In 1909, on a farm in Sample, Kentucky, a baby girl named Esma was born to John Henry and Annabelle Dowell. A baby, not unlike any other child born into this world. A small, helpless child, dependant upon her parents for love and nurturing. In my heart I know for the first eleven years of her life she was loved... her mother would see to that. In February of 1920, Esma’s fate was forever determined, her adoring mother passed away. Esma’s young life would never be the same.
Throughout her childhood, Esma suffered with bouts of epilepsy, which in those days was completely misunderstood. It was thought that people who had epileptic seizures were deranged or even possessed by demons. Within months of her mother’s death, Esma, a child of twelve, was sent to the Central State Hospital in Louisville, kentucky, where she remained until July 30, 1924, when along with fifty other patients, she was transferred to Western State Hospital in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. Without her mother there to protect her, she would spend the rest of her life at Hopkinsville. Never again would she know the comfort of family. How alone she must have felt, being left in this horrible place year after year, never having a birthday celebrated or a Christmas spent with loving family. Only God knows the torment she endured each day spent inside those cold, depressing walls.
On a cold winter’s evening in 1938, Esma would finally be free, but she would not return home. On December 14, 1938, at the age of 29, Esma passed away, and on December 17, she would be buried, with no family present, there on the Hospital grounds with only a wooden cross to mark her grave. In 1961, a brush fire ravaged the small cemetery and took away the last bit of evidence that Esma had existed...the wooden cross.
In 2002, sixty-four years after her death, I went searching for my Aunt Esma’s final resting place. I visited that cold, well-guarded institution and was told that I could only go back to the cemetery in the accompaniment of the Administrator. Very coolly, I was told that I wouldn’t be able to find her grave anyway. Even now, they continue to control Esma. Even in death, she can not have a quiet moment with family.
Nothing remains except a death certificate to show that Esma lived. She deserves so much more than these few words on paper. I have to wonder if her family ever felt any regret, or even thought of her at all. Although she passed away before I was born, I feel so much sorrow for this little girl who was forgotten. Her name was Esma...and she did matter.
Throughout her childhood, Esma suffered with bouts of epilepsy, which in those days was completely misunderstood. It was thought that people who had epileptic seizures were deranged or even possessed by demons. Within months of her mother’s death, Esma, a child of twelve, was sent to the Central State Hospital in Louisville, kentucky, where she remained until July 30, 1924, when along with fifty other patients, she was transferred to Western State Hospital in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. Without her mother there to protect her, she would spend the rest of her life at Hopkinsville. Never again would she know the comfort of family. How alone she must have felt, being left in this horrible place year after year, never having a birthday celebrated or a Christmas spent with loving family. Only God knows the torment she endured each day spent inside those cold, depressing walls.
On a cold winter’s evening in 1938, Esma would finally be free, but she would not return home. On December 14, 1938, at the age of 29, Esma passed away, and on December 17, she would be buried, with no family present, there on the Hospital grounds with only a wooden cross to mark her grave. In 1961, a brush fire ravaged the small cemetery and took away the last bit of evidence that Esma had existed...the wooden cross.
In 2002, sixty-four years after her death, I went searching for my Aunt Esma’s final resting place. I visited that cold, well-guarded institution and was told that I could only go back to the cemetery in the accompaniment of the Administrator. Very coolly, I was told that I wouldn’t be able to find her grave anyway. Even now, they continue to control Esma. Even in death, she can not have a quiet moment with family.
Nothing remains except a death certificate to show that Esma lived. She deserves so much more than these few words on paper. I have to wonder if her family ever felt any regret, or even thought of her at all. Although she passed away before I was born, I feel so much sorrow for this little girl who was forgotten. Her name was Esma...and she did matter.
In 1909, on a farm in Sample, Kentucky, a baby girl named Esma was born to John Henry and Annabelle Dowell. A baby, not unlike any other child born into this world. A small, helpless child, dependant upon her parents for love and nurturing. In my heart I know for the first eleven years of her life she was loved... her mother would see to that. In February of 1920, Esma’s fate was forever determined, her adoring mother passed away. Esma’s young life would never be the same.
Throughout her childhood, Esma suffered with bouts of epilepsy, which in those days was completely misunderstood. It was thought that people who had epileptic seizures were deranged or even possessed by demons. Within months of her mother’s death, Esma, a child of twelve, was sent to the Central State Hospital in Louisville, kentucky, where she remained until July 30, 1924, when along with fifty other patients, she was transferred to Western State Hospital in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. Without her mother there to protect her, she would spend the rest of her life at Hopkinsville. Never again would she know the comfort of family. How alone she must have felt, being left in this horrible place year after year, never having a birthday celebrated or a Christmas spent with loving family. Only God knows the torment she endured each day spent inside those cold, depressing walls.
On a cold winter’s evening in 1938, Esma would finally be free, but she would not return home. On December 14, 1938, at the age of 29, Esma passed away, and on December 17, she would be buried, with no family present, there on the Hospital grounds with only a wooden cross to mark her grave. In 1961, a brush fire ravaged the small cemetery and took away the last bit of evidence that Esma had existed...the wooden cross.
In 2002, sixty-four years after her death, I went searching for my Aunt Esma’s final resting place. I visited that cold, well-guarded institution and was told that I could only go back to the cemetery in the accompaniment of the Administrator. Very coolly, I was told that I wouldn’t be able to find her grave anyway. Even now, they continue to control Esma. Even in death, she can not have a quiet moment with family.
Nothing remains except a death certificate to show that Esma lived. She deserves so much more than these few words on paper. I have to wonder if her family ever felt any regret, or even thought of her at all. Although she passed away before I was born, I feel so much sorrow for this little girl who was forgotten. Her name was Esma...and she did matter.
Throughout her childhood, Esma suffered with bouts of epilepsy, which in those days was completely misunderstood. It was thought that people who had epileptic seizures were deranged or even possessed by demons. Within months of her mother’s death, Esma, a child of twelve, was sent to the Central State Hospital in Louisville, kentucky, where she remained until July 30, 1924, when along with fifty other patients, she was transferred to Western State Hospital in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. Without her mother there to protect her, she would spend the rest of her life at Hopkinsville. Never again would she know the comfort of family. How alone she must have felt, being left in this horrible place year after year, never having a birthday celebrated or a Christmas spent with loving family. Only God knows the torment she endured each day spent inside those cold, depressing walls.
On a cold winter’s evening in 1938, Esma would finally be free, but she would not return home. On December 14, 1938, at the age of 29, Esma passed away, and on December 17, she would be buried, with no family present, there on the Hospital grounds with only a wooden cross to mark her grave. In 1961, a brush fire ravaged the small cemetery and took away the last bit of evidence that Esma had existed...the wooden cross.
In 2002, sixty-four years after her death, I went searching for my Aunt Esma’s final resting place. I visited that cold, well-guarded institution and was told that I could only go back to the cemetery in the accompaniment of the Administrator. Very coolly, I was told that I wouldn’t be able to find her grave anyway. Even now, they continue to control Esma. Even in death, she can not have a quiet moment with family.
Nothing remains except a death certificate to show that Esma lived. She deserves so much more than these few words on paper. I have to wonder if her family ever felt any regret, or even thought of her at all. Although she passed away before I was born, I feel so much sorrow for this little girl who was forgotten. Her name was Esma...and she did matter.
