On August 16, 2019, my life changed, irrevocably. I was the unmarried mother of two beautiful girls, aged 6 and 4. My alarm clock was set for 7 in the morning as usual, but at 6:58 a.m., my eldest daughter called me from her bedroom across the hall. “Mom! There are six and five and eight on the clock!” to which I answered drowsy “Oxana, you know you are not allowed to get out of bed until the first number on the clock is seven”, secretly hoping for at least 15 minutes more sleep. Then at 7 in the morning on my nose, like every other morning, I heard her door creak open and she walked down the hall to ask me if she could watch TV. I motioned for her to whisper so that four-year-old Quinn could continue to sleep. He had been dragged to my bed sometime in the night. I settled into the frenzy of our morning routine: shower, breakfast, prepare meals, ask the kids to get dressed, dress the kids, brush my hair, put the kids in car seats and then go to town. After work, I picked up the girls, went home, prepared dinner, and then put them back in the truck for swimming lessons. Clare McBride, rightly, has a life defined as the mother of two young children. (Clare McBride)
It was a middle, relaxing day on my motherhood journey, until suddenly it was not. That night, another driver crashed into my truck, killing my children and stripping me of my motherhood. It was later accused of driving disability and the case is still in the courts. My daily routine went from styling to ponytails, washing clothes, eating in bags, running with bubble baths for fun on boring Saturday afternoons, driving to endless clubs and workouts and putting the two most beautiful girls to bed that I have never met with a prayer and a story. every night at… nothing, just nothing. Deafening silence. At one point, I had nothing to do, no one to nurture. My very purpose for life had just been taken away and left me tired. I went from cooking a hot meal for three people every night to eating cereal right away, because taking care of my children came more naturally than taking care of myself. Now, without my children, who am I? It’s been two and a half years and I keep asking myself this question every day. Sometimes I joke that I traded motherhood for an acting career. I have never been better at hiding things or bottling them as I am now. People often remark to my parents: “Clare is so strong. We follow her on the internet. She seems to be doing so well.” Clare McBride, center, mourns for her daughters every day. (Clare McBride)
But if the walls of the house I now call home could speak, they would tell you something different. My sadness makes others feel uncomfortable, so I walk in public life pretending to be well. But privately, I spend my days longing for something I can not have, my daughters. Or to feel guilty for surviving the crash that took their lives. The fact that I am a mother will never change. I became pregnant, gave birth, breastfed and raised children for six short years. But my motherhood is manifesting very differently now. I live five hours away from where the girls are buried, but I still drive to their grave several times a year to maintain it and deliver baubles that I know they would love. 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 in our family group conversations when my phone recalls the memories “today so many years ago …”. I also still have the dog I took as a puppy for their last Christmas. They named him Popcorn, and taking care of him and the other puppy I’ve added since then gives me someone to take care of, who is still attached to the girls. Clare McBride is pictured with one of her dogs, Popcorn, named after her daughters before they died. (Clare McBride)
I publish children’s books dedicated to my girls. They liked the time of the story. It was an activity we do every day. Writing in their honor has become my way of continuing to cultivate their love of reading and reminding people that they existed. I read one interview with a sociologist who said that the death of a child is considered the worst stress factor a person can go through. And I tend to agree. We are designed to upset our elders, but not our children. As parents, we do not have children who think we might need to schedule their funeral one day. But little by little I am learning how to live again. I had to learn how to be a mother without children, but I can not 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 for our future together. As a Christian, I know my girls are in paradise and I keep my promise that we will be there again one day. My faith in God was my strength through this exhausting process of mourning. However, my mattress which is motherhood is getting thinner every day. As each day goes by, I feel further away from my children and this makes the mark left by their loss deeper and deeper. Time does not heal all wounds. Do you have a fascinating personal story that can bring understanding or help to others? We want to hear from you. Here is more information on how to submit to us.