Michael Who Chose Not to Be

Recently my 8-year-old granddaughter asked why I don’t have any brothers or sisters. An easy or difficult question to answer, depending on how philosophical or “historically” accurate you choose to be.

In truth, I might have had an older brother, or at least for a very brief moment in time.

Michael ought to have been born sometime between 1954 and 1957, possibly in Ottawa or in St. Clair Shores, Michigan. He was either miscarried or stillborn, but far enough along in the pregnancy to have his gender determined.

The words “miscarriage” and “stillborn” are so very evocative.  The word “miscarriage”, other than in the sense of a spontaneous expulsion of a fetus before it can survive outside the womb, also means the unsuccessful outcome of something planned. “Stillborn” is even more emotionally charged. From the Old English “stille” meaning motionless, and even further back in time, originating in the earlier root word “stel”, to put in order or stand. Later the meaning shifted to quiet, calm, gentle and silent.

Dear unknown, gentle and silent Michael.

But why the name Michael?

There are no “Michaels” on either side of the family. Not one. My name has some family connection, with my middle name being the same as the middle name of my Father’s sister, and my first name being the middle name of my mother’s sister. I had heard that my father wanted to name me “Mary”, again with no family connections (other than the ubiquitous female given name in almost all French-Canadian families). Why Mary? Why Michael? Both very Roman Catholic names.

No one is alive that knew my parents back then. I never asked, so I will never know.

In Roman Catholic and even earlier religious beliefs, the archangel Michael is responsible for God’s “Book of Life”. This book contains the names of every person destined to be born into the world and who is destined to go to Heaven. In some less common depictions of the Archangel, Michael is shown holding the scales of judgement where souls of the dead are weighed to determine their worth. 

It seems haunting that my almost brother Michael would have been named after the keeper of the records of the dead and the yet to be born.

In a murky, uncertain way I want to think that each of us, prior to being born, “chooses” our families. Perhaps each soul realizes the lessons it needs to learn — being the victim, being the victimizer, being the teacher, being the student, being the loved one, being unloved. Almost as though before being born we assess the life courses we still need to master, and choose our curriculum accordingly. Maybe we keep coming back until we’ve experienced all the important themes of being a sentient creature. Maybe Michael weighs our souls after our studies are completed.

If that is the case, then perhaps Michael had second thoughts. Maybe he decided to switch studies at the last minute. Maybe he decided that my mother and father were too challenging, or conversely, too easy.

And, in making that decision, how changed was the curriculum for me, being conceived and born after Michael opted out. 

How long did my mother carry him inside her, feel his movements; both dreaming of life becoming? Did it all end in Spring? In the Winter? Was it a lovely breezy day or was the sky grey and somber? Was it early in the morning, or late at night? 

When did my mother know that Michael was not to be, when was he no longer floating in amniotic tranquility?

Every year, did she have an anniversary of loss and sorrow? Never marked on the calendar, but forever marked in her heart? The annual sounding of a lonely train whistle, passing through but never stopping.

Did she lose him at home or at the hospital?

If he emerged at a hospital, what would they have done with a stillborn back in the 1950s? If the baby was fully formed, would the child have been shown to the parents or would it have been whisked away, forever behind the curtain, the curtain behind which so many things are kept hidden and out of mind? Was the little body buried, cremated, or merely disposed of as medical waste? Was Michael dressed in whatever baby outfit had been chosen for him when my parents still believed he would begin his life with them? Or was he wrapped in those usual light hospital blankets? If so, was the blanket removed before the body met its final destination? Did those handling his tiny still body feel any pang of regret, or was it merely an unpleasant aspect of the job? 

How do I tell this story to an eight-year-old girl?

I decided to tell her only the briefest of facts. In a sweet, matter of fact manner, my lovely granddaughter told me that she chose her Mom, and that her Mom must have chosen me. 

Michael, where did you choose to go? Your sister’s granddaughter seems to understand.