Stories of Lost Child Siblings
REFLECTIONS OF AN ONLY CHILD
by Marlene Myerson, Toronto, Canada Childhood memories are vague at the best of times. The things we remember from our childhood are usually handed down to us through pictures and stories as a part of our family history. But what happens when a family chooses not to remember because the memories are too painful? I grew up as an only child, with all the privileges and responsibilities that come with that role. But I always knew that I was not the only child. I was the only surviving child. There had been two other children - Helena, who was four years older than me, and Edwin, who was 2 years younger than me. I have a somewhat hazy memory of my mother taking me to a hospital to visit my sister Helena, who was 7 years old at the time. She had contracted tuberculosis from my father and was being treated in a Sanitarium. I wasn't allowed to go into the hospital. My mother left me in the playground and told me to keep watching a particular window on the third or fourth floor. Soon my sister's face appeared in the window. She smiled and waved at me and I waved back. That was the last time I saw my sister. I was three years old. I don't know how my mother was able to go on with her life. I can only surmise that she had incredible inner strength and determination. She managed to survive by burying the deep emotions and painful memories of her loss.... I do not remember hearing my parents talk about my brother and sister - ever. They erected a wall of silence that seemed to protect them from the pain of memory. In 1954, as a result of Hurricane Hazel, our basement was flooded and all our family pictures were destroyed - thus obliterating any visual reminders of my brother and sister that might have been hidden away. During the last year of my mother's life, when the burden of responsibility for her care became more difficult for me, I began to search for my sister. I needed her desperately. I asked other members of our family - aunts and cousins - if they could remember anything about my sister. Did they have any pictures of her and my brother? Did they know when they died or where they were buried? Surely, someone would know something. I came up empty-handed. One day, I took a group of people who were studying about Judaism on a field trip to Benjamin's Funeral Home. I had the opportunity to chat with Michael Benjamin, the owner, and I mentioned my quest for my brother and sister. Michael asked one of the women in the office to check the microfiche records. A half-hour later, he handed me a slip of paper with my brother and sister's names, their dates of death and place of burial printed on it. This was the first concrete evidence I had of their existence. I had found my brother and sister! I could barely contain my emotions. The next day, I drove out to the cemetery where they were buried. I couldn't believe that I had found them. It had been so easy. On the way to the cemetery, I decided that if their gravestones had deteriorated, I would arrange for new ones to be erected. I had my camera, a pad of paper and a pen with me. My legs felt rubbery as I parked my car and walked up to the office to find out exactly where my brother and sister's gravesites were. As the attendant checked the records, I literally could not breathe. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. After several minutes of searching, the attendant turned to me apologetically and explained that the records for burials during those particular years had been destroyed in a fire. He could show me the section in which my brother and sister were buried, but since no memorial stones had been erected for them, he could not tell me which graves were theirs. My heart sank! I couldn't believe it! How could I have come so close, only to be told that I would never be able to find them? I was devastated. I walked out to the section where they were buried. There were eight or ten small unmarked graves. Two of those contained my brother and sister. I sat down under a red maple tree adjacent to the graves and I began to sob - deep, gut wrenching sobs that wracked my body. Barely able to see through my tears, I began to compose a letter to my sister. I told her how much I loved her and how much I needed her. I told her how different I thought my life would have been if she had lived. When I finished, I staggered back to my car and collapsed on the front seat. I had never felt such a deep sense of loss The emotions were overwhelming. A year later, my mother died. While packing up her apartment, I discovered a journal entry that my mother had written for a Psychology Course that she had taken at York University when she was in her seventies. She wrote that "at one point, my husband was in one hospital and my two children were in two other hospitals. I made my rounds each week, travelling by streetcar and bus from hospital to hospital. My husband remained in the Sanitarium for several years. My infant son and my oldest daughter died within eleven months of each other." I felt as if my mother had left me a gift. Only after her death was she able to "tell" me what had happened to my brother and sister. When the time came to arrange for my mother's gravestone, I realized that I had an opportunity to memorialize my brother and sister as well. On the back of my mother's stone is inscribed, "This memorial also remembers the precious lives of Helena and Edwin Lipson. May their memory be a blessing". It seemed like a fitting tribute to their brief lives and a final gift to my mother.
Each time I visit my mother's grave, I read the inscription and realize that I have reclaimed my brother and my sister's memories. I am no longer an only child.
| 
