The Last Visitor


(Photo above of my father as a student at MIT in 1942, at the age of 17)

We held my father’s visitation on November 12, a dark, windy afternoon six days after he died. His casket was open for family members to pay their respects and say their goodbyes. I am of the “Irish Wake” school of funerals. Including the body in the festivities feels right. A dead body in the room is surreal, sad, moving, and lends itself to humour and tragedy — all aspects of death and life. However, a lot of people are not comfortable with this so we closed my father’s casket when friends arrived.


The flowers on my father’s casket.

Unlike an Irish wake, we did not hold my father’s visitation in our living room, but in a funeral parlour— a tasteful, hushed place in hues of cream, grey and beige with boxes of tissues in the bathrooms. It was the very one that hosted my mother’s funeral back in January. The Beechwood Cemetery sits atop a neighbourhood in Ottawa that most people would call pretty or historic. It is where the poet Archibald Lampman is buried, as well as Sir Sandford Fleming, the man who invented the International Time Zone.

We had mentioned the visitation for my father in the obituary that appeared in several newspapers, and although I had thought no one would come, the place was full. The afternoon passed quickly as we ate and drank and chatted while hard rain lashed the picture windows. Everyone had left by five o’clock except my sisters K and S, their husbands, and myself. Just as we were heading for the door with our coats and umbrellas, an elderly man came in with a walker. His face was dripping wet. The DVDs he had in the pouch of his walker were floating in a shallow pool of water. His shoes and windbreaker were soaked through.

He looked at me and said, “Are you Jasmine’s daughter?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Oh, good,” he said. “I’ve come to the right place.”

My sisters and I exchanged glances. We had no idea who this man was. We ushered him into a warm room while Denise, one of the funeral home workers, made him some tea and fetched towels. My brother-in-law got him to take off his wet t-shirt and wrapped him in his thick tweed jacket. My sister K gave him her wool scarf. Throughout all this, he told us his name was Gerry McGee and he had crossed town in the rain to say goodbye to my father. He had got on the wrong bus and had had to walk up the steep, slippery hill to get to the funeral home. He is 85 years old. As he was speaking, his face came into focus and I started to remember him visiting our house when I was a child. I never understood why, but my parents didn’t see him often. I do recall them talking about him and I have very vague memories of there being some kind of problem but I couldn’t remember what.


A painting by a resident at the care home where my father died.

Gerry told us how much he loved our father. They were both engineers and in Gerry’s opinion, my dad was a brilliant one. We listened to him talk about his life and the band he played in, and at this point I marvelled not at my father’s accomplishments, but at Gerry’s courage. We all become more fearful as we get older, but here was a man who seemed to have no fear at all. If he had shown up five minutes later, he would have found himself confronted by a locked funeral home in the middle of nowhere on a dark, stormy night. He would have had to walk miles to the nearest bus stop and then sat soaking wet for probably an hour. But he had not allowed himself to think like this. “This is faith,” I kept thinking. The ability to believe that everything will work out fine is an ability that often eludes me as I list a dozen pitfalls and problems with whatever plan I am trying to hatch. Another recurring thought was, “I hope when I am 85 and doddery on my pins, I will get on a bus in the dark and go to see whomever it is I need to see, driving rain or not.” We talked for some time, with Gerry telling us about his life and his relationship to my father. When my brother-in-law said he would drive him home, Gerry replied without missing a beat, “You’re a king!”

I wanted to know more about Gerry McGee, so I Googled him. It turns out he sings in a group that performs for seniors around Ottawa, he was awarded the Queen’s Jubilee medal for his services in engineering, but most significantly he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder forty-five years ago. He has written about it and been interviewed about the difficulties of being diagnosed with a mental illness late in life. When I read about his struggles, my parents’ hushed conversations started to make sense. I remember them liking him very much and entertaining him at our kitchen table, but I also remember he always came on his own and then one day he just stopped coming over. I did some sums and worked out that he disappeared from my parents’ lives at exactly the same time he had been sent to live in a mental health facility. I don’t like to think that my parents could have helped him more. I hope that’s not the case. Maybe Gerry’s perseverance in the face of the driving rain while he hobbled slowly up a steep hill was his way of thanking my father for understanding his condition. I wonder what things were left unsaid as he sat sipping his tea that afternoon.

“As I was walking up that hill, I kept telling myself I was doing it for Phil,” Gerry said. He smiled and then pointed towards the ceiling, “And the big guy up there also kept me going.”

As we were leaving, Gerry asked Denise for her card. “I’m, 85,” he told her. “I need to plan my next trip here,” he said and laughed. “That was another thing that kept me going,” he added. “I’ve heard of this place and thought it might be a good one to end up in.” They exchanged numbers before Gerry got in my brother-in-law’s car and was whisked to his small apartment across town.


