From the window of our upstairs apartment, my father called me in. We had to have a family talk in the kitchen. I remember ending up on my mother's lap, but I couldn't tell if it was for my comfort or for hers. I was confused and dazed, not quite sure if this was real or not. It was sudden, my parents told me, and Aunt Meg was in heaven now, not hurting or suffering. We don't know why God took her away, and we don't know what made her sick, they said. I thought, what is happening, does God really do this? Aunt Meg was young. How could it be unknown what made her sick? I was stunned, unable to say anything, cry or move.

July 27, 1991

Usually, the day we would head off to our annual week down the shore was one of the most exciting times of the year. Especially for my brother and I. At ages 10 and 7, we had been counting down to this day for months. On this morning, however, there was no giddy excitement running through the house. It was eerily quiet, and strangely dark. No lights were on, only the slight rays of the morning sun peeked through the shades. My brother and I had no idea what was going

on, just that it was not a day to be excited. Daddy came in later on that morning from the hospital. We knew our grandfather was sick. We actually hadn't seen either of our father's parents for about a month. My mother had told me that they were sick, and their illness made them not remember us.

It was Pepa who had passed that hot day in July. Needless to say we did not go on our vacation that year.

December 5, 1991
I was not able to see my Nana before she passed away either, but somehow I knew she had gone without anyone having to tell me. We were on our front porch and my mother had just picked me up from school on a cold snowy day. Before she even slipped the key into the lock, she said, “I have to tell you something.”

“I know,” I said matter-of-factly. “Nana died.”

I walked into the house, and what stands out in my mind are the lights all being off, just like that warm day five months ago.

May 11, 1993
It was the biggest blow when Grandpa died two years later, when I was 12. It may have been just because I had already lost two of my grandparents, but I think it also had a lot to do with the special relationship we shared. He was an artist and musician who captivated me with all his talents and charm. I cried the hardest this time, maybe because I was 12, and a little more mature and able to comprehend the magnitude of the loss.

I understand now that what really scared me was the fact that so many loved ones left me in such a short amount of time. Since there were four in succession, I may have subconsciously been waiting for the next death, and the fear that it could be one of my parents bore a hole right through my heart. It frightened me more than I could ever explain, and it took a long time for me to overcome the phobia.

Who really knows what it was that “cured” me from my phobia. The real challenge is to find out how to prevent and alleviate this terrible, paralyzing, uncontrollable deathly fear that children may succumb to in these situations.