Today was judgement day. We gave our Victim Impact Statements and left everything in the hands of the judge. I’m still reeling and processing, but this is what I said:

I have the impossible task of trying to put into words how this careless accident has effected my life. The outline has listed four main areas to expand on, the first one being the hardest:

Emotional Impact

This is the one that has made me stop every time I try to start this statement. How can I tie down all these emotions to words?  

My husband and I were only a few weeks short of our twelfth wedding anniversary the day of the accident, but we had known each other for almost twenty years. He was a rock in my life, and that of our children. He was the kind of man who was present and engaged with his family. His relationships were authentic and important, with me, with his children, with everyone. We had plans for the future, for our family and for us. We talked often of summers with the kids and doting on the inevitable grandchildren. All these plans were a joint thing, all the decisions that were made we made together. He was my sounding board and honest counsel. Now I have moments and days where I am so overwhelmed with the thought of living all this alone. Not to mention grieving the loss of my baby girl in the midst of it, yet not really having the freedom to truly process her loss because of the fear of not being able to come back from that place of grief. And now being a single mom to 5 & 7 year old boys I don’t have that luxury. And for anyone who hasn’t watched their own flesh and blood die, it is even more tragic then you can imagine. As a mother there is no greater pain. Though a close second would be watching your living children suffer through their own losses.

The layers of the emotional impact of this accident are deep and too numerous to count. I imagine it will be years before any of us can even fathom how profound they are.

Physical Impact

My boys and I obviously had a few scrapes and bruises from the crash; the younger of my sons broke his arm. Thankfully due to much treatment and his age he has healed up nicely, even though his injury would have put most of us into immediate surgery.  

The left side of my body, has never properly healed. My shoulder and hip joints will not stay in their sockets and have to function in a painful and constant state of partial dislocation. I’m currently still doing Physiotherapy, chiropractic, and massage to manage the pain and more tests to hopefully determine the problem. The accident also caused the growth of a mole on my back which developed into pre-cancer immediately after the crash. Within a week it had tripled in size. The affected areas were all removed thankfully, though minor complications have left a sizeable scar. I also had to have a portion of my tongue removed as at impact I bit through it. I still require some dental work to repair damage to my teeth. About half of my hair has fallen out, which we can only assume is a stress response.

Some of these issues may have been negated had there been time for more thorough care that day, but as the boys and I were ambulanced to Red Deer Regional Hospital, my daughter was airlifted to the Children’s Hospital in Calgary. Shortly after my arrival in Red Deer I received word that Madeline was not going to make it and was encouraged to get to her immediately so I could say my final goodbye.

After the car accident my children have both struggled with anxiety and regressive behaviours. Unlike most kids losing a close loved one is a proven reality for them, and my eldest has suffered with nightmares of the accident as he remembers every detail from that day.

Economic Impact 

Money has never been important to me. With my family I could have been content anywhere, though losing Colin has had an obvious impact on that security. Due to his gender, his size and the double degree he graduated with, in education and kinesiology, his earning power was much greater than mine. Teaching and coaching for 12 years gave him great job stability, and the fact that he was superior at it made new opportunities vast as well.  

My husband also had a very comprehensive benefit package through his work. Due to my medical conditions we were fortunate that the thousands of dollars needed every year to keep me alive were all covered under his plan. At the time of the one year anniversary of his death we no longer have access to any of those medical benefits for myself or my children with his plan.

Fears For Security  

I have no fears for my family’s security with regards to the accused driver in this case. Though I do struggle with fear when I am driving. When I come to an intersection, or drive on a secondary hi way, I have lost confidence in others ability to obey the rules of the road. When I say goodbye to family or friends when they have to make a long drive home I experience anxiety.  

Sometimes I’m afraid at night when I hear a noise outside and I know that my boys only have me to protect them. I’m scared when I have to make decisions for our future and how to best parent boys to become young men. When I try to look past the moment in front of me, uncertainty plagues my thoughts.

My biggest fear for security is my boys becoming orphans, or losing another child.

If the merits of this case and sentencing were based on the measure of a man there would be no hope. There is nothing that could match the value of Colin and Madeline’s lives. Nothing could be given or done to equate that loss. If we had time we could listen to hundreds of testimonies from people who lives were drastically impacted by the love and investment of Colin and even Madeline. And many lives that had even hoped for that chance. But in this courtroom all lives are considered equal, and rightly so. 