A painting by a resident at the care home where my father died.

For a piece on the struggles of bipolar disorder in the elderly in which Gerry is mentioned, see:



Busting the Myth of the Lonely Only


Here is a piece I wrote for JSTOR Daily about my experiences as the mother of one child (published November 18, 2015):


My one and only dancing outside a motel in Seattle.

Bill and Hillary have one. Franklin D. Roosevelt was one. And the chances are you probably know one or two. Even I have one of these selfish, lonely, and maladjusted creatures said to be populating America in greater numbers every year. I am referring to the “only child,” also known as singletons or onlies.

Despite the only child being a growing demographic, having one still attracts a surprising amount of criticism. At a playground in London, one mother told me she thought having an only child was tantamount to child abuse as she watched my daughter toddle alone in the sandbox. When I told my mother that I probably wouldn’t have any more children, she exclaimed disparagingly that one child was “simply not a family.” My husband, on the other hand, has not had any of these accusations leveled against him. The shaming of mothers of singletons is yet another arena in which guilt, scorn, and impossibly high expectations are heaped upon women, encouraged by society’s biased views.

23 percent of Americans have only one child; in New York City, as in a lot of urban centers, the figure is 30 percent.

A year ago, the United Nations Department of Economic and Social Affairs estimated the world’s population at 7.2 billion. At the same time, natural resources like clean air and water are dwindling. Yet to talk of restricting the number of children people choose to have smacks of coercive policy-making or, worse, genetic engineering. In developed countries, though, a limit on family size seems to be occurring organically, without the need for legislation or encouragement from campaigners. If you had asked American women in the 1930s how many children they wanted, 64 percent would have said they wanted at least three. Today, most women feel that 2.5 is ideal. Many of us, however, don’t manage more than one. In fact, 23 percent of Americans have only one child; in New York City, as in a lot of urban centers, the figure is 30 percent.

For many, the rationale for stopping at one child is financial. The cost of raising a kid in the U.S.—before he even gets to college—is $245,300. For others, there simply aren’t enough childbearing years left to have another. And, for a very small minority, the environment and overpopulation are factors. But there is something else at work here: Society is moving away from seeing only children as disadvantaged—though the shift is happening painfully slowly.

Just more than a hundred years ago, the psychologist G. Stanley Hall declared that being an only child was a disease in itself.

Just more than a hundred years ago, the psychologist G. Stanley Hall declared that being an only child was a disease in itself. He was responsible for putting forth the stereotype of the singleton as deficient, indulged, and spoiled. His theories—which he promoted around the same time that psychoanalysis was beginning to blossom—firmly took root. Hall has since undergone some scrutiny, and many of his theories have been rejected within the realm of academia, but popular opinion has yet to catch up. Hall’s words continue to reverberate around playgrounds and kitchen tables all over the country. We hear so often that only children are self-centered, antisocial, and unable to share, that the stereotype has become a self-fulfilling prophecy, or at the very least, what is known as a “cultural truism.”

In her essay “G. Stanley Hall: Male Chauvinist Educator,” the scholar Gill Schofer accuses Hall—the father of child psychology—of being outdated. In Hall’s eyes, women were born solely to be mothers and wives. They were not to engage in any pursuits that might be mentally taxing, such as learning Latin, Greek, or mathematics. If women were to roam outside the realm of the house, society would crumble.

Hall advocated something called “retarding,” a process by which a girl’s education was designed to prevent her from engaging in analytical or cerebral pursuits.

In fairness to Hall, who was born in 1844 and lived the life of a Victorian gentleman, these views were not uncommon for the time. He wrote at length about his mother, whom he worshipped. He described her as the epitome of the Angel in the House, selflessly devoted to her children, her husband, and God. For society to function, Hall believed, all women needed to model themselves on her.

Some of Hall’s opinions were quaint, while others were dangerous. For instance, he advocated something called “retarding,” a process by which a girl’s education was designed to prevent her from engaging in analytical or cerebral pursuits—any curiosity about important subjects such as science, history, or politics was to be repressed in order for her untainted maternal intuition to come to the fore. To Hall, “a purely intellectual woman is…a biological deformity.” And “to a man, wedlock is an incident, but for women, it is destiny.”

In 1987, Denise F. Polit and Toni Falbo undertook the first large-scale attempt to understand the effects of not having siblings on children.

So why have Hall’s views on only children held such a grip on our culture when we have shed every one of his opinions on gender roles? In the 1980s, when more women were heading for the workplace and delaying having children, articles in academic journals with titles like “Negative Stereotypes About Only Children Unfounded; They Do Well on Any Measure” finally started to appear. These articles helped balance the established preconceptions about only children with careful research. And then, in 1987, Denise F. Polit and Toni Falbo undertook the first large-scale attempt to understand the effects of not having siblings on children.

