This is a first-person column by Claire McBride, whose daughters died in a car accident. For more information on CBC first-person stories, please see the FAQ.
On August 16, 2019, my life changed forever.
I was a single mother of two beautiful girls aged 6 and 4.
My alarm was set for 7 in the morning, as usual, but at 6:58 in the morning my eldest daughter called from her bedroom across the hall.
“Mom! There are six, five and eight on the clock! ”To which I sleepily replied“ Oksana, you know you are not allowed to get out of bed until the first digit of the clock is seven ”, I secretly hoped for at least 15 minutes more sleep.
Then at 7 am on the nose, like every other morning, I heard her door open and she jumped down the hall to ask me if she could watch TV.
I motioned for her to whisper so that four-year-old Quinn could stay asleep. She had crawled into my bed somewhere in the night.
I settled into the madhouse of our morning routine: shower, breakfast, packed lunch, asked the children to get dressed, changed the children’s clothes, brushed their hair, hung the children on the car seats, and then drove to town. After work, I picked up the girls, went home, made dinner, and then put them back in the truck for swimming lessons.
Claire McBride, after all, has a life determined by being a mother of two young children. (Claire McBride)
It was a middle, trouble-free day in my motherhood, until it suddenly happened.
That night, another driver crashed into my truck, killing my children and depriving me of my motherhood. He was later accused of improper driving and the case is still in court.
My daily routine went from shaping ponytails, doing laundry, packing lunches, taking baths for fun on boring Saturday afternoons, driving to endless clubs and practices, and picking up the two most beautiful little girls I knew in bed with prayer. and history every night until … nothing, just nothing.
Deafening silence.
At one point I had nothing to do, no one to feed. My very purpose in life has just been taken away from me and left me drained.
I went from cooking hot food for three people every night to eating cereal straight out of the box, because caring for my children came more naturally than caring for myself.
Now, without my children, who am I?
Two and a half years have passed and I still ask myself this question every day.
Sometimes I joke that I changed motherhood for an acting career. I’ve never been better at hiding or bottling them than I am now. People often say to my parents, “Claire is so strong. I follow her online. He seems to be doing so well.
Claire McBride, in the center, mourns her daughters every day. (Claire McBride)
But if the walls of the house I now call home could speak, they would tell you something different. My grief makes others uncomfortable, so I walk around in public, pretending to be well. But I spend my days alone longing for something I can’t have, my daughters. Or to feel guilty for surviving the catastrophe that took their lives.
The fact that I am a mother will never change. I conceived, gave birth, breastfed and raised children for a short six years.
But my motherhood is very different now. I live five hours from where the girls are buried, but I still drive to their grave several times a year to maintain it and deliver trinkets that I know they would enjoy. Every year I still bake themed cakes for their birthdays, light candles, write them a card and sing to them, usually at their grave.
I still send pictures of them to our family group chats when my phone brings back memories of “that day so many years ago …”. I still have the dog I took as their puppy for their last Christmas. They called him Popcorn and the care for him and the other puppy you’ve added since then gives me someone to take care of who is still involved with the girls.
Claire McBride is depicted with one of her dogs, Popcorn, named by her daughters before they died. (Claire McBride)
I publish children’s books dedicated to my girls. They loved the time for stories. This was an activity we did every day. Writing in their honor has become my way of continuing to nurture their love of reading and remind the world that they exist.
I read an interview with a sociologist who said that the death of a child is considered the greatest stress a person can go through. And I tend to agree.
We are designed to grieve the elders, but not the children. As parents, we do not have children who think that one day we may have to plan their funerals.
But I’m slowly learning how to live again. I had to learn how to be a mother without children, but I can’t just give up my motherhood. It is woven into the fabric of who I am. When I say that my girls were my world, I am not exaggerating. Everything I did, every decision I made, was for them or our future together.
As a Christian, I know that my girls are in heaven, and I keep my promise that one day we will meet again. My faith in God was my strength through this exhausting process of grief.
However, the layer of me, which is motherhood, is getting thinner with each passing day. With each passing day, I feel more distant from my children, and this makes the scar left by their loss wider and deeper. Time does not heal all wounds.
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