At the community hospital, at the pediatric hospital, at the funeral home, and nearly daily since my daughter’s passing, people keep asking me the same question—“Do you have other children?”
When I was asked at the community hospital, I thought they were wondering if a sibling might have had symptoms of an illness they would need to know about to diagnose or treat my daughter.
In the pediatric hospital’s emergency room, I thought they were wondering if I needed to arrange for someone to pick up my other children. When Constance collapsed, we were on our way to the gym; so, I was dressed from head to toe in spandex. I presume they thought I was a stay-at-home mom.
After Constance passed, every time someone asked, I thought they were trying to determine if I was going to kill myself or not. My mother assures me that is unlikely the motivation of every asker. She rephrased it as, “They just think it would be easier for you to get over it if you had other children.” I will never know if that’s true. I don’t have any other children.