Held annually the second Sunday in December, this year December 10,
The Compassionate Friends Worldwide Candle Lighting unites family and friends around the globe as they light candles for one hour to honor and remember children who have died at any age from any cause. As candles are lit at 7 p.m. local time, hundreds of thousands of persons commemorate and honor children in a way that transcends all ethnic, cultural, religious, and political boundaries.
I was the guest speaker at our chapter this year. By request, I'm posting the transcript here. Just for the record, I actually said K's name, and didn't just call him K.
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In June of 2003, we had two beautiful daughters, Mina, who was 6, and Layla, who was 4. Mina had graduated from kindergarten the month before. She was beautiful and smart, as we all think our children are. She loved reading, writing, and drawing. She loved Hamtaro and Powerpuff Girls. She wanted to be a veterinarian when she grew up. She loved to make new friends. Layla kept more to herself, and didn't love the idea of school the way Mina did. We had recently taken her out of preschool because she just wanted to stay home with me. She was happy to play by herself in a corner with all her toy horses, or to color pictures. Where Mina's pictures were as realistic as she could make them, Layla's pictures were filled with beautiful combinations of colors that covered the whole page. Layla was our cuddler. She also loved Hamtaro and the Powerpuff Girls, and she loved animals, but hadn't started thinking about what she wanted to be when she grew up. Mina was a mama's girl, but Layla was not only her daddy's girl, or Gaga as the girls called him, but everyone's girl. She and Mina were 19 months apart, best friends, and couldn't even remember a time when they didn't have each other.
On June 29, 2003, we had just celebrated the birthdays of our sons in the past week. My son Justin had just turned 14, and our son Layth had just turned 1. I was planning to take them to a new playground that afternoon, but K offered to take them to their favorite playground instead, what they called the lake playground at Cedar Hill State Park on Joe Pool Lake. I stayed home with the boys to set up the new inflatable swimming pool and to cook dinner. My husband and I have completely different perspectives on the events of the evening from that point onward. I can only tell you mine.
I got the girls into their bathing suits and kissed them goodbye, rushing them into the car and urging them to hurry before it got too dark for them to play, because the sun was on its way down. I remember standing in the door of the garage waving at them, and Layla calling out for one more Mama hug and kiss. I told her no because they had to hurry, and blew kisses instead. I'm sure I told them I loved them as they backed out of the driveway, but I'll never forget how concerned they looked and I'll always regret not giving those last hugs and kisses.
K called from the car a few minutes later to tell me that Mina remembered that their swimming vests were still in my car, and to ask me if he should turn back for them. I told him no, because then they wouldn't have time to play, and just to let them wade in the shallow part. I'll always regret that, too. I got to work setting up the new swimming pool and filling it with water. Later, as it filled, I tried to call K a few times to ask him to bring rice home, but he wasn't answering his phone. I didn't think anything of it, knowing he'd call me when he left the park. When the phone rang later, I assumed it was him. Instead, it was a police officer who asked if I had spoken to my husband recently, and in response to my asking what had happened, he said, "Wellll, there's been a little accident." As though at most there might be a dented car and a broken bone. I took his directions to the hospital, managing to stay calm though I was feeling a bit anxious. Once I had the directions, I asked him again what had happened, at which point he gave the phone to K. I was told the girls had drowned at the lake. I'm sure all of us who received the devastating news about our children over the phone will never forget those phone calls. Indeed, I remember every detail of that evening from the time I sent the girls on their way to singing them their favorite lullabies one last time before I left their bodies in the hospital. The way the waves of grief would come over me and leave me doubled over with a very real pain in my heart, then subside and leave me feeling just tired and numb, reminded me very much of being in labor when they were born.
It
is a sad story, as all of our stories are, but it's not the sadness I want to leave you with tonight. I want to leave those of you who are newer to their grief than I am with a message of hope, and to let you see that we CAN get through this, as difficult or even impossible as it may seem at times. Those first days are crushing, suffocating, and all you can do is muddle through one day at a time any way you can. Some of us rely on family and friends to lean on. Some of us need time alone. Many of us turn to prayer, and all of us shed fountains of tears. One of the most useful things that I learned when I started reading everything I could in search of a way to get through the grief, was that though there are similar stages of grief that we all go through, we go through them in our own individual ways, and on our own individual timelines. For me, denial came early, every time I woke up and for a brief, blissful moment thought everything was as it was. For weeks, I kept hoping I would wake up, or tried to figure out how I could make things right. This led to my bargaining with God, begging him to give them back or to take me to be with them. At that time, it didn't matter to me that I had family here that would be devastated to lose me. All that mattered was that I needed to be with them, to see where they were, what they were doing, and to know that they were happy. We hear that everything is perfect in heaven, that there is no pain or unhappiness, so did that mean they didn't even miss me? I couldn't bear that. But if they were missing me, they couldn't be perfectly happy, and I couldn't bear that, either. I finally reconciled this by coming to believe that their sense of time in heaven is not like ours. I may live 50 more years without them, which seems impossible at times, but for them, in the grand scheme of the eternity that they now have, it's but a few moments or days, time enough for them to anticipate my arrival, but not for them to be sad. Believing this gives me a sense of peace. If you haven't already, as you come to terms with the loss of your child, you'll find concepts like this that give you a sense of hope or peace, perhaps from a book, a compassionate friend, or just from prayer.
