They're called Angel Babies. Babies that don't make it to their first birthday. And I've been talking with my parents this week as I puzzle out the fact that I have no memory of the memorial services for my sister Joy, who was born when I was 5, and my brother, Peter, who was born when I was 7. Both were premies who died within weeks of their births.
It's called disassociation, when an adult has no memory of a childhood memory that was painful.
Apparently when I was told that Peter had died, I said, "Rats!" Apparently at Joy's memorial service, which was attended by my Granny, my Aunt Margaret, and my maternal grandparents (Grandma and Grandpa), I was glad to see all the people that loved me. And Aunt Pat (my mom's sister) was with me the night that Joy died, and Aunt Margaret (my mom's aunt) stayed with us that Christmas. Uncle Mark (my dad's cousin, a minister in the Reformed Church) performed the memorial service. Boy it was cold, my mom said. I drew my dad a flower during the memorial service for Peter. My dad might still have it somewhere.
Today a man came into the library. I don't know if he was the father or uncle, but he came to me on behalf of two teenagers, one thirteen, one eighteen, who were at home, couldn't go to school because of the death of their fifteen year old sibling. While I found books in the young adult department, he went back upstairs for a book I'd found on mourning a sibling death. It was one of the books he left behind, and reading the text, wooden and clinical, I could see why.
But since this week I have been trying to unpuzzle my lost memories, my lost sister and brother, I took a look. I found the website of an organization, Compassionate Friends, and their Pittsburgh chapter. I sent an informational email, since the most recent information on the Pittsburgh chapter website was about their August meeting.
I watched "Back to you," my new Wednesday night TV show, and got caught into "Til Death," when the phone rang. The caller ID was my parent's house. My parents NEVER call me, well, rarely. It was my mother, wanting to talk to me in case I wanted to talk more--I talked with my dad at least a half hour on Monday, taking three pages of notes. My mom told me that they got to hold Joy as she died--which had never been done before. It was clear she was dying, so the doctors unhooked her from her hookups, and my parents got to hold her as she died. My mother said it was beautiful, and that they thought that was the best hospital, for doing that.
I told my mom I felt silly, for something that happened so long ago. But my mom said, it's not silly. And she said, there's this organization, Compassionate Friends, for grieving parents, I wonder if they deal with siblings. You're a librarian, I bet you can figure it out.
So I have my parent's permission to pursue this grief. My body hurts, my head hurts, and I feel dull.
My mom said, everyone was so sad for Joy and Peter, and everyone was so happy when Sis came along. My words, when I saw her, asleep in a dresser drawer, "She's the most beautiful baby I've ever seen, can we keep her?" My dad heard those words, as he walked in, from work. Until that moment I had not liked babies, and now it occurs to me there might be a reason why.
Bro is in town (at my parents) for a wedding this weekend. How blessed I am to have two healthy siblings that I love to pieces. How blessed I am to have parents that love me to pieces. How blessed I am that I have two Angel Baby siblings. As I sit here, my hip is throbbing, from sitting in a funny position while on the phone with my mom, and my eyes are trying to decide if they want to tear up or not.
