My mom lost a son about 34 years ago. The story, which I’ve never been told, is that it was the mid-70s, “big D” had a fever, and my mom gave him aspirin. This developed into that rare disease / reaction, which for google reasons I won’t mention, and he died.
That’s about all I know. And I know that because, at the age of 29, my wife asked a cousin what happened and then told me later. When she did, it wasn’t easy to hear.
Having gone through losing Malina, and the guilt – the sheer terror of my crimes of omission in somehow not demanding daily ultrasounds – I can only imagine what my mother went through, feeling literally responsible for what happened. Take a second and think about it.
I have always known that I had an older brother, and that he died before I was born. And that my middle name is his name. But I don’t think it was until college before I did the math and realized that he died 11 months before I was born. 11 months. Insane. So, in a very real way, I know what it’s like to be a replacement child (not a good term, but descriptive).
One of my earliest memories, I tell myself now, is climbing the tree in the backyard and thinking about how little boys die at the age of 5, and so I might die this year, too. But it would be good if I didn’t.
At the start, I think big D was around me all the time… I even have some childhood pictures of myself that I was shocked to learn weren’t actually of me, but of him. As a very young child, I heard stories, my parents would talk about him. Then, as I got older, he only came up once a year, when my mom would put me in the car and drive us off to the cemetery to visit his grave. The marker said something along the lines of ‘our little angel’ and then had a carving of an angel, kneeled in prayer. At least, that’s how I remember it. I’m suddenly pulled by a massive urge to go visit his grave, all the graves, back home.
At times my mom would just start crying for no apparent reason (or, even more likely, I would be convinced that it was due to some failure of mine). That’s when I came to entertain, to cuddle, to feel that there’s a problem I can fix. I owe my sense of humour to my father, but my delivery to my mother.
Eventually, maybe when I was around 10 years old, my parents split up. It was painful for everyone. So I stepped in to the breach, once more, to entertain mom, to be happy for dad on those miserable visits, to let him know that he was doing a good job. My parents were both completely supportive and loving of me. And I always felt guilty about it. In hindsight, I felt responsible for their feelings. In reality, I probably did a pretty poor job of making them better. And so it continues today.
My dad would sometimes – not often, but occasionally – look at me square in the eye and tell me that he loved me more that any other child. Which I always thought was a really shitty thing to say because my older sister probably wouldn’t appreciate it. But he was telling me that he loved me more than the son he lost. It’s a sentiment that was completely lost on me. But not anymore.
I wonder if it will take me a decade before I look at little K and say, “I love you more than any of my children”. Because I can’t say that now. I miss Malina terribly, I wish she hadn’t died, and I wish that we hadn’t suffered the massive, total, and still continuing grief that – even today, with such a beautiful reason to move on – threatens to destroy our lives. If I could trade little K for Malina, I think I might. Why not take a pass on 15 months (and counting) of misery? I love my daughter so so much, I am so glad she is here and I am totally devoted to her. But still…
Every parent, I think, loathes the idea of becoming just like their parents. Then, the same songs come out, the same sayings, the same wisdom that was always so irritating when we were young. For me, it’s a little bit more scary. I don’t want what they had, and while I think I turned out okay, I don’t want little K to be responsible for our feelings. So when Melka is upset, I’m very aware of how the baby can become a tool to change the subject. And I try not to do it, I try not to pass this down.
When I was born, we moved into a brand new house. When little K hits three months, we’ll be far from the Lowlands, further east in a place more central. Is this a bad start?
More on my weird legacy concerns in another post. Thanks for following my detour.
8 comments
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October 3, 2009 at 15:46
Ines
wow, my husband is a so called replacement child too. We don’t have a another child here with us now, it’s just him and myself. So this is all so very new to me, and I’m intrigued by your words and experiences. I am following a few blogs of people who are facing completely different demons now that they have another child after loss.
I think when you have children you will always be chased by the legacies of your own childhood, but it sounds like a special kind of haunt with you. I wish you peace and strength and love.
