2007/07/01 23:04
Seven
On September 12, 1984, my cousin Amanda was born.
Less than two months later, she died.
They couldn't explain it at the time. Amanda had been a healthy, happy baby who just didn't wake up one morning. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, it's called now. There are recommendations to prevent it, but there's still no sign of what causes it nor guarantees that these methods will be successful. So basically, my aunt and uncle were horribly unlucky.
Amanda's death so young cast a pall over our entire family. It scared us. Her parents most of all, naturally -- they were never able to get over their fear of it happening again. But it got to all of us. Let's just say I have four sets of aunts and uncles, but only two cousins.
This was my first memorable experience with death, but I was too young to really understand it. All I knew was that one day I was thrilled about being maybe a year from having a playmate, a family confidant, and a girl too (even then, I related better to girls than boys), and the next day I was staring at a coffin that was simply too small to be allowed. It made me mad, the unfairness of it. If it was really God's will, if He was calling my baby cousin to be with Him, then why would He pick an infant who hadn't even had a chance to prove herself over, say, my devout 80-year-old great-grandmother? (Come to think of it, this sort of lines up with my family leaving the Church, on the timeline if not for the reasoning.)
To this day, we don't discuss Amanda. It's bad manners, of course, but it's certainly bad luck. So I've never really understood the full story, and more than likely I've gotten a lot of it wrong, which if my family reads this will provoke its fair share of corrective e-mails. It's not that I don't want to know; I just don't want to be the one dredging up bad memories.
But we have to remember these things, to realize what good fortune we have and to not take it for granted. After all, I myself now have a healthy, happy two-month-old. The loss of my cousin, before I even got to know her, will help me remember to protect my daughter with every ounce of passion and fiber of care I possess.
Less than two months later, she died.
They couldn't explain it at the time. Amanda had been a healthy, happy baby who just didn't wake up one morning. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, it's called now. There are recommendations to prevent it, but there's still no sign of what causes it nor guarantees that these methods will be successful. So basically, my aunt and uncle were horribly unlucky.
Amanda's death so young cast a pall over our entire family. It scared us. Her parents most of all, naturally -- they were never able to get over their fear of it happening again. But it got to all of us. Let's just say I have four sets of aunts and uncles, but only two cousins.
This was my first memorable experience with death, but I was too young to really understand it. All I knew was that one day I was thrilled about being maybe a year from having a playmate, a family confidant, and a girl too (even then, I related better to girls than boys), and the next day I was staring at a coffin that was simply too small to be allowed. It made me mad, the unfairness of it. If it was really God's will, if He was calling my baby cousin to be with Him, then why would He pick an infant who hadn't even had a chance to prove herself over, say, my devout 80-year-old great-grandmother? (Come to think of it, this sort of lines up with my family leaving the Church, on the timeline if not for the reasoning.)
To this day, we don't discuss Amanda. It's bad manners, of course, but it's certainly bad luck. So I've never really understood the full story, and more than likely I've gotten a lot of it wrong, which if my family reads this will provoke its fair share of corrective e-mails. It's not that I don't want to know; I just don't want to be the one dredging up bad memories.
But we have to remember these things, to realize what good fortune we have and to not take it for granted. After all, I myself now have a healthy, happy two-month-old. The loss of my cousin, before I even got to know her, will help me remember to protect my daughter with every ounce of passion and fiber of care I possess.
I don't remember much about that whole situation, but I somehow do remember enough. I remember seeing her, being happy I had a cousin, and, very clearly, I remember going to their house when we found out she had died. That is one of the most vivid memories I have from my early years. I agree that we should know more about the whole situation, but, like you, I don't want to be the one to bring her up in conversation.
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