. Patrik gets them for me for those I treat when I ask, but I don't ask much.
Anyways, the willow mixture works just fine.
2 February 1637
Meulin and I did another birth today. It did not go as well. The mother, Katherine, did not make it. When the bleeding started it didn't stop, and nothing I tried seemed to work.
Finally it was just too much and she went pale and cold and her squalling baby girl had no mother anymore.
The eldest daughter, who was twelve, took the baby and said, "My aunt had a baby a few months ago. She can nurse her."
"Good, thank you," I said. "Take her there. I'll come with."
The aunt (Carolynn) lived right next door, naturally, so it wasn't a long trip. When we arrived, the eldest daughter and the baby and I, Carolynn knew what had happened
"Your sister didn't make it," I said. "I'm so sorry. Can you nurse the baby?"
She nodded. "Did Katherine say what to name her when the time comes?"
"She mentioned liking Cecelia," the eldest daughter said.
"Cecelia," Carolynn repeated. "I like it."
I couldn't do much else for them, but we managed to get the baby to latch on, and I left food for them and promised to check in every day until they felt comfortable. They can wean the little girl at about a year and move on. It'll be okay.
5 February 1637
Another child passed away today. It happens far too often. A little girl named Phyllis, three years old, passed away from diptheria. There wasn't much to be done. Once the disease progresses too far and the neck swells up, there's not a lot I can do. The pressure on the throat is too much.
It sometimes feels like too much to do the work I do for the people who lose children. I bring them food and try to comfort them and remind them that it is perfectly natural to grieve. And sometimes it's just too much and I remember my baby boy and how he died.
Sometimes I'm furious with people. When my son died, no one brought us food or helped us clean the house. They just called Dolora a witch, of course, and let us suffer. I know it's not fair, but sometimes I can't seem to help it.
I know as well as anyone that grief is complicated and takes years to come to terms with. So I try to be kind to others, and to myself. Someday it'll be better.
9 February 1637
I was looking through Simonn's old drawings and I saw one I remember him drawing while we were on the road. I told him it was a beautiful picture, and he told me it was the sunset. I told him I thought it looked more like the sunrise, but what did it matter, anyways? It was beautiful.
Simonn loved to draw, and he was good at it. I miss his drawings. Sometimes I'd look up from a book and see him sketching me. Whenever I asked him why he said he wanted to remember the moment, or that I was easier to draw when I didn't move. I love Simonn so much. He was brilliant and talented and so kind.
I miss him.
14 February 1637
Sometimes when the snow falls I remember being a child and imagining the snowflakes were made by angels and given to us as gifts from heaven.
I had such an imagination when I was a little girl! I can see it in my girls. They still play little games of pretend with each other, and as far as I can tell they're old games from when they were starving. Sometimes when it's just them in the library, I hear them talking about an evil queen who stole them from a good queen in another kingdom. They say their real mother rescued them and now they can live in their real home.
I can only assume I'm supposed to be the kind queen. I'm glad they can acknowledge that it was wrong, even in pretend, because it means that they know they deserve better. Because they do! They deserve the world. I just wish I could give it to them.
18 February 1637
I've been so tired lately. I feel I'm not writing as often or as much as I used to, but so often I'm just exhausted by the end of the day. I worry, sometimes, that it's something more serious. Between my aching fingers and my heavy eyelids, I'm beginning to wonder if Patrik is right to worry about my health.
Well, I simply refuse to pass on until my girls are old enough. If my health is failing, I suppose I will have to rely on pure stubbornness to keep me alive.
21 February 1637
Not much happens around here these days. I understand there's some tension among the nobles and the queen and whoever else, some nonsense about money and what role Parliament has. I don't care much. Whatever they decide, I doubt much of anything will be different for us in our little village. They've never listened to us before and I doubt they're going to start now. We tried to make them listen and they didn't. If they were willing to kill the kindest, most compassionate man I ever knew, they would do anything to silence our voices.
Candas herself probably won't stand for anyone to infringe upon her sovereignty, but I hope someone does-if only out of spite. I doubt I will ever forgive her for what she did.
