In Memory of Dean Patrick Roy

Among Dad's keepsakes was an old tattered, faux-leather photo album I inherited after he passed away. Tucked in a corner on the second page is a yellowed, barely one-inch newspaper article with the heartbreaking headline: Infant dies. It reads in part:

"Dean Patrick, infant son of Mr. and Mrs. Fernan Roy, died early Monday morning, 36 hours after birth. Funeral rites and burial were held Monday evening from (sic) the Iota (Louisiana) Catholic Church with Father Olan Broussard in charge. Burial was in the Iota Cemetery..."  

Dean Patrick Roy was born June 29, 1946 at 4:25 p.m. in Jennings (Louisiana) Hospital. I entered the world 15 minutes later.  We were identical twins. Dean tipped the scales at four pounds, four ounces while I was a puny four-pounder. We were born premature.  Our tiny bodies could fit in a shoebox.

Neonatal care of preemies at that era was primitive, especially at a small hospital in a city of less than 9,000.  Neonatal nurseries were in their infancy.  Dad describes the hospital's infant incubator as a small box-like crib with glowing heat lamp to keep his twins warm.  No oxygen hose in the crib. 

Dad paced outside the nursery keeping vigil over his boys.  He aired his concerns about the searing lamp to nurses several times during his visits.  Mom once told me: "Your Dad was insistent that the lamp would set fire to the blankets." His anguish must have gnawed at him every moment. 

Three days after our birth, Mom was sleeping in her hospital bed in Room 16 when a nurse gently touched her shoulder. She awoke with a shudder.  The nurse stood silent a moment before informing Mom one of her twins had died.  "Which one she asked?"  The shaken nurse answered, "Dean."

To understand her question, Dean and I looked so much alike that Mom admitted it was difficult even for her to tell us apart. In her confused mind, she tried to recall the image of Dean.  That just intensified her mental distress. 

I can only imagine the grief and heartache she felt.  Anyone who has lost a child understands the anguish and disbelief.  Rose Derveloy, Mom's mother, was there to comfort her unconsolable daughter.  I am unsure how Dad received the sad news.  But he, too, never forgot that night.

The memory of that evening haunted Mom for the rest of her life. Whenever she awoke during the night, a dread clung to her conscious. Had one of her seven children died?  The angst never subsided over her 96 years. The sudden loss of life of a child would be her nightly cross. 

A day after the tragic news, Mom fretted that Dean had not been baptized before his death.  The Catholic Church in that era erroneously taught unbaptized infants when to a Netherland called Limbo. It was a cruel man-law that nearly a half-century later was assigned to the dustbin of religious heresies.

A nurse, perhaps to comfort Mom, volunteered that she had indeed baptized Dean before he passed.  Although Mom was suspicious it was untrue, she chose to believe the kind nurse had acted out of compassion.  It soothed her to believe her little one received his baptism.    

Sadly, there are no photos of Dean. No footprints. The only testaments to his short life are a birth certificate, newspaper article and a grave in the Iota cemetery.  For many years, Dad and Mom drove to Iota to visit "the baby's grave." Nothing riled Dad more than to discover weeds growing near the grave.  

In Dad's album there is a a picture of Dean's grave in 2017.  The miniature grave had been restored to its alabaster white sheen and the grass was mown.  Dad snapped a picture of the grave and the memorial plaque. He framed the photo and displayed it prominently in their residence in El Campo, Texas.   

Dad and Mom never forgot Dean. Whenever he was asked how many children he had, Dad always replied eight.  Then would add, but one baby died. Once while I was with Dad, someone asked me my age. I replied, "I am 14, the oldest of seven."  Dad politely corrected me: "The oldest of eight."

Dianna and I named our firstborn son Dean in honor of my twin. Although they never voiced their approval, I know Mom and Dad were pleased.  They had a Dean in their lives again.  When they spoke the name, it was always with a touch of reverence for their lost son.   

As the years have rolled by I often wonder in my quiet moments what life would have been like if Dean had lived.  Would we have had the same interests and mannerisms? Would we still look alike?  Would we celebrate our birthdays together? How would my life be different? 

The answers will have to wait.  

As I turn 76 this year, I am entering the twilight of my earthly journey. The inevitable is creeping up on me.  I am unafraid because I can scarcely imagine the unutterable joy of seeing Dean for the first time. Twins reunited. What a glorious celebration it will be.