There are no photos of Wilma Dean, but this photo shows the home where she spent her short life. The young man on the far left is her father. The photo was taken about 15 years before her death.
I never met my Great-Aunt Wilma. She died before I was born—long before
I was born, in a time and place when children’s lives were a dime a dozen, when
parents had twelve children in hopes that three might survive. The closest that
I came to her was when I laid flowers on her grave in May of 2012. She sleeps
in a forgotten cemetery among the oaks and hickories of rural Alabama. This is
the last of her short and small legacy.
My grandmother invited me to drive her to her family’s graveyard for “Decoration Day.” It’s an old term for Memorial Day, which was, at least to my grandmother, a day for honoring all the dead, not just veterans. She hadn’t been to her family’s cemetery in years, so my toddler and I accompanied her on the long and lonely drive. We disappeared onto dirt roads. Soon, there was no cell phone reception. Later, no power lines. Eventually, unpaved paths with no names.
“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” I asked.
“I’m sure,” she said.
“What’s this place called?”
“There’s not a name for it. I think they get their mail on the Ragland route.”
We arrived to see a bleak cemetery with mostly un-engraved grave markers, crooked boulders sticking out of the Earth like teeth. The few that had words written on them were misspelled. Some had the names of mothers and babies who were buried together. Some had dilapidated confederate flags on tiny wooden poles in front of them. On a hill, half-choked by weeds, was one small, unassuming tombstone.
“That was my sister Wilma Dean,” my grandmother said, tearing a few weeds away with her gnarled fingers.
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“Diphtheria. She was three.”
I clutched my own daughter’s tiny hand. I was barely, at that point, beginning to realize the error I’d made by eschewing immunizations. I had wanted so desperately to believe that “childhood illnesses” were no big deal and that the world had never been as dark and scary as the history books say. I had wanted to believe that she didn’t need vaccines and that children were safe without them.
“I can’t imagine how upset your parents must have been,” I sighed.
“They weren’t,” my grandmother said with a shrug, “Kids died so often back then, I really think, it was almost like we were just all used to it. They’d buried another baby right before that, and had nearly lost your Aunt Charlsie, too. You know, I can still remember the day she died, better than I can remember last week.”
“What was it like?”
My grandmother looked like she was staring into some place very far away, some place sepia-toned and earthy. A little wooden cabin in the forest. Little girls in cotton sundresses. Mules.
“She got… a real high fever. And swelled up real bad, in the face. Mother and Daddy had a doctor come and see her but I don’t reckon there was anything he could do. Mother was holding her when she died. She was the awfulest color. Daddy thought that she’d caught it from a cat—people was so ignorant back then—and so he shot every single one of our barn cats.”
“Why did he think she got it from a cat?”
“People was ignorant,” she repeated, “And I remember thinking that maybe I was fixin’ to get sick with it, too, and what would happen if Mother and Daddy buried both of us together.”
“How awful.”
“I reckon. But you don’t hear much about diphtheria no more, do you? I think there’s a shot for it now.”
“They say it causes autism,” I said, flinching while I said it. I had to somehow defend my choice not to immunize my daughter. It was too complex of an issue to even begin to explain to someone who knew next to nothing about vaccines, but I still felt a defensive need to say it.
“Autism? What Kelly’s boy across the street has?”
“Yeah. People didn’t have that when you were little, did you?”
“There's always been goofy people," she said plainly, "That ain't nothin' new."
“But autism is different. It’s a vaccine reaction. A lot of people think it is.”
She shrugged, “I’ve seen people get real sick from shots. One time I got a flu shot, and boy did I get sick. But all I know is, I haven’t heard of no one dying from diphtheria in a long time.”
I tried to think of something to say. I was still struggling. I was increasingly aware that my daughter was autistic and increasingly aware that I had made a mistake. Standing in front of the grave of a little girl who died in her mother’s arms of a disease my child would never get, my mistake was that much more painfully apparent. And, as much as I didn't want to know them, I knew the statistics: the DTaP vaccine is highly effective in preventing diphtheria, and without it, diphtheria claims as many as one in five lives.
I lay a flower on her grave and pushed aside the clumps of clay that had mostly buried the marker.
My grandmother rarely criticized me, especially on topics that she thought I knew more about than she did. She only had a seventh-grade education and she regarded most of her knowledge as passé and unimportant. But, as she got into my car, she wasn’t too shy to tell me what she was thinking.
“People… You’re confused, sweetheart. Everybody spends their whole life trying to make the world better for their kids and their grandkids. But not you. You’re trying to go backwards. I’ll never understand it. Things wasn’t good back then. You want to think that they was, but they wasn’t. You’re going to figure that out one day.”
My car got stuck in the mud as we were leaving, and my grandmother commented that it would be hard to come back without four-wheel drive.
“Do you want to be buried there?” I asked when we finally saw pavement and power lines again.
“Lord, no,” she coughed, “I want people to come and visit me. It’s just a matter of time before that place is forgot altogether.”
My aunt, forever three years old, lies in the earth in some graveyard I will probably never see again. When my grandmother passes away, so will the last remaining memory of what Wilma Dean’s face looked like. That will be the very, very end of a life that was too short, in a time and place when life was cheap.
