"Marilyn, call the doctor, I think Jimmy is gone." I tried
to clear my sleep-blurred eyes, and shake the fuzziness from my brain.
Jimmy.....gone? How could that be? After I called the doctor, I ran into
Jimmys room and saw my husband holding the lifeless form of our
seven-week-old son, our third child.
It has been thirty-six years since that fateful day, but there are many
things I remember very clearly, even yet. I remember the dress I
mechanically donned while we were waiting for close friends to come to our
home as the news quickly spread through our little community. I was in deep
grief, but my mind still thought of the things that needed to be done such
as who should be called, calling someone to take care of our remaining
children, Matthew, almost five, and his sister Mellyn, almost three;
preparing clothes for the family to wear to the funeral, and assigning tasks
to family and friends who gathered to support us.
In the weeks that followed, I continued to do everything expected of me by
my family and friends, and I did my grieving in my own unique way.
While I became quite verbose in my grief, my husband Glen grieved silently.
He did what was expected of the man of the house, the bread winner, but he
talked of his pain and his grief very little. He immersed himself in his
work and in church activities.
Our son Matthew was nearing five, but he can remember the disappointment he
felt at no longer having a brother. He remembers feeling frightened when
well-intentioned friends whisked him and his sister away from us so that
"mom and dad can have some time alone." He remembers wondering why people
were crying since "Jimmy went to heaven." He had been taught we were
supposed to be happy when people went to heaven. He also remembers that no
one had told him before that even little children could die and go to
Continued on Page 2
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