50 Years in Polygamy: Big Secrets and Little White Lies Page 22
After all my laughter and explanations, Mark conceded, even though he really didn’t want his clothing divided—or cut in half.
*****
For the first time in years I went to Doctor Fulton’s office. He was back with a degree from Oregon, and we spent a few minutes catching up on our lives and what was going on in our huge plural families. I hadn’t asked him for help since he’d delivered Alan, but for quite some time, I had vaginal pain and itching that was driving me crazy.
“It’s a yeast infection, Sophia,” the doctor matter-of-factly told me.
“What’s a yeast infection?” I asked, feeling pretty stupid. He sounded like I should know the terminology.
“It’s a Candida fungus. When the normal bacteria in the vagina gets out of control it causes the kind of discomfort you are describing. But don’t worry, dear—it won’t kill you. It’s totally curable.” Then he looked puzzled about my naivety. “You said you’ve never had this before?”
“Never! It’s awful! How could I ever forget something like this?”
“How long have you been married now?”
“Just over eight years. Why?”
“Oh, my,” Dr. Fulton said in a worried voice. “You just told me Mark took another wife recently?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with all of this?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Candida is often carried by men. A man may or may not have any symptoms of the yeast infection, but he can pass it from one wife to another.”
As soon as I left the examination room, I rushed into the bathroom to hide my self-conscious, shameful tears. All the way home, I seethed with rage. Not only did I have to deal with blatant knowledge Mark and Diane had sex, now I had to deal with the reality that his penis had picked up a yeast infection from her vagina and deposited it into mine! Just thinking about it made me nauseous.
All the way home, I heard Dr. Fulton’s words again: “There’s not much can be done to prevent these sexually transmitted infections or diseases from happening in plural families. Cleanliness may help, but still may not stop the fungus from being passed back and forth. I guess the only way to stop spreading it is celibacy, or the use of a condom.”
When I finally got the courage to tell Mark what the doctor had said, he felt bad, but he didn’t know what to do about it either. “Just stop having sex with Diane! I was just fine until you married her,” I wanted to scream, but I didn’t.
“I’m sorry. I always make sure I’m clean, Sophia,” Mark said. “Maybe you could talk to Diane about it and have her get some medication to clear it up.”
“I don’t care how clean you are! You and I have been married for eight years and I’ve never once had this infection before now. You brought this infection to me. It’s sick and it’s disgusting! You’d better use a condom with Diane from now on, or don’t have sex with me ever again.” By then I was sobbing. “My body was violated, and my soul feels desecrated! Not one single thing feels decent about you screwing another woman. Nothing about this feels holy, righteous, or sacred to me!”
*****
No matter the rolling tension, I continued with every effort I could muster to live in a pleasing way before God. In many polygamist families I knew, sister-wives seemed to be happy and close. I too desired to be a perfect sister-wife. When it was my night with Mark, I invited Diane and her adorable daughter to eat meals, watch television, and hang out upstairs with us. When it was Diane’s night with Mark, the basement door was shut and locked to let me and my children know we were to stay away.
Occasionally, when my boys or I wanted or needed to go downstairs to get something from our fruitroom, Mark would crack the door open an inch or so, as if we might see an orgy if it were fully open. Then he’d impatiently ask what we wanted. After too many months of rejection, I told Mark how hurtful it was to the boys and me. “It feels like a slap right in the face when you quickly shut and lock the door while I’m still standing there.”
“I don’t shut the door in your face,” he responded. “I shut it to let you know not to come in or come downstairs. It might seem selfish, but that’s the way Diane needs and wants it to be. I’m going to support her wishes for a while.”
It looked and felt like I had encouraged Mark to marry a replica of Aunt Eleanor, and he was going along with Diane like my father always went along with Aunt Eleanor. I was worried and disheartened. Still, I was sure Diane would have some compassion and understanding about our displaced feelings and would compromise. After a few days of stomachaches and worry, I got brave enough to talk to her. I explained how unfair it seemed and how much their decisions hurt us.
