A Defining Moment
The psalmist writes in Psalm 23, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil: for thou art with me . . ..”
Death cast its shadow over my life weeks after my ninth birthday. There is no way for me to look back at my life apart from what writers term “a defining moment.”
Continuing:
From the Backseat of My Mom’s Life
Chapter Two, NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP
“You cannot read the word loss. You can only feel it.” Memoirs of a Geisha
How did I end up on a couch at Auntie’s house, dreaming? Aware of the telephone ringing? Half awake, I watched my mother’s sister Joyce, sitting on a kitchen chair, wearing her robe, talking on the phone, her voice low and muffled as if she didn’t want me to listen.
Next morning, at my granddad’s house, the first person to greet me was Johnny Ray, a younger cousin. When I asked, “Where’s Renée?”, he pointed at the ceiling while his arm moved back and forth as if he were pulling the lever of a shotgun.
He knew what I did not. Renée had gone to heaven while I slept.
Her arm on my shoulder, Auntie hurried me through the living areas already crowded with family on to my grandparent’s bedroom. How odd, I thought, to see my mother lying in their bed. Inclined on pillows and coiled inward, she looked ashen against the white sheets.
“The House” was built by my granddad on Willow Creek Road in Prescott, Arizona. Granddad is holding the shovel of snow and Vernon, my dad, is standing next to him. At the time of Renée’s death, the garage had been converted into my grandparent’s master bedroom.
Mom turned from looking out the window toward the door where I appeared. She lifted her arm to beckon me. Her arm fell, dropping as if in slow motion––wordlessly telegraphing that she lacked the will or the strength to raise it again.
I moved to her and laid my head down on her arm, clasped her hand, soft and cold, taking in the lingering scent of Viceroy cigarettes––a singed memory.
Snow had fallen that day––four days after Christmas––and the night before, Mom had put Renée and me to bed on a pallet on the floor at my dad’s tiny bungalow. During the night, someone had scooped Renée up and I never saw her again.
How could this happen?
Mom had always laughed when she told the story about bringing Renée home from the hospital. Big sister Carol, 2-year-old me said, “Put it back, Momma. Put it back.”
Always listening to adult conversations, I overheard explanations for Renée’s absence.
My mom started blaming herself for Renée’s death. Mom blamed herself because we had gone to Prescott for Christmas instead of staying home in Las Vegas. Renée’s latest doctor had recently identified severe allergies to milk, eggs, bread, almost everything edible. Seventeen days before her death, Renée didn’t get to eat a bite of the birthday cake on December 12th. Mom got a cake at Safeway on her way home from work. Renée blew out her seven candles, happy as ever to be with us and for the three of us to celebrate her life.
Mom blamed herself because she had married Vernon. Mom and Vernon were first cousins, and I would learn in later years how genetics might have affected Renée.
Mom blamed herself because in Prescott the snotty-nosed cousins roamed amongst us all like wild animals. Derelict parents, my dad’s siblings, were always drinking or drunk. Their kids suffered from neglect, lived in filth, and exposed others to their germs.
I had seen the many times Renée got sick. Her fever would spike, she would have convulsions and require immediate hospitalization. That’s what I remember. Never much warning. Emergency.
“Renée should have been quarantined,” people would say, their way of blaming the kids who were sick.
Why was she taken? Had aliens taken Renée, leaving Mom and me?
Failing to put words to the questions that squeezed my heart, I felt pain building in my chest. With eerie foreboding, my family was coming to pieces.
My dad didn’t live with us anymore. And I sensed I had somehow lost my mother too. She looked gone. Vacant. Emptied, like a house we had moved from after sweeping the floors and locking the front door.
My mother had changed the words to the prayer “Now I lay me down to sleep,” teaching Renée and me to say instead, “Thy love guard me through the night and wake me with the morning light.” Mom didn’t want either of us to say, “If I should die before I wake . . ..”
It was morning now, and Renée had died during the night.
. . . .
The few days after the funeral while Mom and I remained in Prescott, not a single adult spoke to me about death, or offered to explain what had happened to my sister. Not seen or heard.
Still, I watched and overheard the adults attempt to appear positive, helpful, while offering unhelpful comments about accepting something that didn’t affect their lives.
“At least she died in Prescott, where she was born.” Or “At least Loretta and Vernon were here together.” Or “At least she didn’t suffer long.”
People continued to discuss Renée’s recurring illnesses, which as I grew older I realized these comments must have felt like hammer blows to my grieving mother. Some of the family whispered about my mom and dad being first cousins. Another question buried, I wondered, What difference did that make?
Adults in our extended family openly discussed Loretta and Vernon were cousins. They had each lost their mother early in life and their shared griefs forged their relationship. Those same family members would remark about me, saying, “Carol Dawn does not get sick.”
That perplexing, confusing comment, (I would learn decades later), could only have added to my mother’s anguish, suffering, and guilt. She and my dad knew the answer to explain why I was healthy.
I had my own questions. How did Renée die? How did she look? Who was with her? Did she hurt? Did she ask about me? Where is she now?
These first few chapters in Part I of what I have already written contain defining moments that set the trajectory of my story.
These memories have given me a sensitivity to the suffering of children who experience trauma and loss. While adults naturally carry the burden their own griefs, children also question the effects of loss on their lives. (see previous post, “Children Need to Be Seen and Heard”)
When death cast its shadow over my life in a valley filled with tears, I had no way to guess what lay ahead. Since then, however, I have taken comfort from the psalmist’s words, “Thou art with me,” and experienced countless assurances that The LORD is my shepherd.
The late Ray Stedman, whom I heard speak these words, said “The most important question to ask is ‘Does your God carry you? Or do you carry it?’”