Polit and Falbo’s findings, which were the result of in-depth analysis of past and current studies, came to the conclusion that singletons and multiples shared much more than we had previously thought. What’s more, they found that the disadvantages of being an only child were, on balance, nonexistent.

Reading the study today, certain details jump out, such as the section on antisocial behavior, one of the traits Hall ascribed to onlies without exception. In previous research, sociability had been measured by self-report, with only children seeing themselves as much less sociable than other children. However, when peers were asked about the sociability of singletons, they were said to be more sociable than children with siblings on average. Another case of cultural truism, perhaps? If you tell a child often enough that he is unsociable, eventually he’ll start to believe it.

More recently, Lauren Sandler’s 2013 book One and Only: The Freedom of Having an Only Child and the Joy of Being One, merges personal stories and anecdotes with up-to-date statistics. Parental happiness, Sandler reports, declines with every child. And in Denmark, women with one child scored far happier than women with no children or women with more than one. Despite this research, the myth of these sad and lonely only children with their desperate and unfulfilled mothers stubbornly persists.

Only children have higher IQs than those with siblings.

Many studies on the benefits of one-child families, however, seem to feature factors that are irrelevant to many women when they are deciding how many children to have. Most of us probably don’t pay much heed to the fact that only children have higher IQs than those with siblings, or the fact that they often reach higher academic rankings. It certainly wouldn’t be a reason for any woman I know to stop at one. The fact is that modern motherhood and a working life are often incompatible. Some women excel at juggling careers and multiple children—either through hard work, having the money for childcare, living near family members who can look after their children for free, or any combination of these factors. Others simply can’t do it. We stop at one because we don’t have the money, the time, or the love for another child. Our financial and emotional resources, we feel, are only ample enough to nurture one child well. Or perhaps crippling postpartum depression frightens some women away from going through the difficult and lonely years of caring for another baby. That was certainly a factor for me.

One major raison d’être for feminism is to allow women to make informed choices: whether or not to marry, to work, to have children. But the taboo around choosing to have one child persists. I found it shocking that so many people I barely knew felt entitled to point out how selfish I was for not giving my daughter a sibling. But selfishness is closely linked to—and sometimes confused with—self-preservation, a human being’s most deeply ingrained instinct for survival, and a desirable and healthy characteristic for someone raising a child.

Singletons, in other words, are more maligned than maladjusted, and it does them a disservice to perpetuate outdated stereotypes invented by a reactionary Victorian gentleman.

Perhaps, in time, as more people choose to stop at one child, the stigma will disappear. This will also make it easier on those who had the decision to have one child thrust upon them through infertility, ill health, the breakup of a relationship, or, in some cases, the death of a child’s sibling. It will also free children without siblings from having to prove to the world that they can be social, generous, and well-adjusted. Negative comments directed at one-child families suggest a view of life where we can all choose what we want, when and how we want it. Even when it comes to having children, the image that people are being sold—and that some are buying—is one of the happy consumer with an array of endless choices. Yet the reality of bearing children is far from this.

Whatever happened to the idea that life cannot be perfectly planned, nor can we always get what we want when it comes to the big decisions facing us. We are all muddling through, doing the best we can. Siblings won’t necessarily make a sad and lonely child happy, nor will not having siblings necessarily make a happy child miserable. Singletons, in other words, are more maligned than maladjusted, and it does them a disservice to perpetuate outdated stereotypes invented by a reactionary Victorian gentleman. G. Stanley Hall has been dead for 90 years. Maybe a burgeoning acceptance toward one-child families is finally starting to creep into society at large, one that will allow modern women and the people around them to stop seeing one child as being “only” one, and to start seeing them for the abundance they really are.

Adolescents’ Perceptions of Parental Affect: An Investigation of Only Children vs. Firstborns and the Effect on Spacing
Journal of Population, Vol. 1, No. 2 (Summer, 1978), pp. 148-166
Published by: Springer
Negative Stereotypes About Only Children Unfounded; They Do Well on Any Measure
Family Planning Perspectives, Vol. 13, No. 3 (May – Jun., 1981), pp. 147-148
Guttmacher Institute
Only Children and Personality Development: A Quantitative Review
Journal of Marriage and Family, Vol. 49, No. 2 (May, 1987), pp. 309-325,
National Council on Family Relations
The Only Child Grows up: A Look at Some Characteristics of Adult Only Children
Family Relations, Vol. 29, No. 1 (Jan., 1980), pp. 99-106
National Council on Family Relations