“You’ve had him all to yourself for eight years,” she replied. “Now it’s my turn to have time alone with him!”
I didn’t believe Diane’s attitude and justification was the accepted norm in the plural marriages I’d heard of, at least in The Group; but I found it was common for men in the independent group to abandon their old wives for a given amount of time, claiming it was to give their new brides more time alone with him, “to get to know him better.”
When neither Diane’s nor Mark’s way of thinking changed, my gloom and disillusionment lingered; but my ego reminded me, “These selfish events can go both ways, you know!”
I got busy planning all sorts of games and paybacks. I could imagine a zillion ways to win. But it didn’t matter how hard my ego tried to suck me into a war, my heart and soul knew better. All fighting would do is cause more rivalry and more conflict within me. I would have been very disappointed in myself if I had conducted myself the way I was tempted to.
Within a few months, Diane proudly informed me she had morning sickness. I gave her a hug and told her I was happy for her.
I really was. No matter how hard things were, I still loved and treasured Diane. It wasn’t her fault my insides were on fire. At least her sickness was just in the morning.
With her happy news, I began to feel nauseous all day long. Why did that proof of her relationship with Mark make one bit of difference to me? Everyone on this planet knows conception usually requires intercourse; after all, that’s what polygamy is all about. Mark was required to have intercourse with multiple women to help populate his own kingdom with “pure” blood. He was required to have an abundance of “special” children who were born under the covenant of plural marriage.
After several days of sequestered melancholy, accompanied with guilt for having bad feelings, I forced my way back to my busy life. No matter what or how I felt, I smiled. I grinned and smiled. I beamed so damn much sometimes my jaws ached and the skin on my cheeks felt like it would explode right off my face.
When Diane was about five months along, she started bleeding. After running some tests, her obstetrician said she had a complication called placenta previa. Diane was told to take it easy or she would lose the baby.
When the bleeding still didn’t stop after several weeks of rest, Diane was ordered to stay completely down until her infant was born.
The little red devil jumped on my left shoulder and nudged me with his three-pronged pitchfork, saying, “Oh, this is good, Sophia—this is really good! You can have some peace of mind for the next four or five months, because Mark and Diane can’t be together.”
Of course I didn’t get my reprieve. I was worried from the get-go and couldn’t bear the thought of Diane’s sadness if she were to lose her baby. And unless one of her mothers or sisters came over to visit, I seldom got a break. Not one person asked me if I would be Diane’s nurse and her daughter Carrie’s caregiver for the duration of her convalescence. The responsibility was just plain expected of me, as her sister-wife. It was an automatic given with everyone, including myself.
I was good at serving. After all, my whole life’s purpose was to have a bunch of children and graciously attend to everyone. It would surely get me closer to heaven! I was grateful to show my love for Diane by helping her with her needs, but at the same time I resented some of t
he demands and pressure.
Though I hated doing it, I quit teaching at our private school, enrolled Jake and Alan in the local public school in November, and commenced my duties. I served Diane meals, rinsed out warm washcloths over and over again for her sponge baths, and emptied her bedpan. Then I fed, bathed, and cared for our kids before I could finally get them in bed for the night. I’d get a few winks and start all over again the next day.
Some nights when I was so tired I could hardly move, I’d just cry myself to sleep. Sharing my husband with another woman was not what I had thought it would be. I wondered how many of my sisters and friends felt the same way I did, but like me wouldn’t dare talk about it. From day one, I knew the law of polygamy was surely devised by a male God. If it were up to a woman, it would have been the other way around. Instead of being married to our sister-wives, we could be married to our brother-husbands or be monogamists. But like everything else I was committed to, I was passionate about serving our chauvinistic God. I wanted His love and His approval.
