With the one year mark coming up I thought I would share this letter written by Colleen Fledderman, who lost her 18 year old daughter in 2001. I identified so closely with her letter that I felt like if I changed the names I could have written it myself.... so that's what I did. I think I speak for any mother who has lost a child when I say that her letter illustrates the depth of the loss so well.
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I have never met Carlie
Brucia’s mother, Nicole Brown Simpson’s mother, Polly Klass’s mother, Princess
Dianna’s mother, Carolyn Bessette Kennedy’s mother or Laci Peterson’s mother.
But I know them all intimately. I know what dwells in their hearts and souls
everyday. Like them I buried my daughter.
What am I now? Am I a
daughterless mother? That sounds like an oxymoron, two words that contradict
themselves. My eighteen year old daughter, Kirsten, died on March 7th, 2011. My
life is forever changed. Burying a daughter is a surreal experience. There are
no words in Webster’s Dictionary that can explain the grief, the heartache, the
pain, the depression or the anguish. Heartbroken is too small a word. The words
don’t exist because it is not supposed to happen. There are no plausible
definitions that could accurately describe “bereaved parent.” Groups of words
can’t be strung together on a typed page to accurately explain the grief. It is
impossible to bury your child, yet it happened.
Logically, the factual part
of my brain processed the information. The emotional part of my brain argues
with the fact everyday. Each and every morning it is still a shock to my entire
being! I still peek into her bedroom and expect to find her perfectly made bed
a mess of jumbled covers with my daughter snuggled deep inside of them. Parents
don’t bury children! Headstones read “loving mother,” “cherished wife.” They
don’t read “beloved daughter.” That is not the natural order of the universe.
This was not supposed to happen to me. It always happens to other people. I see
reports on the evening news, articles in the newspaper describing horrible
events that resulted in the death of someone’s child. It isn’t supposed to be
my child. How can this be? It can’t be changed. I can’t say, “Kirsten, want to
go to the mall?” “Let’s go out to lunch.” She can’t tell me about her “freaking
psych test” that she has to study for all night long.
Things I want to say to her
are forever left unspoken. How will I go on? I can’t go on, yet I do. My body
wakes up each day. I don’t ask for this to happen, it just does. My lungs take
in air, it is automatic, something that I have no control over. My physical
body now controls the course of events in my life. I breath, I eat, I walk, I
talk, I put one foot in front of the other. I load the washer and shop for
food. I can work. I can teach. I can think on the job about the job. My
spiritual being merely exists. It cannot flourish or soar ever again.
When my daughter died, my
emotional self was buried with her. When she died, I also buried her future
husband to be, my future grandchildren, my daughter’s future wedding, my
daughter’s college graduation ceremony, my holiday, my joy. I buried my best
friend. I buried the once perfect life that I knew and lived everyday. Tucked
into the corner of Kirsten’s casket is my happy husband. My despondent bereaved
husband now
lives with me. I buried my
twenty three year old daughter’s future matron of honor. I buried Michelle’s
future nieces and nephews. There is not enough room in Kirsten’s casket for all
the things that died with her. Dreams, hopes, joys, lives, emotions, hearts and
souls slipped into that casket with Kirsten. They occupy every square inch of
that place. One day my fifteen year old nephew will be older than her. Can my
brain every understand that?
Bereaved parents go on. We
go on because we have no other road to travel. It is just we are not “normal”
anymore. We used to be you. We used to be the PTA moms and the Girl Scout
leaders. We brought lovely frilly fancy holiday dresses for our daughters. We
were once carpool moms and soccer moms. We sat at musical recitals and listened
to the first melodious squeaks and squawks of their instruments. Forgotten
homework assignments were rushed to school for our children. In our heads we
planned our beautiful daughter’s future wedding. Vision of the bridal gown and
the reception danced in our heads. We couldn’t wait to have grandchildren and
baby-sit and enjoy. We wanted to tell our daughters that their children were
just like them. Our daughter’s christening gown is carefully preserved and
awaiting to be worn by her own children. We wanted to hold our grandchildren’s
chubby little fingers in our hands and remember holding our daughters chubby
little fingers in our hand.
We used to answer the
telephone and hear, “Hey mom, what’s up?” Now the phone doesn’t ring. And it
will never ring again with that sweet voice we so desperately would love to
hear. Now we are set apart. We are not normal anymore. People choose to walk
down a different aisle to ignore us. It is too painful for them to think about
our lives. They might take a moment to wonder how we go on. They say, “I can
only imagine your pain.” That is not true. No one can imagine it unless they
live it. We now belong to a new group. We never wanted to be a part of this
group, bereaved parents. No one lines up for this membership. We wish our
membership would never grow. I am glad you are not me.