My grandmother invited me to drive her to her family’s graveyard for “Decoration Day.” It’s an old term for Memorial Day, which was, at least to my grandmother, a day for honoring all the dead, not just veterans. She hadn’t been to her family’s cemetery in years, so my toddler and I accompanied her on the long and lonely drive. We disappeared onto dirt roads. Soon, there was no cell phone reception. Later, no power lines. Eventually, unpaved paths with no names.
“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” I asked.
“I’m sure,” she said.
“What’s this place called?”
“There’s not a name for it. I think they get their mail on the Ragland route.”
We arrived to see a bleak cemetery with mostly un-engraved grave markers, crooked boulders sticking out of the Earth like teeth. The few that had words written on them were misspelled. Some had the names of mothers and babies who were buried together. Some had dilapidated confederate flags on tiny wooden poles in front of them. On a hill, half-choked by weeds, was one small, unassuming tombstone.
“That was my sister Wilma Dean,” my grandmother said, tearing a few weeds away with her gnarled fingers.
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“Diphtheria. She was three.”
I clutched my own daughter’s tiny hand. I was barely, at that point, beginning to realize the error I’d made by eschewing immunizations. I had wanted so desperately to believe that “childhood illnesses” were no big deal and that the world had never been as dark and scary as the history books say. I had wanted to believe that she didn’t need vaccines and that children were safe without them.
“I can’t imagine how upset your parents must have been,” I sighed.
“They weren’t,” my grandmother said with a shrug, “Kids died so often back then, I really think, it was almost like we were just all used to it. They’d buried another baby right before that, and had nearly lost your Aunt Charlsie, too. You know, I can still remember the day she died, better than I can remember last week.”
“What was it like?”
My grandmother looked like she was staring into some place very far away, some place sepia-toned and earthy. A little wooden cabin in the forest. Little girls in cotton sundresses. Mules.
“She got… a real high fever. And swelled up real bad, in the face. Mother and Daddy had a doctor come and see her but I don’t reckon there was anything he could do. Mother was holding her when she died. She was the awfulest color. Daddy thought that she’d caught it from a cat—people was so ignorant back then—and so he shot every single one of our barn cats.”
“Why did he think she got it from a cat?”
“People was ignorant,” she repeated, “And I remember thinking that maybe I was fixin’ to get sick with it, too, and what would happen if Mother and Daddy buried both of us together.”
“How awful.”
“I reckon. But you don’t hear much about diphtheria no more, do you? I think there’s a shot for it now.”
“They say it causes autism,” I said, flinching while I said it. I had to somehow defend my choice not to immunize my daughter. It was too complex of an issue to even begin to explain to someone who knew next to nothing about vaccines, but I still felt a defensive need to say it.
“Autism? What Kelly’s boy across the street has?”
“Yeah. People didn’t have that when you were little, did you?”
“There's always been goofy people," she said plainly, "That ain't nothin' new."
“But autism is different. It’s a vaccine reaction. A lot of people think it is.”
She shrugged, “I’ve seen people get real sick from shots. One time I got a flu shot, and boy did I get sick. But all I know is, I haven’t heard of no one dying from diphtheria in a long time.”
I tried to think of something to say. I was still struggling. I was increasingly aware that my daughter was autistic and increasingly aware that I had made a mistake. Standing in front of the grave of a little girl who died in her mother’s arms of a disease my child would never get, my mistake was that much more painfully apparent. And, as much as I didn't want to know them, I knew the statistics: the DTaP vaccine is highly effective in preventing diphtheria, and without it, diphtheria claims as many as one in five lives.
I lay a flower on her grave and pushed aside the clumps of clay that had mostly buried the marker.
My grandmother rarely criticized me, especially on topics that she thought I knew more about than she did. She only had a seventh-grade education and she regarded most of her knowledge as passé and unimportant. But, as she got into my car, she wasn’t too shy to tell me what she was thinking.
“People… You’re confused, sweetheart. Everybody spends their whole life trying to make the world better for their kids and their grandkids. But not you. You’re trying to go backwards. I’ll never understand it. Things wasn’t good back then. You want to think that they was, but they wasn’t. You’re going to figure that out one day.”
My car got stuck in the mud as we were leaving, and my grandmother commented that it would be hard to come back without four-wheel drive.
“Do you want to be buried there?” I asked when we finally saw pavement and power lines again.
“Lord, no,” she coughed, “I want people to come and visit me. It’s just a matter of time before that place is forgot altogether.”
My aunt, forever three years old, lies in the earth in some graveyard I will probably never see again. When my grandmother passes away, so will the last remaining memory of what Wilma Dean’s face looked like. That will be the very, very end of a life that was too short, in a time and place when life was cheap.
Wilma was given far too little time in life, but her small
legacy is that her tragic and untimely death was one of the factors that made
me realize how lucky I am to live in a world where deaths like hers are rare.
She helped me realize how fortunate I am that modern medicine, including immunization,
can give my kids much longer and happier lives than she had.
Rest in peace, sweetheart.
Rest in peace, sweetheart.
Thanks for sharing this poignant story, I know this is not the most important thing about it but it is very well written as well. Welcome into the fold, thanks for helping Public Health.
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