Aside from being dutifully required to love my sister-wife, I genuinely wanted to be kind, fair, and friendly. Since Diane and I were living polygamy together, I hoped we would always love each other, so I did the best I could to care for her with love and compassion.
Most of the time, I was sad for her. She was a newlywed, a young energetic woman who had entered a very weird, dysfunctional, semi-established family. I tried to make time to visit with her and help her feel as comfortable as possible. As the days passed slowly by, she felt more depressed with the burden she had to bear. I suggested she read, knit, embroider, and write. I recommended several more things she could do to help keep her mind off of her situation, and felt frustrated when she chose to watch television all day and throughout the evening, which seemed to make her feel even worse.
*****
I was part of Mark’s and my own huge polygamous families, yet much of the time I felt so alone—as if I had no family at all. Mom wasn’t a social butterfly. She never had been. Whenever Aunt Eleanor or Aunt Amelia got their kids and grandchildren together, I was envious. By then, most of my dad’s children had large plural families, just as busy as ours. We seldom saw each other, and I longed for the sibling closeness my mother’s family never seemed to have.
Since Diane’s dad, Kenneth, was a good friend to Mark, I secretly wished we would be welcomed as part of Diane’s family. It looked like they participated in each other’s lives on a regular basis.
After my fall canning season was over, I started making Christmas gifts for Diane, Carrie, and my kids. For Mark and our three boys, I sewed expensive-looking denim jackets lined with sheepskin. When they were complete, I monogrammed their names on the back of each one with bright orange thread.
For gifts from our whole family, I sewed matching nightgowns for Diane, Carrie, both of Diane’s mothers, her sisters, and her sisters-in-law. For her dad, brothers, and all of our little boys, I made plaid country-western shirts with snaps.
On Christmas Eve, Kenneth and Mark carried Diane from the car into her mother Renee’s house for the family Christmas party. The food was wonderful. I felt elated to be part of Diane’s family, and grateful to present the pile of homemade gifts I’d created with love from the bottom of my heart.
After that complete rush of joy, my boys and I watched Kenneth, his wives, and their children dole out elaborate and expensive gifts to each other and to Mark. In less than five minutes I realized I was completely wrong. Mark had definitely become part of Diane’s family, but his sons and I had not.
Back at home, I stayed up until 4:30 in the morning stuffing socks, finishing the last minute things for our family, and setting out a few more simple gifts I’d made for Mark.
By morning I was physically and emotionally exhausted from having pushed myself way too hard for far too many days and nights. I went downstairs for our family Christmas anyway. After Mark and the kids opened their few inexpensive gifts, there were two large, unmarked boxes yet to be opened. Mark pushed the largest one over to Diane. She opened it and was clearly elated about her new TV. She smiled at me excitedly.
“Now you can have your television back!” she said.
The family could hardly wait to see what Mark had purchased for me. We watched in dismay as he retrieved, and set that box on Diane’s lap. She screamed with delight realizing she also had a new VCR to go along with her new television. My stomach heaved up to my throat and my heart surged with pain. Before Diane or Mark could see my crimson face and my tears, I got my boys busy disposing of the brown paper bags we’d used as wrapping paper. Sky and Carrie played with the few simple toys they’d received from Santa while Jake, Alan, and I despondently went back upstairs.
Of course my boys noticed the inequalities at Diane’s family party, and here in our own home. Like their mother, they wondered why. Their resentment resounded in nine-year-old Jake’s angry words: “If Dad hadn’t married Aunt Diane, we would have had a good Christmas, and we would have the things we need and want!”
“And Dad would still take us places and do things with us like he used to,” Alan mumbled with tears in his eyes. “It’s not fair!”
Normally, I would have defended Mark’s actions, decisions, anger, and second marriage. I would say, “Those things shouldn’t be important in this life. Your dad is doing the best he can to provide for us. We’re living God’s laws, which are more important than anything else in the world.” But my feelings were similar to Jake’s and Alan’s. Not one single rebuttal came to mind that time around.
