Christian children were generally not accepted into college. Only those, who had straight A’s and didn’t have to take an exam, were accepted. Still they were always oppressed. My Mom was one of the lucky few, accepted into college and allowed to complete a degree as an Engineer/Technologist. My Dad received his training through college and later through his job, and had professions as a Diesel Locomotive Engineer, Electrician, Welder and Plumber.

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My Dad knew and loved my Mom since she was thirteen, but he had never told her. Upon returning from the Soviet Army during 1970’s, at age twenty-one, he asked my Mom to marry him. She agreed, and they have been very happy together. They lived by his parents, who divided their land into four plots and gave a plot to their three oldest children, including my Father. Dad was a machinist at a train station, and Mom supervised a meat company. The first few years of their marriage, with the help of relatives, they built their house, while keeping full-time jobs.

My parents first had two daughters. When time came for me to be born, the doctor and Mom were the first ones to welcome me into this world. At that time, Fathers were not allowed into the delivery room. When Dad came to visit Мom and the baby, the nurse greeted him,

“Congratulations, you have a baby girl!”

“A girl? I really wanted a boy!” responded my Dad.

“It is a girl and you are taking her home!” the nurse answered firmly.

After ten days of hospitalization, Dad brought Mom and me home. They had two weeks to register the name of a newborn child.

“What name should we give to our daughter? Maybe Oksana or Natasha?” my Mom asked my Father.

Dad left to register the name. When he came home in the evening, Mom was surprised to see that the name on the birth certificate was Olga.

“Why did you choose the name Olga?” she asked my Dad.

“It is beautiful and easy to say. It will sound beautiful when she is young and as she gets older,” Dad answered.

The name Olga means “Holy, Blessed and Successful.” I was lucky to be born to parents who loved me, cared for me, gave me values, taught me right from wrong, and provided me with a faith to guide my life. Even today, they continue to provide a point of reference, answer my questions, tell me what they think and give me honest advice. I value their opinion and their love.

When my parents had a fourth child, they were considered a large family, so the government gave Mom a two-year maternity leave. She stayed home, and Dad continued working. One day, while doing a repair at his job, Dad injured his right wrist. It was cracked, became very sore, swollen and infected, and eventually turned into cancer. The doctor told my Father, in order to live, his arm needed to be amputated.

Everyone prayed for our Father. No one thought he deserved it. He was a good Christian and a youth leader in their church. My Father’s parents believed God was powerful to heal their son and tried to talk him out of the surgery. They also worried how he would be able to support his family.

I remember one evening, when our Father sat on a bed and hugged us all, there was a big lump on his right arm. That was the last time I saw him with both arms. He agreed to amputate his right arm above the elbow, so that the infection would not spread to his whole body. His surgery was done on his 30th birthday. My Grandfather could not visit my Father for a whole month. It was too painful for him to see his now disabled son. In addition to pain, the newly acquired disability cost my Father his career.