I want you, the accused, to know that I hold you solely responsible for the loss of Colin and Madeline’s lives, and I am disappointed that you caved to a system which encouraged you to hold off on taking responsibility until you felt it was the most beneficial to you. I also want you to know that I forgive you, and I don’t say that lightly. I imagine the gravity of your thoughtless actions last summer will haunt you forever, but know that there is no hatred here. I’m not hoping to see your life destroyed, there has been enough of that already; and no matter what decisions are made here today it will have no hold on me.

I’ve said my piece and left everything on the table.

For me this chapter is closed.

When I was a little girl my father managed a funeral home. As a kid I spent many hours exploring and playing at Daddy’s “office” being exposed to the many parts and stages of the physical farewells of our culture. Surprisingly it was an inviting place for me. A safe environment to learn so much about loss.

My mother, being a pianist, would sometimes be asked to play in services for grieving families who didn’t have a church or community to draw from. When I was about eight years old my siblings and I were also asked to sing in a service. It was for an infant that we did not know but that day I sang all three verses of ‘Jesus Loves Me’ to a room of strangers. I remember stepping out on to the very familiar platform and not being able to take my eyes off the horribly unfamiliar casket. I had seen my fair share of coffers but never one so undersized. It was white, covered in something soft like feathers, and would have nicely fit my favourite doll.

Just a child myself I had no concept of a grieving mother’s pain, but when I walked out of that service I cried. I remember feeling confused and a little silly for the amount of emotion that unexpectedly came rushing out over someone I didn’t even know. That scene would often play in my head throughout the years and though the sharpness of the memory faded the intensity of my associated emotions seemed to grow stronger with each visit.

There are not many clear memories for me of the days after the car accident, but I do recall the absolute dread I felt about having to pick out a miniature box for my own daughter. As if I was eight again singing in front of strangers unable to take my eyes off a ‘train-wreck’. The fear was so strong and intimate it felt as if I must be reliving a nightmare. So much so that in my relief when I found out Madeline’s body would be allowed to rest in Colin’s arms I remember feeling hope.

Now as I fly home after a Christmas away there is this accustomed heaviness creeping in. Each mile I travel brings me closer to another devastating encounter with a tiny casket. My heart aches and my body dreads facing that little box. The knowledge that it holds the child of my dearest friend, a little girl who will forever be a significant part of my grieving journey, brings me right back to that helpless girl on the stage. Right back to my own goodbyes.

In life these little ones represent the greatest joy and in death they demonstrate the cruelest reality. All in such a tiny chest.

Joy.

This was yesterday’s advent attribute. Such a big part of the Christmas season. Such a huge part of a victorious Christian life. A state of being I have been wrestling with.

I can recite the answers: Joy is not based on your feelings or circumstances. It is vast and more profound than happiness. It is also something that many people in my life hope for me. Though connecting all this knowledge to my heart has been a struggle.

Yet, as I was bombarded by this word yesterday I had an epiphany. You see two years ago Madeline was dedicated on this advent Sunday. It was one of the most poignant and memorable baby dedications I have been a part of and I remember our pastor saying how she was the perfect example of joy personified. Not because of anything she had done, but because of who she was to us. That resonated deeply with my mother’s heart.

So not only did the tragedy of the accident and all that I lost impact my joy, in essence I was robbed. That tiny, fragile, bundle, that joy was stolen from my very arms. Even the innermost longing for joy seems no match for the implausibility of this truth; as I know she is never coming back.

But my daughter didn’t just show up unannounced or without expectation. Colin and I chose to welcome her through our actions and preparation. There was anticipation in our household for her appearance and so when she did arrive we were ready. It was natural for us to have her reside with us because her place had been prepared in advance.

And I believe that this is true too for Joy. I won’t accidentally stumble across it during the day. It isn’t lost under a rock somewhere expecting to be found. It’s not broken or needing a battery replaced.

It lives inside me. It is waiting to be invited to the party. It politely stands behind fear and loathing. It even holds me while I cry. It is hoping I will choose it. And that is probably the toughest thing about it. It is a choice, a decision. An attitude that I have to submit to each and every moment. The pain and sorrow are still very real, but I was never meant to dwell there.

Misery isn’t the only one that loves company.