I felt like I was going mad. All I wanted to do was to go to sleep and not wake up for months. But daytime sleep wasn’t an option at our house. I put on my comfortable sweats and jogged down the path to Swede’s house.
After two hours, I still couldn’t make myself get up and go back home—my disgraceful emotions were too much to deal with. If I tried to talk to Mark, we’d just end up in another fight and I’d be wrong again. Even my mother would agree with Mark. “Your feelings are very selfish, Sophia. You need to nip them in the bud right now before the evil spirits cause you even more depraved thoughts and take advantage of you!”
There was no way I could make myself “nip it in the bud!” Besides, I hate that cliché with a passion. I don’t know why, but I always have.
Diane didn’t seem one bit grateful for anything I did for her. She didn’t even thank me for the Christmas presents I had made for her and her family. My resentment lingered.
*****
Since Diane couldn’t go out with Mark every other Friday night like we had started doing, I told him it wasn’t fair for us to go out on our Friday nights either. However, near the first part of January, I guess Mark decided he wanted to make up for Christmas inequities. Even more, he must have known he should get quiet, soft-spoken, “everybody’s sucker,” reticent, Sophia out of the house before her cover-ups got the best of her.
Mark asked Val’s mom, Renee, to stay with Diane and Carrie. I got another sitter for our boys, and we finally went out to dinner and a movie together. When we got home, Mark stayed downstairs way too long, trying to console Diane. She felt devastated we went out while she still couldn’t. So once again, we put our lives on hold.
In February, Diane delivered her chunky little miracle at the LDS Hospital. All the necessary emergency equipment was ready in case a Cesarean section was required, but thank God, the baby’s head pushed the placenta aside as he entered the birth canal.
Three or four days after Diane came home with her adorable little son, her Aunt Renee, Val’s mom, came to see her and the baby. After a while, she took me aside to talk.
“Thank you for being a supportive and loving sister-wife to Diane. She says you’ve been treating her a lot better lately. I’m so grateful you finally gave in to the idea you have to share your husband equally. These things take time, and you’re finally learning how to be a good sister-wife.”
Completely bewildered by her insult and falsehood, I
couldn’t say a word in my own defense. When Renee finished her “sweet” tongue lashing, my thank you was insincere. What on earth had Diane told her to cause her to have such a dreadful opinion of me? How could Diane have one thing to complain about? Maybe it was because our original long visits had to be “nipped in the bud” so I could get other things accomplished, or Mark and I had gone on a date once in five months!
Renee’s belief in Diane’s words and opinions broke my heart. Her comments haunted and angered me until I set off on a tangent of my own. My hurt turned to anger.
For nearly six months previous, and ever since Diane married Mark, my life had been a zoo. She should have been grateful I encouraged Mark to marry her, or she might not have been with him. I’d done everything I could to show my love to her and her beautiful little daughter. Most of my time had been devoted to her feelings, needs, and wishes. Often Mark and I avoided sex so she wouldn’t hear us and feel even worse. I quit teaching at our private school and put my kids in a public school, which I hated to do. I seldom went anywhere with my mother, friends, or kids. Even worse, I seldom heard one thank you come out of Diane’s mouth. Even after I “became the good wife” and continued to take care of Diane, Carrie, and her new baby, I didn’t feel appreciated. What on earth could Diane have honestly complained about, other than her own malady?
Since I wasn’t able to “nip the bud” from Diane’s self-centeredness, I swore I would never again give in to her, or help her. When it was Mark’s night with her, he had to take care of his wife and his new baby. I took my boys and Carrie sleigh riding. We built snowmen and visited with friends. I left our big, cold house as much as I possibly could.
Poor Diane; she probably didn’t understand why I suddenly fell from my pedestal as “a supportive and loving sister-wife” and reverted back into the selfish sister-wife I’d apparently been for so long before.