I had anger. I had a brief time of anger at Layla, for not listening and going out too far, and at Mina, for trying to help Layla instead of yelling for help. I've been angry with K, because he was there and I was not. I was angry with the police, for their poor handling of the delicate duty of informing me of the tragedy. Three and a half years later, I still bristle when I think of that police officer saying "Wellll, there's been a little accident." I've been depressed, and felt like there was no possible way I could get through another day or another week. I didn't want to know what it felt like to be a year away from them, or three years away from them. It helps me now to think of it as being a year closer to being with them again, rather than a year farther from the time I was last with them. I didn't want memories to fade, painful or not, but clung to them as they were all I had left of the girls.
Some of us can't bear to look at pictures of the ones we've lost, as they serve as painful reminders, so we pack away the pictures, or leave them up but try not to look at them too long or too often. For me, I keep their pictures up and love to look at them, because it makes me feel closer to them. There may be some of us who don't like to talk about our children and find it too painful, but I think most of us benefit from being able to talk about them. It keeps them alive, in a way, and for me, it always helped to be able to talk about what I was feeling. It helps so much to have a safe place like Compassionate Friends to talk about them, where no one will try to change the subject for fear of seeing you get upset, and where people understand exactly what you're feeling. For some of us, visiting the cemetery often and keeping their graves decorated with flowers and gifts makes us feel close to them. For me, I wanted a place where their names would be seen and they could be remembered that was a happier place, so K and I sponsor the Mina and Layla Butterfly Garden at the Dallas Zoo, as well as the annual butterfly festival and butterfly release there. It makes me feel so happy to know that hundreds of people, even if they don't know who Mina and Layla are, see their names and enjoy the garden with their children. We've also been very blessed to be able to have more children, who can never replace Mina and Layla, but are wonderful and special in their own ways, and have gone a long way toward helping us heal.
Our perspectives on things change after a loss like this. We often find that we have little patience for our neighbor who complains about the weather, or the cousin who complains about how incompetent her mother is, or especially the coworker who complains about how much trouble her child has been lately. I remember being told by someone that he knew just how I felt, because his best friend had drowned in high school. I'm sorry for him, sure, but no, he does NOT know how I feel. I remember someone coming to visit me to offer their condolences who couldn't stop crying because her dog had just had to be put down. I know people love their dogs, but I couldn't muster even a scrap of sympathy for her at that moment. I remember sobbing one time as I sat alone in a parked car, and asking God why he couldn't take me home to be with the girls. I heard the answer, very distinctly, "because you have a lot left to learn." I felt a stillness come over me, and I knew that something significant had just happened to me, and I had nothing else to say, other than something like, "Ok, let's learn it and get it over with." Of course, it didn't work like that, and I find that when things happen now, I try to figure out what it is I'm supposed to learn from it. I'm pretty sure that patience is a big one for me, and I think I still have a long way to go there,
I've had wonderful dreams about the girls. In the beginning, they were interactive, and felt more like visits from them. We could talk, and hug, and they always left me feeling comforted. After a while, I started seeing them in someone else's care. I missed them, and wanted to talk to them. I couldn't, but I could see that they were happy where they were. These dreams weren't quite as satisfying, but still somewhat comforting. Lately the dreams have tapered off, and I miss them, but I feel lucky to have had them. K rarely remembers his dreams and hasn't had more than one or two about them.
I've had a sense of the girls from time to time. The night we lost them, our cat stopped near their bedroom door and all her hackles went up. She arched her back, her fur stood straight up, and she stared at that door, unmoving, for about a minute. It was a long minute, as I tried to reassure her to no avail. I whispered "I love you" to the girls, just in case they were there. The cat did this twice more over the next couple of months, both times near the girls' room, and never since. About a year ago, I was driving and thinking of the girls, when I smelled a very clean, soapy smell for no apparent reason. The smell lasted about half a minute, and I felt comforted somehow. Another time, I was sitting at the computer when I smelled a very strong floral smell, sweeter than any of the flowers I love like lilacs and gardenias, and had a very strong sense of Mina. I hadn't been dwelling on them at the time, and the smell and the sense of her just came out of the blue. I wondered if that was what the flowers in heaven smell like, and I was very comforted. K found a note one time written by Mina that said, "I love you. I miss you. I'll see you again." I remembered her writing that for a friend at school, but the fact that K found it when he did gave me goosebumps, and it felt like it was meant for us to find.
I've heard many stories like these, some from some of you, some from other people, and they always give me comfort and hope. This is a long healing process and amazingly difficult, especially in the early days and on holidays, but know that moments of peace and comfort
will find you. People will tell you they're amazed at your strength, when we really don't feel strong at all. We're just doing the best we can. But we are strong, and we've been given the amazing ability to experience both love and heartbreak, joy and sorrow, and we have an amazing ability to heal even when it seems impossible. My hope for all of you is that you can hang in there, one day at a time when necessary, and be on the lookout for those peaceful moments, and those moments of hope. If you keep your heart open to them, I think you'll find that they find you more and more as time passes. Thank you.
