| The story of Sydney and Edwin begins in the spring of 1956 ~ a time when the loss of a baby was often downplayed; especially if the loss was a stillbirth. The practices and protocols found in many hospitals today designed to assist grieving parents and families to embrace the pain of their loss did not exist then. Perhaps if they had, some of the outcomes of this story would have been different.
Edwin was approaching his third birthday in 1956. He lived with his parents in the Texas High Plains city of Lubbock ~ home to red dirt, relentless wind, tabletop-like landscapes and the Texas Tech Red Raiders. Edwin to this day ~ some fifty years later ~ retains many memories of his brief stay there. He fondly recalls his pet boxer, his best friend (who happened to be a girl), riding his tricycle down the wide street on which he lived and playing "drums" on his mother's pots and pans in the middle of the kitchen floor. In contrast, he remembers the terror of seeing a black tornado looming over the city, the discovery of a brightly colored snake under a rock in his front yard and the day he attempted to fly his new balsa wood glider in the middle of a howling sand storm. He also remembers . . . the day he was first touched by the tragedy of death.
You see, Edwin's family was expecting an addition to the family. He was hoping for a brother! In the days prior to the anticipated delivery date, there was an air of expectation. Telephone calls daily, frequent visits from friends and family members and talk of the new baby to come became the routine to which he grew accustomed.
The day finally arrived when his mother went to the hospital. Edwin could hardly wait! He would soon have a baby brother or sister to play with ~ he really, really hoped for that brother!
Today when Edwin recounts the events as he recalls them, a tinge of sadness still hangs in his speech. Of all the memories of the day his mother came home from the hospital, the one that affected him the most was the realization that no baby accompanied her when she walked through the door.
Edwin was confused. The house characterized by the electricity of anticipation suddenly fell silent. Smiles were replaced by tears and sadness. Confusion filled Edwin's little heart and mind. Many times, Edwin recalls that the adults would cease their conversation whenever he entered the room. At some level, Edwin recounts that he felt as if he had done something wrong ~ something about which no one would speak.
Eventually, he asked about the baby. To the best of his memory, he was told that Sydney had been stillborn ~ that he was not alive ~ that Edwin would not have a brother. "Stillborn?" What did that mean?
All he knew was that it meant he had a brother named Sydney but didn't really have him because he was "stillborn" and could not be at home. He did his best to accept it and through the years he ventured to ask questions from time to time. Eventually, "stillborn" made sense and he understood what had happened. There were other questions swimming around in his mind, but he can't remember asking them.
Edwin struggled with Sydney's absence as he grew. Perhaps this experience caused Edwin to develop a keen sensitivity to the emotions of others because he often felt compelled to reach out to people when he sensed their sadness.
Growing up, Edwin was exposed to the deaths of many children ~ saw how those deaths affected the parents and siblings ~ contemplated how Sydney's absence had affected him and his family. He often recalls the family in Galveston that lost their sons in a swimming accident; and the death a twelve year old friend; he remembers the deaths of high school and college friends; he remembers and wonders. Wonders how all those families made it through.
In college in the early to mid-70's, Edwin's interest in death, loss and grief grew. This interest dictated a major in sociology and minor in psychology followed by over a decade of youth and family ministry. Based on his interest in and study of loss and grief, Edwin felt that he had a pretty good handle on those subjects ~ that is, until he realized he didn't.
In early 1989 ~ almost 33 years after the stillbirth of Sydney ~ Edwin came face-to-face with another devastating death loss. On a very normal day ~ a day much like the one in the spring of 1956 ~ Edwin suddenly found himself the single father of a young daughter when his wife of 12.5 years died as a result of injuries she received in an automobile accident. Once again, Edwin was faced with unanswerable questions, confused perspectives and life-altering consequences.
What did Edwin do? He did the best he could to embrace the reality of loss, experience the pains of grief, find healing through mourning and begin rebuilding a new life. Eventually, Edwin remarried and found himself in grad school for counseling. About four years into this new marriage, he and his wife visited her daughter on a parent's weekend at Texas Tech in Lubbock. While there, the memories of Sydney flooded Edwin's heart and mind. He contacted his parents to gather information about Sydney. He found his old house. He found a quiet space . . . he remembered . . . he cried.
He realized that from the day Sydney died, he had been on a journey ~ a journey punctuated by exposure to the deepest pain human beings can experience – that of losing a loved one to death. Edwin was and is still, deeply involved with work in the field of loss and grief ~ not as a result of his personal losses for he does not believe that such experiences happen in order to move us in specific directions. Rather, Edwin finds himself involved in the field as a result of his choices and decisions in the aftermath of such experiences.
Edwin's journey began at age three. He wrote a portion of this journey in a short story entitled "The Journey." An excerpt follows:
"Sydney – my brother who never was! The blessed addition to our family back in 1956 that was never added. The one about whom our family rarely spoke after the day he was stillborn. All my life, I had wondered about Sydney – about what it would have been like to have a younger brother. In the years following that family tragedy, I recalled playing "make believe" – creating games and circumstances where Sydney and I would play together. I couldn't believe my eyes!
I picked him up and we sat together on the bench and just looked at one another for a long time. Finally, Sydney reached for my hand. As his tiny hand encircled my thumb, I was immediately taken back to the small house in which we lived back then. Although the memories were fuzzy, I was able to recall the confusion that I experienced – our home was to have been happy when mommy came home from the hospital; we were supposed to have a little "bundle of joy" they had said. Instead, there were tears; hushed conversations filled with emotions I couldn't comprehend; buried anger and resentment; blame; sadness; and the sense of barrenness created by an empty cradle.
The experience of adulthood had given meaning to all those conflicting and confusing feelings from the past. Looking back, I can see how that event initiated life-long reverberations of grief for all of my family – parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. So much possibility unfulfilled. So many hopes dashed. So many dreams erased. So much happiness buried. More than 50 years have passed and I still feel the sting of that day.
I closed my eyes allowing the scene to disappear, and then looked down again into Sydne
y's face. "I don't understand little bro! What does this have to do with my journey? Why are we here together now of all times?"
Sydney looked up at me and with wisdom well beyond his years, he said, "Your journey began on that day – the journey you continue even now. What was incomprehensible then you now have words to describe. With those words, you can comfort young mothers and fathers – help mend hearts and relationships torn apart by the unthinkable. You can teach others to express compassion for families tormented by the emptiness of early death. You can help create hope for the future. You can do this because healing matters!"
Sitting there on that bench, I thought about all the challenges that Sydney's absence from our lives had created for my family through the years. I thought about the impact of his absence in my own life. How many times growing up had I heard, "Do you have a brother?" He was right! My journey had begun the day his terminated. I have been running this race for a very long time. I realized that to drop the running now would mean taking my eye off the finish line – stopping short of the goal – missing chances to make a difference."
Thus the saga of Sydney and Edwin . . . no, not ends . . . but . . . continues . . . |
