Dear Bel,
Thirty-six years ago I had a stillborn son who was to have been called Sam. Then, one year later to the day, I had another boy and called him the same name, because I thought Sam’s spirit had returned. It was the worst thing I could have done. I couldn’t attach myself to him for fear that he might die and when he was 5 I left him with his father and took our younger son away.
We’d married too young, when I was pregnant with the stillborn child. We both had an affair and I decided to leave, but Sam had just started school and I didn’t want him to associate school with his mother and father separating. So I thought I’d come back for him. But his father didn’t allow it, and the courts split up two boys just one year apart in age. I did my best to get them back together by sending them to the same boarding school.
I seem to have complicated my life, but it had a rocky start with no parents. I saw a psychiatrist who told me I should never have called my second baby Sam. (I do have some problems with him, unlike with his brother.) And so I believe I failed terribly. I’ve felt guilt all my life. When Sam was 26, we were having dinner when he came out with the terrible question: “Why did you name me after a dead child?” It choked me; later I had to ask him if I had screwed up his life. He said: “No, Mother. I’ve had a wonderful life.” But I’m not so sure. I never grieved properly for that first baby. Now if a child is stillborn one can bury it, and bury the memory of a baby who was not meant to be — I was not allowed that; they took him away in a dish. I still cry to this day.
Advertisement
Life can be cruel, and I wonder if love can conquer all, as they say? One does things with love — I still believe the first Sam’s spirit came back — but all the same they’re misunderstood. I wish I knew the answers.
Claire
PS: I am happy. I have a new grandson (not Sam’s).
Advertisement
If you were to come into my sitting room you might notice a strange little picture propped on a shelf, next to bronzes of my son and daughter. Just 8in by 10¼ (20 x 26cm). It seems unfinished: a ghostly portrait of a child, floppy teddy on his knee. The artist, Sally Muir, has barely sketched in the features, but the eyes — storm-grey under a brown fringe — stare into the distance. A few months ago I saw it in a gallery (surrounded by a plethora of child portraits by the same artist) and the shock of recognition was such that I had to possess this image. For that haunting face (the artist’s son, I discovered) reminded me of the stillborn son who would have been 30 this November. Can I explain that? No. But I love it, and the fact that it stands by images of my living children makes me obscurely happy. You would understand that.
My story is to confirm the truth of your letter: that it does go on and on — the grief, the longing, the endless tattoo of “what if . . .”, which can so exhaust the heart. People don’t understand how the loss of a child you carried but never cuddled can continue to possess you — especially for our generation, because the medical profession then did not understand what they do now: that the parents of stillborn children need some ritual of closure. So one is left with an aching emptiness, and since nature abhors a vacuum, into it pours the cumulative sorrow of our needs and weaknesses. I felt it was my fault our baby died, a sort of punishment. You feel it is your fault you have had problems with Sam, because you named him after his stillborn brother.
Advertisement
Surely you have to disentangle the issue of the powerful naming from the issue of leaving your marriage, and Sam, behind? For one thing, there isn’t a theologian or a rational philosopher on this Earth who can say you are right or wrong about the baby’s spirit. They may think they have those “answers” you seek, but how can they know? In more than one tribal culture people believe that in cases like ours the spirit child was not ready to be born, but went back (as it were) into the vastness of the Universe, waiting to be born again. I used to find it strangely consoling, imagining that maybe he was having a wonderful life, somewhere else. Maybe he was within that scruffy, smiling little boy I saw kicking a football in the park . . .
Who knows? We create stories to try to explain the mysteries. Better that than some psychiatrist (going by the book) making you blame yourself. Is it any surprise that you were probably trying subconsciously to make up for so many lacks in your life by that accidental pregnancy? Yes, there are patterns, and though you yearned to create something you hadn’t had (a family) the truth is, you didn’t want to be married. When fairytales cast a shadow over the cradle in the shape of those bad fairies with their accursed “gifts”, they identify the harsh reality we know: that bad luck (wrong choices?) must be expiated before the happyish ending is possible. ln truth you had become a mother unwillingly and that knowledge would have fuelled your guilt when your baby died. Nobody helped you; I doubt you talked to your husband. So you tried to help yourself by giving your second baby the name you’d chosen for the first, for a reason which made perfect sense to you — and still does. But you weren’t ready to have another baby so soon, not with so much unresolved. And a part of you could not but resent the living child for “replacing” the dead one.
It seems to me you’re transferring an inevitable sense of failure at the break-up of that hasty marriage, and guilt at leaving behind the child you found it hard (because of wholly understandable grief and fear) to bond with — on to that symbolic name. I suspect an awareness of all that was behind Sam’s question. Both of you have carried a burden, and in giving a reassuring answer to your question he was trying to allow you to lay yours down. Whatever mistakes his parents made, he knows he is his own person now, not a replacement but unique. You know it too. Listen to Sam, and maybe learn to call your first baby a different name in your heart — a middle name, or just “Little Soul”. Perhaps you have a little ritual each year on his birthday? If not, perhaps it would be an idea to light a candle in memory. I do.
Your postscript, Claire, is the redemptive start of a new story. It is time you forgave yourself, allowing yourself to look forward, not back.
There is another little boy to play with now, and maybe Sam will have children too, and you can make up to yourself for the cruelty life dealt you at your own birth. We will always carry the small dead souls with us, but the living cry out for attention, for laughter, for play, for an end to tears. It is that love which can conquer the pain — if you let it.
Advertisement
Dear Bel,
I have a very pretty, lively friend who is 39 and can’t understand why she’s single. I’m convinced it’s because of her teeth. She’s from the North and maybe she doesn’t understand that in the South we have become like the Americans — grey, crooked fangs make anyone look old, and are a turn-off. I feel certain her life would be transformed if she spent her money on tooth veneers not designer clothes and shrinks, but it’s such a personal thing to tell someone. Any ideas?
Anna
Advertisement
If she is indeed your friend, and if you are so certain, I think you owe it to her to be very brave and speak up, even though it’s hard. The moment has to be just right — perhaps when she is bemoaning the fact that she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Deep breath, say: “I don’t want you to be offended but I have to suggest something . . .”
Sugar the pill a little by sharing something about your own appearance you know needs working on . . . Then make your point about teeth, saying that she will not only look “even better” but will feel better too.
In the meantime you’ll have found the name of an excellent cosmetic dentist, and have the leaflet ready to give her. Oh, and if you’re feeling generous you could even say you’ll treat her to the initial consultation (or go halves) and go along with her, to be followed by lunch. Make it fun. But speak up!