Tuesday, November 15, 2016

The Baby, Part One



I wrote this story four years ago but never shared it on my blog.  It was a secret I had held for too long to let it go.  Now is the time to tell it.


Memories can be patchy.  Some incidents are clear and detailed, others are fragmented and cloudy.  Sometimes it is difficult to sort out what is an actual memory and what is the result of hearing a family story told over and over.  At family gatherings my adult children sometimes relate stories that are far from my recollection of the same incident.  We have shared memories, but our perspectives are different.

The same is true of my childhood memories.  When I get together with my brothers, someone always starts a conversation “Remember the time…” and together our collective memory can fill in all the details.

There’s one story we’ve never talked about.  It was the summer before sixth grade.  I was 10 years old.  My brother, Leigh, was about to turn 9 and was going into fourth grade.  My youngest brother was almost 4.   My mother was pregnant.  We didn’t have baby things.  There was no crib and no baby clothes or stockpile of diapers.  I remember telling my mother that she could have my baby doll’s clothes for the new baby and she told me that she didn’t need them.  The neighbors held a shower for her and bought her a stroller. 

One afternoon my mother walked through the kitchen with a towel between her legs.  “My water broke” she told me.  I had no idea what this meant.  She and my father left for the hospital.

Later that afternoon I answered the phone.  I remember the call because I spoke to “the marine operator.”  Back in the days of rotary dial phones and party lines, a long distance call was an event, a ship to shore call was unheard of.
It was an attorney calling and I told him my mother had gone to the hospital.

Late that night I heard my father come home.  I got out of bed and met him in the dark hallway.  Standing in front of the linen closet by the bathroom door, I was excited to hear the news of the new baby.  I remember the conversation.

“The baby died” my father said.

“What was it?”

“A boy.”

And I went back to bed.

Later we went to the hospital to visit my mother.  I had expected to go to Holy Cross Hospital not far from our house, but instead we went to a small one story building in Van Nuys and stood outside a window to talk to my mother.  I don’t remember any of the conversation.

She came home several days later.  

There was no funeral.

The baby was never mentioned again.  I don’t know what happened to the stroller either.

Stay tuned for part 2 later this week.





18 comments:

  1. My mother lost a baby when I was 8. She had toxemia and had been sick in bed for quite some time. One afternoon my great-aunt took us for a walk. I suspected something was up and did not want to go, but went of course. When we got home I rushed upstairs to see my mother. And as I somehow knew, she was not there... On February 8th 1953 a little boy was born. Just before he died two days later my father christened him Christopher Michael...

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    1. This is the fascinating thing about our personal stories...everyone has them. Once we share our stories we find out we aren't alone. I'm sorry for your loss of your brother.

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  2. When I was an adult with children of my own, my aunt told me the story of my mom losing a baby when she was six months pregnant. She told me that I was about one year old at the time. A year later she had my only brother, an absolutely wonderful man. I am so grateful to have him in my life and know that without that very sad loss, I would never have had the brother I know and love. so much.

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    1. Isn't it funny the things we learn about our parents years after the fact...and lovely that you now have a brother that shares that history.

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  3. The loss of babies is as hard on children as adults. When I was about twelve a friend the same age had a new baby sister, ten years younger. So did I. At a few months of age the baby died of a terrible complication called intessupsection--the small intestine collapses into the large. I had suffered the same complication--in 1943! My mother recognized it from a well baby pamphlet, rushed me to the doctor with the pamphlet and I was operated on and saved. My mother was so bitter about that other baby's fate. The song "This Old House" was popular at the time, and I took my 45 to my friends house to play. She wouldn't put it on. "I hate that song. It reminds me of my sister." Remember the line, "I thought I saw an angel peeping through a dirty window pane." Memories.

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    1. Memories...I do love when writing drags up old memories. When I shared this story in its early stages with my writing group it was surprising how many of us shared similar events in our lives. You should write your story. i got such a strong visual picture from the line in the song.

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  4. Am I the only one who thinks the baby was given up for adoption? That's still a loss but not necessarily as final

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    1. You'll have to wait for the rest of the story and share my journey. I won't write a concluding part until after Thanksgiving, but there's parts 2,3, and four coming in the next six days.

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  5. Ah, the story begins. I look forward to the next part(s). You are a talented storyteller, Jann. :-)

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  6. An interesting start, with lots of hints.

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  7. I am so glad to get to read this story. Your gift for storytelling is at its highest level here. Don't make us wait too long for the next chapter. :-)

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  8. I had not had time to sit down and read this until now. Thank goodness I can go read Part Two now. You are a great storyteller.

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  10. This reminds me so much of a time when I was 10 and just finishing 4th grade. My mother was pregnant as was my friend Pat's mother and our classmate Mary Agnes' mother. The three of us were excited about our new siblings-to-be. All were due in May. Mary Agnes' sister Gabrielle was born first -- healthy and beautiful. Pat's baby brother John Douglas didn't fare as well. He died very soon after he was born, due to congenital defects. While Pat's mother's faith that she would see her little angel again someday kept her from overwhelming grief, Pat was devastated. It didn't help when my sister Patricia Ellen, later Tai, arrived a bit late, the second week of June. I always felt so bad for Pat. The loss stayed with her. When we graduated from high school, she listed "Baby John Douglas" among her fondest memories in her life so far in her yearbook posting. At 71, she still thinks wistfully about what might have been and hopes that her parents and the baby they lost have been reunited in heaven.

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    1. Kathy I think you could write your own "Baby" post. I'd love to read the details of that time with you and your friends.

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