I lie still in bed worn down after another day of rebuilding my family. And redefining me. Our dynasty has crumbled and the foundation is cracked. Most days I spend in the rubble trying to figure out what of the old household is still usable and what is not. Some moments are more labour intensive than others. This is one of those days. The sheer exhaustion of each choice and decision made washes over me. The desire to be in a place where I never have to choose anything again beckons.
Ironically I reach for the pillow on Colin’s side of the bed and breathe deep as I embrace it. Though I use some restraint as I am a little scared to smell all the scent out of it. I should probably be more fearful of the fact that it hasn’t been washed in a year and a half, but it is the only thing left that has his aroma. So I am careful to ration my time with it and make sure I don’t wet it with tears too often.
And this is just one of the things around our residence that is out of place yet still at home. Colin’s deodorant in the medicine cabinet. Madeline’s running shoes at the back door. The recorded Calgary Flames game on my PVR. Her bottle brush by the kitchen sink. His Bible next to the seat by the fire.
And I’ve begun to ask myself, “When is it time to put these things away?” Will I be able to recognize it on my own or will I need prompting? How do these things fit into our future? I also wonder if this is good and healthy or maybe it is just stalling my progress through this minefield. Do you just wake up one morning and decide that today is the day to wash your bedding?
It is hard for me to understand how things change between those two moments. Does something have to go from treasure to trash? Could there be a middle ground and then what would that even look like?
Normally I am resistant to change, but there grows this restlessness in my heart. All this monotonous work at ground zero has grown tiresome. And I’m caught between wanting to burn everything to the ground and start again, or run away to a place where nothing is familiar. I’m certain that neither extreme would be a permanent or wise solution so I’m left sifting through all the broken things.
I still lie waiting for a clearer picture or peace to make a move.
For now the pillowcase stays dirty.

I never believed that I would be here.

I never imagined feeling so forsaken.

I never considered being a struggling single mom.

I never thought I would be envious of an entire family dying in a car crash.

I never presumed I could be motivated to take an online quiz about alcoholism.

I never guessed friends would check in to make sure that I wasn’t having thoughts of harming myself.

This is not a plea for help. Just a window into the depths of the darkness that this grief has on me. It’s grip is so powerful, even at my strongest I cannot resist. The fight is dogged and ruthless. As I am engulfed farther into the great abyss I feel as if I am drowning in darkness. I reach for an edge or a reserve, but there is nothing. My screams are silent and my tears are dust. The sting and anguish are harsh and yet they are not enough to keep me focussed and alert. A numbness sets in and the fatigue takes over.  

I know the light is there I just can’t see it. I can’t even sense it. But my soul is confident in its existence and so I stop struggling and I wait for it to break through.

I never imagined looking into the face of a person who killed half my family.  

And I never would have thought in that moment I could feel compassion.

“Remember how in Disneyland they said dreams come true?” Said Benjamin.

“Ya.” Replied Emmett.

“Well it’s not true. I think they just said that to make things seem more fun. I know MY dreams don’t come true.”

This comes after weeks of daily heartbreaking revelations of his loss and a constant flood of tears from all of us. Of course the practical and realistic side of me is proud of my five year old’s deep grasp of life. Amazed that one so young can understand that just because it sounds nice doesn’t mean that it is always true. And as much as we may want to believe something, that won’t change the fact that they may just be flippant words.

And when I refer to my ‘Practical and Realistic side’ it is probably a bit misleading. It is not so much a side as it is the front and back, top and bottom, in and out of who I am. I probably have a few toes open for optimism and fantasy.

Because of those toes a part of me feels like this is where I should step in and try to rekindle the magic. Convince him that he should keep dreaming big. But I don’t do fantasy very well. Imagination and make-believe I get, and I love to watch my boys play in their own pretend world. But the line between real and made-up is very clear for me. When my boys asked me a few years back if Santa was real, I didn’t say a thing but just from the look on my face Emmett immediately commented, “He’s not is he.” Which officially made me ‘destroyer of children’s dreams’. A crusty, old-soul from the school of hard knocks. But at this point I honestly do not have it in me to advocate for something that I don’t believe. And I know it sounds heartless and barbaric, it makes me feel heartless and barbaric, it is just who I am.

Though I know it isn’t just pessimism. For my boys especially, I believe it ranks closer to self preservation. Most children need a fair amount of convincing to see the importance of wearing seat belts, practicing fire safety, or that people you love can die. But in our home the worst case scenario is a constant reality. The fact that life can hand you lemons is something we have tasted. So living in that space which promises happiness and fulfillment is scarier than facing the reality that dreams don’t always come true. And that isn’t something that I think I can undo or a life lesson to be unlearned. They are past the point of being conned; they have seen the man behind the curtain. This devastating truth is reality and instead of trying to trick them back to their naïveté and innocence I think I might be tasked with a different calling.

The daunting job of keeping purpose and meaning when your dreams don’t come true. Because if life were only about being happy and fulfilled we would have no reason to continue plugging away. We would have an acceptable excuse to pack it in and quit this journey. So I need to model and teach things like resilience, perseverance, grace, and dependency. And all of these traits in the face of disappointment and failure, devastation and heart break. Affirming in them now that it isn’t all about them might be the best thing I can encourage.