26 February 1637
Patrik came over today for lunch, as he does, and I could tell he was worried. So I asked him what was wrong.
"I know you do not worry much about your health, but I only want to make sure you know what would happen to your daughters if you were to fall ill."
"I-I suppose I haven't thought about it," I said. "Meulin is almost eighteen, so she'll be of age soon enough."
"I wish to offer any help I can," he said softly. "I know your daughters are capable young women, but in case they needed any help I would be glad to provide it."
I nodded. "Thank you," I said. "They know you, and they trust you. I'll tell them."
"I care about you," he said simply.
"And I care about you."
It's good to know someone will look out for my daughters. I doubt Patrik would let anything happen to them, if only to repay what he feels he owes me. No matter what, my girls will be alright. I know they will.
1 March 1637
It's starting to warm up, slowly but steadily. My aching fingers appreciate it.
I had one of the last cases of winter fever of the year today, or so I assume. I can't remember the last time I treated a case of winter fever after March. I suppose I treated Meulin in April, but she'd been sick since March.
It's always good to reach the springtime. People get sick less often in the summer, except for polio. Once we're through the winter, things are easier.
I'd write more, because my Nepeta has been working on her project lately, but my fingers and wrist hurt. I best make dinner anyways-my girls are probably hungry by now!
6 March 1637
I love having those nice dreams of my family that occasionally interrupt the nightmares. They never make much sense, but my family is always there with me, and so they are good dreams. In my nightmares I'm always alone. Even if I'm not literally alone-that is, if someone else is in the dream-I'm lonely.
I dreamed last night about my family and I walking in the woods, except it wasn't our forest-not how I know it is. I just knew it was the forest in the dream. We kept stumbling upon a creek, and for some reason we thought it a wise idea to jump in. Except it was terribly deep, and suddenly we were all swimming, and I believe there were fish we were trying to catch.
It felt good, and warm, and peaceful. I can't explain why when the current was rushing so fast, but it felt safe.
9 March 1637
I woke up today with a most unpleasant cough. I am starting to grow irritated with my health. Something is definitely different, and not as good. I did not used to get sick so often.
Nonetheless, I have work to do. I'll have Meulin do more of the hands-on work to avoid getting too close to anyone. Whether it's the tiny particles people from far away talk about or the miasmas people right here talk about, diseases spread when you are close to someone. So when I have these little coughs, I try to stay a little further away.
And anyways, it gives Meulin more practice, and that's good for her. She's quite brilliant, and practice will only help.
13 March 1637
Today I had a slight fever, as well. I woke up, felt the shivers, and said aloud, "Good heavens, I'm sick of this."
"Mama?" Meulin called.
"Sorry, little love. I didn't mean to wake you. I have a fever, and I'm slightly annoyed with myself for it."
"I was awake. Sorry you're not feeling well."
"Thank you, little love."
And so I got out of bed and made breakfast, but I didn't go into the village today. People know where to find me if they need me, and when I have a fever it's best I'm around as few people as possible.
17 March 1637
A woman, Allison, came today to ask me if I knew how to stop her from being pregnant.
"You are pregnant, and you don't want to be?" I asked.
She nodded, not meeting my eye.
"Do you mind if I have my daughter with me? I'm training her, and I want her to know how to do this as well. She won't tell anyone, and neither will I."
She nodded again.
Meulin was in the forest with her friends, and so I found her and brought her back to the house.
"This is the last thing I will teach you," I said. "I've taught you everything else I know, except this."
"Is…is this all, then?" she asked. "You won't help me anymore?"
"No, not at all," I said. "I just mean that now, it's all practice. Come on."
We went to the kitchen, where Allison was sitting, and I showed Meulin how to mix up the proper herbs to force the body to miscarry.
"This won't be pleasant," I said. "And I cannot guarantee your safety. There will be a good deal of blood and pain, and though I will do everything I can to ensure your safety I can't promise anything. I need you to understand this before I do anything else."
"I know," she said. "But I would rather take the risk than be pregnant."
