My sister Julie died in the month of August. She was six years old but almost seven when she drowned in a New Hampshire lake.
As with most accidents, a series of events went wrong. The lifeguard had gone off duty moments before, and the adults had briefly stepped away. My sister waded in a shallow spot with a sharp drop-off, and suddenly found herself in deep water.
She was searched for and found, but not quickly enough.
My family was upended, devastated, and forever changed. After the first agonizing year they went to Italy for a six-month sabbatical.
My parents, who were usually financially cautious, sold the house and cashed in their savings to finance the trip. I think they were desperate to escape, and to try to heal and salvage the family in whatever way that they could.
My dad wrote a book and they lived in the hills of Florence, in an old house surrounded by umbrella pines and Italian cypress trees. He immersed himself in work to cope with his grief.
Late one night, when he was up writing and unable to sleep, my mother came downstairs to tell him that she wanted another baby. That would be me. I was born less than two years after my sister died.
Throughout my childhood I heard about my sister, and knew that I would never measure up.
Julie was nearly seven when she drowned in a lake – her parents always described her as a perfect child
Sarah knew she would never measure up to her deceased sister
My mom frequently told me that Julie was a perfect child. She explained that many bereaved parents idealize their children after they die, but that my sister was actually perfect. Even her kindergarten teacher said so.
I wondered if I would have been born if she had not died. I worried for my heartbroken parents, and felt the weight of a terrible grief.
As a child I would hesitate when people asked me how many siblings I had. It felt disloyal to omit Julie, but I did not welcome the reactions that followed when I spoke of her.
Most people responded with concern and discomfort upon learning that I had a deceased sister, and with questions about how and when she died.
When they learned that she died before I was born, I usually received a dismissive wave, coupled with a big sigh of relief. They essentially withdrew their condolences, not to be unkind, but because my loss did not count in their eyes. They believed it was not mine to claim and assumed that a death that took place before my birth could not harm or impact me.
I learned to avoid mentioning my dead sister.
What can I tell you about her? I have fragments of family stories, but not many.
Once my dad burned the dinner steak on the grill. The rest of the family refused to eat it, but my sister bravely insisted that it was delicious and gulped it down.
Most of the photos of my sister include my brother, because the two of them were inseparable.
As a baby she used to coo in her crib, and she was reportedly the easiest baby of all of us. She was buried in a turquoise velvet dress. Her death has stayed with all of us, casting a deep imprint upon our family.
Princess Diana was a replacement child – her brother had died in infancy just a year before her birth
Diana’s parents wanted a male heir, and the princess later described developing a sense of inadequacy as a result
Elvis Presley was born moments after a stillborn twin brother. He was plagued by survivor’s guilt
Elvis’s mother claimed he was so successful because he was living for two people
My sister’s death loomed large for me, but my experience, as the child born afterwards, was consistently unspoken, and strangely set apart. It was simply off the radar.
When I researched the topic, I discovered that my experience was not unusual. There are many people in the world who were born after the death of a sibling, but we are rarely spoken about.
The scant clinical literature often refers to us as replacement children, because our bereaved parents sometimes hope that we will fill the void of loss in our families.
We face a range of possible repercussions from our role. Some of us grow up with spoken or unspoken pressure to heal our families. We may have low self-esteem or struggles with attachments because it is impossible to replace another person, or to erase the grief of a bereaved parent.
There are many famous replacement children. Maria Callas was born after her two-year old brother died of meningitis. Her grieving mother hoped to have another boy, and was so disappointed by Maria’s gender that she initially rejected her. Their relationship was strained and ended in an estrangement.
VIncent Van Gogh was born one year after a stillborn brother. He was given the same name as the deceased, highlighting his function as a replacement, and he struggled with poor mental health throughout his life.
Some of his biographers suggest that his suffering and instability may have been rooted in his replacement child experience.
Likewise, Peter Sellers was given the same name as a stillborn brother. He struggled to form his own identity, claiming to have no personality of his own.
Elvis Presley was born moments after a stillborn twin brother. He was plagued by survivor’s guilt. His mother claimed that he was so successful because he was living for two people.
Princess Diana was born after the death of an infant brother, and her gender was a source of disappointment to both of her parents, who wanted a male heir. She described developing a sense of inadequacy.
