A New Mourning
And so began a lifelong pattern of silence whenever death touched Amy’s life—a pattern followed by many others of Amy’s generation. No one seemed to want to talk about death and dying. It was just easier that way. Or so everyone thought.
A ray of sunshine beamed through the window next to Amy’s bed, waking her once again from her slumber. Partially awake, she was reminded of more memories—this time recalling another painful loss in her life: her first child, Timmy, who had been stillborn…
Amy lay motionless in the hospital bed in St. Joseph’s maternity ward. She waited for her baby to be brought to her again. She had held his still body so briefly, gently stroking a soft wisp of brown hair and wishing she could see the color of his eyes. Then the nurse came and took him away. She wanted so badly to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Hearing footsteps, then a knock, she looked up to see her friend Sharon enter the room.
“I am so sorry about the baby,” said Sharon as she handed Amy a box of Whitman’s chocolates and a small bouquet of white daisies she had picked up with her groceries that morning. Sharon had been her neighbor and friend for many years. Amy laughed a lot when Sharon was around. Sharon always knew how to keep Amy from dwelling on the unhappy times in her life. She looked at Amy’s sad, pale face, which appeared lost next to the stark, white hospital sheets, and said, “You’re going to be OK, Amy. One day you’ll be pregnant again and have that child you want so much.” Then she opened the box of chocolates she had brought, waved it under Amy’s nose, and enticed her to try a piece.
By the time Sharon left St. Joseph’s Hospital, she had succeeded in avoiding any talk about Amy’s son.
Sharon and Mrs. Murphy had a lot in common.