little yellow flowers
Here at Glow in the Woods we have so many friends, family and loved ones who have perspectives to share -- people who have been uncommonly generous of spirit. Today's post is from one of them: Marita Dachsel, a poet, mama and friend.
I have no memories of my brother. This pains me incredibly.
My brother Dean died of SIDS on Halloween, just two days before he would have turned two months old, the day before I turned 25 months old. He would be 32 this September.
I was too young to really understand what had happened, but at the time I was aware enough to know that something had happened. For sometime afterwards I would ask "where's the baby?" and my mother would answer the best she could. I can't imagine how hard that would have been to face. I still feel guilty about this.
Both my sister (who was born twenty months after Dean died, with a miscarriage and a vasectomy reversal between them) and I have always known about our brother. He was never a secret within the family and for that I am thankful. He has always been a part of my life despite him being here for such a short time.
I asked my mother how she did that, and she said that she simply talked about Dean when we were little and answered any questions we had as openly and age-appropriately as possible. I don't remember there being any photos of him on display, but I think there may have been one when we were very young. He did have his own photo album, however, and it sat along side the others.
When I was a teenager, there weren't many conversations with my mother about Dean. I don't think I have ever talked about him with my father. I know I had a lot of questions, but I was afraid to bring him up in fear of hurting my parents, as if I was opening old wounds. As if those wounds had healed.
But my sister and I would talk about him occasionally in hushed voices in our bedrooms. Our conversations consisted of the what ifs and whys. We imagined who he would have become. We knew from looking at baby photos, that he and my sister looked eerily alike and so I would often imagine him as the male version of my sister: tall, athletic, gentle. They whys were harder to talk about. We would always end up at the unsatisfying place where "it happened for a reason." Although neither of us are religious and both have a strong aversion to the thought of any god playing with lives like that, we always had to end there. The unfortunate reality is if Dean had lived, my sister—my sweet, best friend of a sister—would never have been born. During times of childhood cruelty, when I was at my most wicked, I'd remind her of this fact.
With people outside of the family, I didn't talk about him much. It wasn't because I felt like I had to keep Dean a secret, but because he was special—so very, incredibly special—and I wasn't going to share him with just anyone. That said, there were a few times when I was younger when I'd bring him up to shock people. I wish I could crawl inside my younger-self's brain to understand because I can't really remember why I would feel the need to do this. I guess I can just chalk it up to the drama of youth.
When I was alone in the house, I would often take his baby album off the shelf and look at the few photos we had of him. I would talk to him. I realize now that my mom probably did the same thing.
A few years ago, I was given a photo album that had belonged to my Nana. In it were some photos of Dean and of the two of us together. I look at those photos all the time now. I am exceedingly grateful to have my own photos of him.
Like all relationships do, mine with Dean has evolved over the years. I no longer imagine him as my guiding spirit, my protector, but I do still feel his presence. The largest shift has happened relatively recently, since becoming a mother myself.
When I was pregnant with my first son, I thought of Dean more often. I carried an edge of fear and uncertainty that I don't think most women do with their first pregnancies. I refused to have a baby shower because the only baby shower my mother had was for Dean. Because the true cause of SIDS is still unknown, I was afraid that perhaps there was a hereditary link. The days leading up to when Atticus turned the same age Dean was when he died, I was obsessive. We were on a day trip to Lake Louise on that day and I wasn't enjoying it at all. I couldn't stop thinking about Dean's death and was overcome with fear that Atticus would die that day, too. Luckily, I was able to talk about it with my wonderful husband and he calmed me down. Afterwards, my fear of Atticus's death had greatly diminished to almost nothing.
With my second pregnancy, I was much more relaxed. I had a feeling I was having another boy, so I asked my mother if she would mind if we gave him Dean as a middle name. I am very thankful that she gave us permission. I had a twinge of superstition, worried that it would be a bad idea, that the name was somehow cursed or that because he was the second born we were tempting fate, but I simply acknowledged the fear, the superstition, and let it go. I am so glad I did.
Since becoming a mother, I've started talking about Dean with my own mother more. I like to think that it has been really good for both of us. I know, thirty-two years later, that there are not many people she can talk with about him.
When Avner, my second son, was born, my mother came out to help us for two weeks. At the time I didn't even think it might be difficult for her to be around him. About two months later, both my parents came for a visit and at some point she said that Avner was a lot like Dean. This made me both very happy and very sad.