I nodded. "Alright. Do you mind if I touch you? Some kinds of touch can help."
"I don't mind."
"Is anyone expecting you? This can take a few hours."
"No."
I nodded and said, "Alright. Then drink this, and we'll begin."
I showed Meulin what I was mixing and explained what I was doing with Allison, the sort of rubbing on the belly that helps push a not-yet-a-baby out. And a few hours later, when the bleeding started, I helped her to the chair and caught the blood in a bowl, and then I gave her some tea and broth and helped her to the couch.
"Just rest," I said. "When you feel ready to leave, please tell me. You can stay here as long as you like."
Meulin and I went back outside, so she could say goodbye to her friends, and she asked me as we walked, "Why would she not want to have a baby?"
"I don't know," I said. "Many reasons. She may not be married. She may not feel safe with her husband. She may have not been faithful to her husband. She may simply not want to be pregnant because it is hard on the body. It is not our job to ask why. I trust that she knows her own life and body, and it is our job to treat her."
She nodded. "What if someone doesn't know? Whether they want to have a baby or not?"
"Then we sit and talk with them. Understand why they do and why they do not want the baby. And…do whatever is best."
"Mama? Am I going to be a good midwife? I'm…I'm kind of scared."
"How come, little love?"
"I don't know. I think maybe I'm too nosy."
I couldn't help but smile. "You're curious, little love. That's perfectly fine. It's a good quality, most of the time. Just as long as you know when to rein yourself in."
She smiled back at me. "I'll try."
"And you'll do wonderfully. I'll head back home and warm up some stew for dinner."
She waved as I left, and I only hope she takes it to heart. I don't ask many questions of those I treat, because I don't want to make them uncomfortable, and because it isn't my place. I only hope that I ask enough.
22 March 1637
I'm finally starting to feel better from the fever. My throat still aches, but I'm drinking tea every day and it does help. I try not to speak too much when I hurt like this, but it's such a joy listening to my girls try to outdo each other at Green Grow the Rushes or read together about some delightful new subject that I hardly notice the pain.
"One is one is all alone and evermore shall be" indeed! Not ever more shall be. That certainly isn't true. I was one and all alone, but that wasn't forever. My daughters came into my life, and I know as long as they're alive I will never more be alone.
25 March 1637
I was feeling better, but today I woke up exhausted once more. And I think my fever is returning, although I'm not sure.
Patrik was over for lunch today and he noticed I wasn't feeling well.
"How are you feeling, Dianna?"
"I've been better," I said. "My cough seems to be coming back, which I'm not overjoyed about."
He frowned. "I am concerned for you."
"You don't have to be. I'll be just fine. I've survived much worse than this."
"You often say that. But one day it will happen that your body is older than you think and you cannot survive as much as you once could."
"Yes, someday. But I'm not even fifty. I have plenty of time left."
He nodded. "Please, do not be offended by my worry. I only wish for you to be well."
"I know," I said. "I worry about you, too. But you seem to be in perfectly good health."
"I feel that I am," he said.
I nodded and left the discussion at that. Talking about my health is much too depressing.
28 March 1637
The fever is back, and so Meulin has been doing more and more of the work with those we treat. I don't want to pass anything on. I wouldn't want to be the cause of someone else's little one's death. I couldn't live with myself. I hardly manage when someone under my care passes away.
Meulin and Nepeta are doing so well. They're happy. They have friends who they love and who love them, and they eat enough and stay healthy. I love them and they love me. They're doing so much better than the worryingly thin, sickly little girls they were when I found them. I remember when I dreaded that they wouldn't make it. Now they're perfectly safe and healthy, and things are going to be alright.
Things are going to be alright.
31 March 1637
I still have a fever. I woke up trembling so badly today I could hardly stand. Once I'd wrapped myself up in a few more layers I managed to warm up, but it was terribly unpleasant. I don't know what's wrong with me.
I have an idea, but I don't want to believe it.
Either way, I have work to do and daughters to care for and a garden to tend and some hunting to get done. It doesn't matter what's wrong with me. I have things to do, and I am going to do them.