Sleeping by Myself
Discovering the hidden gifts of growing up as an only child
I was raised as an only child by my late mother Sadie, not by choice, but through circumstances beyond my control. My father and mother’s marriage ended when I was 5 years old and my mother didn’t remarry. So there was no opportunity for me to have a younger brother or sister to confide in, no one to celebrate or mourn significant life events with, and no sibling rivalries to work through. I woke up alone and went to sleep alone. This is not an exercise in self-pity, but an honest account of what I believed was missing in my life being an only child. There is an upside to all of this, however. In fact, if we look hard enough, we can find the upside or hidden gifts in everything that happens to us.
Anyone who has grown up as an only child can recite a list of advantages associated with that status. We never have to worry about hand-me-down clothes, cars, or anything else for that matter. Everything that we own is ours. We are free to put our own unique imprint on the possessions we acquire. There is no past to erase or work through, we are free to orchestrate our own present and future realities through what we acquire in our lives. As only children, we are the center of our parents' universe because all of their attention, good or bad, is given to us. That part of being an only child appealed to me the most.
In retrospect, the attention that I received was perhaps more reinforcing due to my father’s absence. It was compensation for the void that I felt and would continue to feel for many years after he left.
The Three Women in my Life
After my father left, my mother and I moved a couple of different times before we eventually settled into what would be my permanent home, until I got married in 1982. The two-story home was originally purchased by my maternal grandmother, Bridgett. My mom and I moved into the downstairs part, and my grandmother and maternal aunt, Rose, lived in the upstairs portion.
My grandmother came to this country from Lebanon with her husband and worked in the mills all of her life. My grandmother’s husband and my maternal grandfather died suddenly before I was born. My Aunt Rose developed scarlet fever as a child, which compromised her intellectual and cognitive abilities, but not her capacity for warmth and genuineness.
My mother herself was a tuberculosis survivor, before I was born. These three women were a constant presence in my life and the epitome of strength, resilience, and compassion. Because of their influence, I have several strong, resilient, and compassionate women in my life today, whom I am proud to call friends.
Pleasant Valley Sundays
Every Sunday without fail, my aunts and uncles would come over to my grandmother’s house for dinner. We would feast on homemade Middle Eastern food, catch up on what was happening in our lives, solve pressing problems, and talk about current events. Conversations were usually in English, changing to Lebanese only if there was something that they didn’t want me and the other children at the table to overhear.
My grandmother, who always sat at the head of the table, was the true matriarch of the family. She was the glue that kept our family together. She died when I was fourteen years old. After her death, our traditional Sunday dinners were no more. Internal conflicts within our family eventually tore us asunder and the damage that was done was irreparable (more about that later).
Potbelly Stoves and Home Run Hennessey
I was a pretty shy kid growing up. I do recall having many acquaintances, but it wasn’t until high school that I developed my first close friendships. My early childhood was filled with some pretty good memories though. The memory that continually stands out involves my maternal grandmother, Bridgett. She had a potbelly stove in the basement of our home and every day she would make homemade pita bread. I would get home from school at about 3:00 pm and without fail, she would pour me a tall glass of milk and serve a warm loaf of pita bread smothered in butter. She would also tell me stories about her native Lebanon, a beautiful country ravaged by war, and her friends and relatives still remaining. As a retired therapist and bereavement support specialist, I have witnessed the therapeutic effects derived by individuals who permitted me to bear witness to their stories. In retrospect, my grandmother planted the seeds for that skill to take root within me.
As an only child, I learned how to entertain myself, and discovered the value of solitude. During my pre-high school years, I read quite a few books. As I was pondering the outline for this essay, a book that suddenly came to mind was Home Run Hennessey by Charles Lawton, a work of fiction that was published in 1941. The protagonist was Ray Hennessey, a star player on his high school baseball team who seemed to hit home runs every time he came to bat. His abilities drew the ire of a rival pitcher named Bart (I forgot his fictional last name) who did everything in his power to hurt Ray. They eventually became friends through a series of events that brought them together. It was a book that I read and reread over and over… and over. Home Run Hennessey was not a literary masterpiece, but I believe that it was my first early introduction to how we are capable of transcending differences to find common ground and perhaps develop lasting friendships.
Soul Families
“There are friends, there is family, and then there are friends that become family.” — Jay Shetty
As I mentioned earlier, our family drifted apart due to irreconcilable differences after my grandmother’s death. I have not had any meaningful contact with my mother’s side of the family since my daughter Jeannine’s death in 2003. They are walking a path of their own choosing, one which I am content to let them walk alone. Unlike Ray and Bart in Home Run Hennessey, we were unable to transcend our differences. Then again, some differences aren’t meant to be reconciled. Sometimes we have to come together to realize that it is best for us to be apart.
In addition to my wife, two sons, and four grandchildren, I have a “soul family” as well. These are my brothers and sisters from different mothers who have experienced catastrophic loss and have inspired me following the death of my daughter. We serve as compassionate witnesses to each other’s paths after loss. We may walk those paths differently but rather than judge our differences, we choose to honor and learn from them….. and each other.