‘Throughout my childhood I heard about my perfect sister and wondered if I would have even been born if she had not died’
Maria Callas was born after her two-year old brother died of meningitis. Her mother was so disappointed by Maria’s gender that she initially rejected her
The life narratives of replacement children often suggest a pivotal effect of being born after loss. After becoming a therapist who specializes in working with grief and loss I conducted a qualitative research study to learn more.
Natalie, a participant who was born after her three-year old sister drowned, shared my experience of feeling unable to compete with an idealized, lost sister.
‘My sister was exactly the way that my mother would want her little girl to be. She was very feminine and very quiet.
‘My mom talked about my sister’s clothes and about how neat she kept the room. She said that my sister didn’t want to eat her dessert before her food, and that she was very organized. Whereas I was the total opposite.’
Several participants recounted repercussions upon their identity and gender formation. Dierdre, who was born after a deceased brother, believes that she became a tomboy to satisfy her father’s longing for his lost son.
‘My dad always treated me like a boy. I ended up being a tomboy, because he never had a boy after my brother died. So I did all the boy stuff. I guess I did it to be there for him in that way.’
A sense of feeling invisible was commonly reported. Many participants felt voiceless, and spoke of parents who were oblivious or neglectful. Margie, born after a stillborn sister, shared her experience.
‘I’d ask myself, “What does a person have to do to get seen in this family?” I felt like I was a disappointment, and that I was invisible.
‘I also always felt like my mother and I weren’t really connected. I never got upset, never threw a tantrum. That was the cost of feeling invisible in the family. Why would I complain? It didn’t do any good.’
One respondent reported crying in her crib for hours on end because her mother couldn’t bond with her
A sense of feeling invisible is also commonly reported by subsequent children
Others described the opposite – of having overly protective parents
Margie additionally described the impact on her adult relationships.
‘I made very bad choices about men… I didn’t know how to feel important enough or worthy enough, and I always felt like any relationship I had with a man was nothing short of a miracle.’
Others, like Susan, described overprotective parents, who feared another loss.
‘My mum worried about me all the time. I was never allowed to go swimming with other children. One time I snuck off and went swimming without permission. My mum stormed in hysterically. She pulled me out of the shallow end and smacked my legs. She was terrified that I could have drowned.’
Ryan said ‘My mom… would freak out if one of us kids walked away for a second when we were out in public as a family. Her immediate hysteria was embarrassing. She’d call out for us in panic mode, ask people if they’d seen us. She would absolutely lose it. It must have been a reaction connected to losing my brother.’
Survivor’s guilt was also a common theme, as recounted by Doris.
‘My parents really only wanted two kids, so if my sibling had lived, I would not exist. And that’s not fun to think about.’
In some families, children may be conceived to ‘replace’ an older sibling with severe or life-threatening special needs.
Marianne was born after a disabled brother, who was institutionalized and kept as a family secret. She was a healthy infant, but when she cried her mother would lie in bed, frozen with grief and anxiety. Marianne was left to cry for hours, unattended in her crib.
‘My crying went on day after day after day, until my dad would come home at night. He would hold me. My mom didn’t want to connect to me while I was in her womb, and she didn’t want to connect to me for my first year of life until she knew I was healthy.
‘I know that my crying reminded her of my brother. She didn’t want to get hurt like that again, so to protect herself she didn’t open herself to me until I was about one year old.’
Our early attachment experiences are known to be paramount for our future mental health and relationships, so the consequences of emotionally unavailable or detached parenting may be dire.
Growing up with grieving parents can have a lifetime of repercussions. In infancy, even before verbal communication begins, babies who are born after a traumatic event will absorb the sorrow, anxiety, and emotional or physical absence of their parents.
Some theories even suggest that emotions which were too difficult to be consciously experienced by parents are given over to the second generation. Like second-generation Holocaust survivors, children born after trauma and loss may unconsciously shoulder the repressed and insufficiently worked-through experiences of their survivor parents.
Of course it is not an accident that I have been drawn to working with grief and loss. My sister’s death is well processed, and yet it is also a part of me, a part of who I became. I never met my sister, but I am deeply familiar with the void that she left behind.
Excerpted from Born Into Loss: Shadows of a Deceased Sibling and Family Journeys of Grief by Sarah Reed Vollmann and Joann M O’Leary is published by Rowman & Littlefield