Ines
October 4, 2009 at 00:23
Sally
Thanks for taking us on the detour. I’ll be tuning in to hear more.
Thinking of you guys. A lot.
October 4, 2009 at 00:51
afteriris
This really brought a lump to my throat. I’ve just had a ‘replacement child’ too, and I really appreciate hearing your perspective on it. I feel differently to you, I think. But the emotions involved are so unbelievable complex that to read your articulation is just… well… painful and mind-blowing all at the same time. Thank you.
Jess
October 5, 2009 at 17:17
Judy
I don’t know why it always surprises me that there are more of us out there–replacement children in one way or another. My fascination and struggle with my own role in my family led me to write the book, Replacement Child, which just came out this month–www.replacementchild.com. My story is a little different than this one, involving a plane crash that took my sister’s life and left my other sister very badly scarred. The similarities of the feelings I hear from other children that were born after a sibling died, and also parents who have had the tragedy of losing a child and made the difficult decision to have another child, is uncanny. We all handle it differently, but we have all had some of the same issues. I talk more about it on my blog as well on the website.
Judy
http://www.replacementchild.com
October 9, 2009 at 00:03
Catherine W
I’ve returned and returned and returned to this post in my thoughts but am no clearer on my response. Here goes though with apologies for my half-bakedness. . . this was very interesting to read. I hadn’t really considered the concept of ‘replacement’ children before. Perhaps because my surviving child is one of twins it makes it very clear in my mind. I don’t think that one child should (?) be loved above the others, be they living or dead. What I feel is . . .
I love them the same.
I wanted them the same.
I just wish I had them both.
If that makes any sense at all? Is it possible you might feel the same about Malina and K one day? If you could separate Malina herself from the grief of losing her and the pain that her death caused you? I’m sure your father said what he did to try and express his love for you but it doesn’t have to be that way perhaps? You can have space and love in you for Malina and K simultaneously. Ach, I don’t know. I still haven’t really managed to articulate what I wanted to say.
Looking forward to reading the next post on your detour.
October 18, 2009 at 12:31
Lisa Wood
this really freaked me out. I have a older brother who was born silent, and its only lately that I have been thinking deeply about it. Reading this post….it sent chills down my spine because I could almost say it was my life, my feelings.
A few things are different, but then the same.
I lost my brother a year before I was born. He was born, but was never discussed about. My Mum didn’t even get to see him or hold him.
My Mum and Dad broke up when I was a baby, but I still feel some of what you feel.
Its great to know that we are not the only “so called replacement child” out there, and i thank you heaps for sharing your feelings…I have yet to write how i feel.
October 22, 2009 at 02:04
Heather
Thank you for your perspective, and your honesty. Although my surviving child is older than the twins I burried this year, I often wonder how the effects on me might affect him. I am trying to do the right things for him, make him feel safe and “normal”. He’s only 3, and doesn’t know what happened yet. However, he does know something happened, mommy needed help taking care of him for months, and when she was back in the saddle he said something he had never said before and hasn’t said since, “Don’t worry mommy.” This from a child who wasnt putting alot of words together at the time. He knows something is up with me, as hard as I try to hide it from him. I so hope he never feels responsible for my feelings, I am trying to be conscious of not making him my everything, even though for the time being, he is. I guess one day when he’s old enough to understand, he’ll have his own feelings about the 2 angel baby sisters watching over him. I hope he will be more at peace with it than I am.
October 28, 2009 at 14:01
nickesias
I must say that currently I am a bit lost. I am married to a beautiful wife, whom is both a replacement child as well as last born, 15 years after her next sister. The lost child she replaced was seven at the time of death, and even her one sisters child was named after the lost child. At the moment I have no understanding of the inner workings of these and the impact it may have had on my wife but with little information I have been able to source only confirms very slightly some of the character traits she is showing. If possible can anyone suggest a good website or blog where I can potentially source some advise on how to handle this. I do not want to loose her but in addition I am also unable to meet the extreme emotional demands she presents. Help ? Anyone ?