Emmett stumped me last night. I can’t recall with 100% certainty if it has ever happened before in our game, but try as I might I could not come up with a complete answer.

We have this little ritual that we have started since the loss of Colin and Madeline. It isn’t a formal tradition and we have actually never acknowledged to each other that we do it. It was sort of deliberate on my part, but I never imagined it would turn out like this.

The issue is neither Colin or I were terribly good at remembering to take pictures. Most family holidays that we do have photos of are because of other aunts, parents, or relatives. Any vacations that we took will have only a handful of memories captured on film and most of those will be from a specific moment as we tried to have at least one good shot. And even our first child’s photo album stats would probably rank closer to the typical third or fourth child in regular families. There are times when I regret not having a particular shot or moment framed, but I also know that it does mean that we were very present for each of those occasions as we were not fumbling with a camera. This is not a knock on anybody else, this was just the silver lining that Colin and I chose to celebrate as we identified this shortcoming.

When all you are left with is photographs and memories a lack of pictures can be disappointing. So I have tried to enjoy the ones that we do have, and mostly relive all the memories. So throughout the day, in all our activities, I share my memories with the boys and they share theirs with me. They can be simple or special or deep or funny.

And it’s not just the memories that we visit, but the stuff you can’t take pictures of. The feelings and the thoughts and the ideas that they had. Taking the time to consider how they would have impacted and changed every experience that we are having. From something as basic as mealtime to things as extravagant as Disneyland.

And for some reason it evolved into: “Could Madeline run now?” “Would she fit into these shoes?” “Do you think Daddy would like our new truck?” “Would he have been proud of the touchdown I made?” “Do you think Madeline would have liked peanut butter?” “Do you know if Daddy would have been good at this?” “What words would Madeline be saying now?” “Would Dad like Monopoly or Go Fish better?” The 20 questions of speculation.

So when Emmett said at the supper table, “I’ve got one for you! What are 5 foods Daddy didn’t like?” I really had to think. Colin appreciated food, good food. He was a delight to cook and bake for because food moved him. You would know when he liked something, and he liked a lot of things.

So I really had to dig to find foods he didn’t like. Number one was chickpeas, there is a story there so I knew that one for sure. Two was Dates, it was a texture thing. Tofu was three, we had an opportunity to eat traditional Japanese food when we were dating and he did not have seconds. And Eggplant, though I don’t actually know if he had really tried it.

For the life of me though I couldn’t think of a fifth. Even with the boys “help” we could not come up with one more. The boys surmised that their Dad loved food so they weren’t shocked that there was only four. And they were sure he would have loved our supper too. And even Madeline if she was old enough to have it.

And so we travel this road as we try to think what these moments would be like if they were here with us. As if we are getting to know and reacquainting ourselves with who they were or would have been. Sometimes the answers are easy because I knew him so well. Other times the answers are contemplative as we hardly got to know her at all. But in it all they both become so real again. We can clearly see how they fit, how they have never left our hearts and our home. How these conversations, this game we play, is so much better than any photograph we have.

When Friday arrived a combative and harsh attitude permeated our home. I was not prepared to accept anything but perfection and my boys were defensive and fragile. If emotions could emit colour, the air around me would have been thick with crimson. Stained red from the anger of each of my unmet and very unrealistic expectations and from the cuts that my weapon of condescension inflicted on the boys. To say that our morning was unharmonious would be like calling the ocean big.

And as we all sat quietly in the truck on our way to “Thanksgiving Weekend” I tried to dissect the morning to uncover the root of these feelings beyond our grief. As I sifted through causes such as: exhaustion, selfish hearts, unresolved issues, not enough hugs, and even a change in weather I was struck with an epiphany. Every holiday, celebration, birthday, or anniversary since that fateful day in July starts like this. This may have been one of the most intense starts yet, but those shades of red have been present every time. And as I thought back to many special occasions that we have celebrated since the deaths of Colin and Madeline the familiarity of those emotions was strong.

Even as I have planned and orchestrated many of these moments to help us celebrate, remember and give us something to focus on it is like that car crash has altered the very fabric of our DNA. We can’t understand and see the deep undercurrents that are at play yet our bodies still revolt. As though subconsciously we realize that it is not right. That these precious holiday times that are so centred on family and the ones we love most don’t fit us the same anymore. A crying out of our souls in a language that is foreign to us, but desperately begs and even fights to be heard. And though our methods need a bit of polishing, they are effective. It makes us stop, and weep, and reflect, and try again.

