The Class of '58 Writes a Book

Just one story of the many things that happened in our lives:

Remembering Christopher

By Kay Schoonmaker (Katherine Donaldson)

Class of 1958, Wheat Ridge High School

“Mom, I wish I had a brother. We could play football.”

“I wish you had one, too.” A hazy, far away microdot lurched in my brain.

“I could teach him to be tough like me. Could we have a boy, Mom, please?” Soft blue eyes from behind freckled cheeks looked into mine.

After a long intake of breath I let out the words. Jon, you had a brother. . .”

“I did?” His eyes grew wide. The room was silent.

“Yes, Honey, you did, but he died when he was born. . .”

Jon nibbled his sandwich in silent thought. His unruly light brown hair caught a breeze from the open kitchen window.

I smiled fondly at my children as they intermittently ate and played with their food. Slowly, that terrible night of anguish crept to the forefront of my mind. And, oh, the dreadful months that followed as my spirit tried to mend. The sight of rounded bellies and little children had been like simultaneous jolts of pain and anger.

“Was he older than me, Mom?”

“Yes, two years older.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well, Honey, I never got to see him.” The lifeless little bundle had been whisked quickly out of sight.

“You don’t want to see him, do you?” The doctor’s sad, tired expression pleaded with me.

Stunned by the night’s sudden turn from joy to grief, I acquiesced. And ever since, I, too had wondered what my infant son had looked like. Why hadn’t I taken just a peek?

“Wow, I have a big brother. . . Awesome. . .” Jon voiced his thoughts out loud.

Each month had been a searing reminder of the emptiness, the loneliness and the longing. Instead of feeling better as more time elapsed, panic began to overtake the grief. The sudden fits of weeping and bursts of intense anger were subsiding, but a despairing fear that I would never have another child possessed me.

“Mom. . .? Mom. . .?” There was a gentle tugging on my sleeve. “What was his name?”

“Hmm. . .? Oh, it was, Christopher.” I was remembering the small headstone that read only Baby Boy Schoonmaker. With no family nearby, my husband had made the necessary arrangements by himself. His mother would be flying out from New York in a few days. My Mother was just reeling from the death of my father and was emotionally unavailable. Sometimes that whole hazy fragment of time seemed like just a bad dream.

“Chris, Chris Schoonmaker.” Jon rolled the name over on his tongue several times. “Me and him would have been real good friends, Mom.”

I smiled and hugged the impish cherub at my side. I had not felt completely healed until I had given birth to Jon and a nurse had placed him alive and wiggling in my arms. Now, nine years later he had given rebirth to the memory of my firstborn son.