Shadows On My Mind: A Psychologist

My earliest memory was my death in a Catholic hospital. The room was plain, and I don't recall any other patients. Two nuns in their white habits moved like shadows in the background. One carried linens, but from my bed I couldn't see what the other was doing. Only my daughter was attending me; no one else was near.

On that February morning Amanda wore a scarf and a long wool coat. I sensed she was upset. Maybe she was afraid her boss would be angry if she were late for work again. She hovered around my bed, soothing me in soft tones, and I was glad to have her there.

I thought I might be dying, but I didn't want to worry Amanda. She had been a wonderful daughter, so good to Jake and me. I was tired, very tired. Life had been hard. With the ulcer and migraines I should have quit work sooner. But I had to help put food on the table and pay the rent. Jake had been out of work, and the DPW didn't pay much.

Never mind, I was proud of my children, and Jake had been a good husband. In better times . . .

When I think about the death scene now I imagine Amanda reviewing her life, giving thanks for the good things, acknowledging the difficulty of the Depression, and regretting she was unable to spend more time with her children.

I suppose she thought of her daughter's upcoming wedding, likely in the spring of that year, 1946. How beautiful Amanda's dark tresses and tanned skin would look against the whiteness of her veil and dress. Would she carry a bouquet of sweet-smelling roses?

Pride would glimmer in Jake's eyes as he escorted her down the aisle to the sound of the organ at the Congregational church. Not the Catholic church, as he would have preferred, but that of his soon to be son-in-law. Jake was not one to harbor grudges. He would no more let religious differences spoil his daughter's wedding than he had let them sour his marriage.

Amanda and her sisters Marie and Anna would weep in their pews, blotting their tears with embroidered handkerchieves. Their little Amanda would shortly become Lyle's wife and go to live with him. How empty the house would be without her.

Amanda hoped Jim, her only other child, would be able to attend the spring wedding. He had been recently released from the army, and two days before he had arrived from California. She had worked hard to get the house in order for his homecoming, but only hours after Amanda had welcomed him the bleeding had started and an ambulance had rushed her to the hospital.

Jim was a handsome man now, tall and strong, not like the sickly child she had worried over. He was her reason for living, and when he was drafted she had been heartbroken. Now Jim was home, and she lay frustrated in the hospital. Amanda wanted to sneak out, but she knew better.

It was her ulcer. Why did it bleed now, when she longed to be with her son? Perhaps Amanda bit her lip to keep back the tears as a frightening thought entered her mind. What if she didn't get well? She had received a lot of blood, thanks to her daughter's co-workers, but she wasn't recovering. She was weak, her stomach still pained, and she kept passing blood. How long could her body withstand the strain?

No. She couldn't die. Not without seeing her grandchildren. She imagined Amanda would have a boy and a girl, as she herself had borne. A blue-eyed boy like Jim and a dark-haired girl like Amanda and herself, a girl who would get golden in summer. She couldn't miss the scampering of little feet on the beach or the giggles while sitting on Santa's lap. No. Life wouldn't be that cruel to her.