And when we begin afresh with one another in each of these special days we learn something. That things can be adjusted to fit again. They may not be better, but they can still work. That there is still a place for us and there are still new memories to be made. I think that is the shock for each of us. Our expectation has drastically changed and we don’t necessarily believe that the peace and joy of these moments is ours to share anymore.

As we drove home after the weekend spent with family I stared out the window at the beautiful prairie and bright blue sky. Which was surprising to see after the overcast and blustery weekend that we had started with. From the back seat I heard Emmett say, “ Today was actually a good day.” I nodded and asked him if he was talking about the weather to which he replied, “No, just in general.”

I want to be one of those people who has a terrific birthday with a happy photo and in the afterglow of the moment can’t help but exclaim that they are the luckiest person in the world. It almost seems like it could fit but I choke on the word “luckiest” and I worry I am just not mature enough to realize it.

Truly there are some pretty amazing things about my life. More accurately people, pretty amazing people IN my life.

Some I have known for forever or close to it. Relationships forged in the naive years and awkward stages. Many family and friends that influenced me as I grew up and knew me before I had faced adulthood.

Some that I only met after I was half of a whole. Those who watched me as I learned what the sacrifice of being a wife really meant. And watched my better half pick me up time and time again and reassuringly set me back on my feet. As the security of his love prepared the way for deep change.

Some who were witnesses to the metamorphosis that motherhood brought in my heart and the peace that grew in my relationship with my husband and increased after every new child. Watching how the love for my children penetrated through the thick exterior I had placed around my self.

Some friends are only in my life because of my late husband and his work and passions. Giving proof of the depth of his character and the value of investing in people.

Some are part of my life because they watched my world self destruct and chose to step in and become pillars in my reformed foundation. People who saw me at my lowest and decided to pursue me and make us a priority.

Some are individuals who saw a need or a service that they could provide. And as they used their gifting and expertise to serve a friendship blossomed.

Some are complete strangers who have taken a risk to reach out and say that they hurt for us and they care for us and they pray.

Each of these groups of people from the past or present have been so integral in my journey. From the beginning, but especially on this freshly paved road of grief that is so full of pitfalls and surprises.

There are two relationships that stand apart in this army. The youngest and arguably the strongest. The ones who have witnessed horrors and heartbreak beyond comprehension. Little beings who have the least in quantity of life experience or maturity and yet they have continued to exceed expectations. Their capacity for trust and compassion puts me to shame. Their willingness to forgive and for self denial is inspiring.

And because of all of these people, because of my boys, I feel like I should be able to freely express my gratitude at my great fortune. I wish that the thanksgiving came easy. But it doesn’t. It is gut wrenching and pitiful. And even when through all these relationships I know and feel the bounty in my life I still hesitate at that word.

Somehow it still feels dishonouring to the other people I loved to throw “luckiest” around.

I am aware that today, and this past week, our social media feeds have been packed with back-to-school pictures. And I almost hate to bog you down with one more, especially since I was only moderately successful in getting a good shot of my boys’ first day at school this morning, but as I scrolled through my limited options I was overcome.

And not so much because I couldn’t believe how old they have gotten, what grades they are in or that it feels like it was only yesterday that they were in diapers; but because this is the second ‘first’ day that we have done without Colin and without Madeline. It is surreal to think that we have been plodding through life for this long with such a gaping hole in our chests. We have arrived at a point that this big day isn’t a “first” anymore. I know that this past summer holiday was technically our second without them, but to be honest so much of the previous summer was in a haze that it all still felt unfamiliar.

Now that the novelty of every first is over the raw emotion is right there with no cushion or diversion. Just the overwhelming fact that this is real life. This is our new normal and maybe not even that, as most things take much less than a year to have the shiny mint condition worn off. More accurately our altered normal which continues to change each season.

I anticipate that the uncooperative photo session this morning is a bit of foreshadowing for year two. Each of us has many things to work through. Some things that are untried and some things that are old aquatints with fresh faces. But this is the hope, right? That we would move through our stages and deal with our issues and heal. That we keep trudging through the grief moving farther and farther away from Colin and Madeline. Yet there is a big part of me that doesn’t want to leave this spot, that even wants to go back. Because that anguish is what I know and I’ve almost managed to get comfortable there or at least imagine it would be more bearable then the distance of a second year.

 My practical and optimistic side reminds me that this can’t be totally true. That we will survive another year as we keep putting one foot in front of the other. We may hit a few more speed bumps or potholes, but that is expected. Or maybe not, maybe it will just be the same ones and we will just feel them more or actually recognize that they are there.  

Either way I am trusting that time will build strength and that each day is actually bringing me closer.

At least I captured one where they are both smiling.