I asked her one night over dishes if it was hard for her to be around my boys because of Dean. She said no, not at all, not my boys, and I was relieved. The unsaid, of course, was that it was hard, or at least had been hard, for her to be around other baby boys. We were quiet for a moment, and as she dried a plate of mine with yellow flowers on it, she revealed that small yellow flowers always reminded her of Dean. Her eyes were watery and mine became so, too. It was such a small detail, but it said so much. I've wondered how many people know this, how long she's carried this around. Since then, small yellow flowers remind me of my mother and her lost little boy; I picture them together, full of hope, joy, and possibility.
While I have no memories of my brother, he has greatly impacted my life. For those of you who have lost your own babies, you may find it hard to know how to keep the memory of your child alive amongst your living children. I urge you to try to find a way to do so that feels right to you. I'm sure it will be painful at times, but I can attest how important it is. We love and miss them, too.
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This moved me. Thank you so much for sharing this tender part of your family history.
beautiful story, thanks for sharing.
As a mom of two - one from "before" and one from "after" - so really, a mom of three - thank you. My two-year-old is too young to understand about his big brother and my daughter, to my surprise, tells her friends about him, which is painful for me sometimes. But I think she needs to, somehow, and at least I know Ben won't be forgotten.
Thank you.
Thank you SO MUCH for this post.
My first son (Griffin) was stillborn, and my second son (Gareth) was was born 15 months later. We have always openly talked about Griffin as a member of our family, and Gareth talks about his brother quite frequently. We did this because it felt natural to us, and because there is no way that I personally cannot talk about and remember my first son.
When my husband and I were seeing a marriage counselor a few years ago, she was horrified that we keep Griffin so "present" in our lives. She seemed to feel like we were somehow sick in "clinging to our grief", and pretty much said that we were warping Gareth by talking about Griffin so openly. We stopped seeing her after that session (both of us were SOOOO pissed!) but I've been secretly afraid that I am doing something terrible to my living son by acknowledging his brother.
Hearing you talk about your brother and the importance he has in your life helps relieve that fear, and is a deep comfort to me. Thank you for this little blessing that you have given me...
Thank you for this post, Marita. Just this week, we had to take Ben to the hospital for croup. Evan asked when Liam would be coming home, completely stunning us - he hasn't mentioned Liam in a very long time.
We had quite a conversation about Liam, all prompted by Evan - and although it made me tear up, it made me so glad. I've been waiting for him to be ready to talk about him - I just had no idea it would be so soon. Somehow, telling Evan about where his brother is now has some element of the fantastical to it - it has to, given that he's only three and a half - and speaking Liam's story in those terms is so comforting to me.
For you to share your memories as Dean's sister means so much to all of us struggling to find the right balance - no one wants to be seen as 'clinging' (OMG devani, did you hit her in the face with a cream pie on your way out?) but we all need to honour these tiny boys and girls who are so much a part of us and our families.
xoxo
My impulse -- if I ever have another child -- would be not to mention the dead babies that preceded it. It's good to hear another point of view, allowing me to consider the potential positive aspects and not just the negative ones.
This really moved me to tears, Marita, thank you for sharing.
We talk openly about Ferdinand, and about deaths in general, and I have often wondered how it will be like for them when they become grown-up's. It is a bit of a dance, us finding a balance between our needs.
Kate, my heart is with you... ...xo
Wow, after 9 years there aren't many things that bring me to tears about the loss of my son, but this post did. How very powerful, and very special. Thank you so much for sharing this and giving me some insight into how my daughters might feel.
Thank you. Thank you thank you. This post moved me, and gives me such hope.
I feel like I'm really failing in this regard. I tread this fine line -- I don't want to jam anything down her ears, especially out of context ("so! About your sister!"), nor do I want to ignore it. We keep pictures out, we still read the "I'm a sister" stories (by her request), we discuss death FREQUENTLY. But she hardly ever says her name, or asks about her. Sometimes I wonder if my attitude the first few months (breaking down at any mention) has already alerted her that this is a taboo subject for mom.
Future post, I suppose. Thanks so much for sharing this story, it's lovely to hear the sibling's perspective.
I wept as I read of your love for wee Dean, and how important he has been in your life. No, no pictures of Dean graced our shelves or walls. Had there been one up before his death, it would have remained along with yours and later, your sister's, as you are my children. However, to do so after his death seemed to me to build a memorial which I did not want. Your words, dear Marita, are a memorial to him, and the beautiful yellow flowers that bloom in my garden and in the wild, bring sunshine into my heart and a memory and love unending.
