Guest Essay #15

By Dee Dee Reed

Good Samaritan Hospital, New York. I came into this world at 30 weeks’ gestation weighing 3 pounds, 6 ounces. To my mother and father’s surprise, my identical twin sister followed right behind me weighing 3 pounds, 1 ounce. My birth name was Diana Margaret. My twin was named, Dolores Mildred. Four hours later, my sister died of respiratory failure caused by prematurity. From what I am told my mother did not want to see my sister, and she did not want to hold her. When it was discovered by my father that the doctor wrote the wrong name on her Death Certificate, he alerted my mother and she refused to have the error corrected. From that day forward I will be known as Dolores Mildred. My identical twin sister, Baby Girl Reed (Diana Margaret) was buried three days later along with my birth name. My mother did not participate in her graveside burial. My father was tasked to take care of all the burial arrangements. Diana was buried in an unmarked grave at the head of my maternal great-grandfather’s resting place in New Hempstead, NY.  I spent the first two months of my life in an incubator. My father said, I “fit into the palm of his hand.” My mother said, “There you were, so tiny, I couldn’t even get close.”

Eleven months after Diana and I were born, my sister Kathleen joined me and my 15-month older sister Deborah, along with my parents Irving and Melissa in our Waldwick, New Jersey home. Twenty-seven days after Kathleen’s 1^st Birthday, my brother John was introduced into the family.

At a young age, I overheard my mother telling the ladies at her frequent coffee klatch that I was the “ugliest baby” she had ever seen and I was “covered in so much black hair [that I] looked like a monkey.” Uncomfortable giggles erupted from around the table. Clanking spoons and cups muffled the gasps from my mouth as I walked away crying. I was not sure what ugly meant, but I sure did feel sad.

While checking out a website about names, I came across this definition of what a name is: “A name is a reflection of character identity.” The meaning of the name Dolores is pain and sorrow. Dolores continues to be connected with the passing of my twin sister and the grief associated with it. Was my mother afraid that I would die too? Was she relieved that I survived?  I am the child that lived, although my mother treated me as though I was dead.

I never knew what my mother thought of me. My mother was not affectionate toward me. I was about 7 years old when I spilled something on the floor that my mother had just vacuumed. She disconnected the extension pipe from the vacuum and beat me with it and sent me to my room crying. Moments later she entered my room and placed me on her lap and said she was sorry. That was the only time I remember my mother ever hitting me or comforting me. Her perfunctory kiss goodnight on my forehead was the only touch I recall ever receiving from her.

I have two Photographer Keepsake photographs. There is one that I love the most and feel the saddest when looking at it.  It is a black and white photo of my mom and dad sitting higher behind their three girls. We are straddled youngest to oldest, sitting closely together on a wooden bench. We are wearing short sleeved striped dresses with matching embroidered pinafores and Mary Janes. My dad is holding his ten-month-old son perched high on his arm smiling brightly at the camera. My mother is smiling and sitting properly next to him, adorned in pearls and a fitted dress.

My most cherished photograph of my childhood is a framed professional color photograph of me and my siblings. The innocence that shines through our faces is tender and sweet. We three girls are dressed in matching white Peter Pan collared baby blue smocked dresses, calf-high white socks and brown leather shoes. Johnny is wearing a starch white cotton onesie with blue fasteners that held his vest closed. Debbie is seated next to him with her arm around his waist holding him upright. I am standing on the outside of the velvet settee with my left hand grasping the arm rest while my right arm is reaching out to touch the little teddy bear that Debbie has on her lap. Kathy is looking on next to Johnny, with a pink rose in her hand. The four of us together. From the outside looking in we are a happy family: a mom and dad with their four children. What comes next is unimaginable.

Dee writes to heal, and heals to live.