Each one of us deals with death in our own ways. We need to find our own. We will never forget our wee ones and our love for them and our other children will continue to grow.
oh my... tears streaming down my face--and to top it off with the comment from Mom/Oma.
Thank you for sharing such a special story. I have no other words...
As a mother of three living children, how can I talk to them about our fourth child, Drake, who died before his birth at 21 weeks, without becoming overwhelmed with my own grief? We don't have any pictures. All my 8 yr old want is to hold his brother, what can I do?
Thank you for your kind words about this post. I was honoured when Kate asked if I would write something and I am so glad I did, as it sounds like it may have been helpful to some of you.
Devani - I'm completely shocked at what your ex-therapist said to you and your husband. You are absolutely not warping Gareth! When we talk of grandparents who passed away, we are not clinging or being macabre, why should a sibling be different?
Tash - It's true, it can be a fine line, but it sounds like you are doing a fantastic job with your daughter by being open and following her lead. My hunch is that although she is not speaking her sister's name much at the moment, that will change. Like with Kate's Evan, it may come up and surprise you. It will ebb and flow.
Courtney - This is such a difficult question and I'm sorry that you have to deal with it. I think it is okay for your children to see your grief. It is terrible to lose a child and I think they need to see you be sad about it. Speaking from a child's pov, I'd want to know that my parents would mourn me if it had been me instead. As for your sweet eight year old, I don't have any suggestions other than saying that you want to hold Drake, too, and perhaps when she/he wants to hold him, she/he can come and hug you instead? I'd be curious to know what a grief counsellor would have to say. (Not Devani's though!!)
Thank you, everyone, for letting me use this space to talk about Dean. It means so very much to me.
My only sister was stillborn before I came into the world. Like Marita, I grew up thinking of her quite often in ways that would have surprised my parents, had they known. I always wished she could have lived, but barring that I was grateful to know she had existed.
I know many parents think that their lost child vanishes into the ether without having left a mark anywhere save for them. But that is not always true. Not by a long shot.
This was a wonderful post. I am a sister to a SIDS baby and have lost a son and have had twins after. It was so good to be able to relate to much of this.
Having lost William, for me has given me a massive understanding of my own Mum and what she went through when my brother died from SIDS. We talk more openly and honestly than we ever have about life and death.
Thank you for sharing this touching story. I hope that someday, if/when we have other children, they will understand our feelings for our Doodles the way you understand your mother. My heart goes out to both of you.
I have always been intrigued by stories like this, I'm sure mostly because they support what I believe is true: that siblings need to hear about their lost brothers and sisters, and that it is, in the end, helpful and kind to do so. My son asks about his sister, who died before he was born, all the time. He also checks with me regularly about our family stats: Mama, we have three kids in our family, right? Mama, in our family, we're two sisters and one brother, right?
He's struggling to understand, but there's a sweetness to this, and a truth, that reassures me.
Thank you for an absolutely beautiful post. I have babyloss friends IRL who have other children, both before & after the babies they lost, & I think they are doing a wonderful job of ensuring they grow up knowing about their brothers & sisters.
One friend's daughter was a pre-schooler at the time her brother was stillborn. They didn't even think to have her brought to the hospital, but later, she would look at the photos & ask, "Where was I? Why wasn't I there?" The mother eventually took a photo of the daughter holding a doll & brought it, with a photo of her baby brother, to an artist, who did a charcoal drawing showing the little girl holding the baby. It's absolutely gorgeous & the mom says that while she felt like Photoshop wouldn't be right, doing something like this was OK.
@Devani - Are you tempted to print out this post and its comments and mail them to that counselor? If she's still counseling parents to bottle things up I'd want her to see other points of view and hope she would consider that she's doing damage.
Personally, I wish I had asked my grandmother more questions about my eldest uncle. All I ever heard was that he was stillborn and that "if he had lived there would be 20 years separating the oldest and the youngest instead of 18." I wonder if she would have wanted to talk about it more. At some point in the 50s she checked herself into a mental hospital for a "rest" and everyone who tells the story explains that relatives had come to live with them uninvited and she had 2 kids in school and a baby and she was just exhausted. No one ever mentions that maybe that first son was part of her depression. Sigh. Usually when I think of her I wish I could get one more hug. Now I want to give her one.