My daughters died in a horrific crash, but the fact I'm a mother will never change

This is a First Person column by Clare McBride whose daughters were killed in a car crash. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

On Aug. 16, 2019, my life changed, irrevocably. 

I was a single mum of two beautiful girls, aged 6 and 4. 

My alarm was set for 7 a.m. as usual, but at 6:58 a.m., my oldest daughter called me from her bedroom across the hall. 

"Mum! There's a six and a five and a eight on the clock!" to which I sleepily responded "Oksana, you know you're not allowed out of bed until the first number on the clock is a seven," secretly hoping for at least 15 minutes more sleep. 

Then at 7 a.m. on the nose, just like every other morning, I heard her door creak open and she bounded across the hall to ask me if she could watch TV. 

I motioned to her to whisper so that four-year-old Quinn could keep sleeping. She had crawled into my bed sometime during the night.

I settled into the frenzy of our morning routine: shower, breakfast, pack lunches, ask kids to get dressed, re-dress kids, brush hair, strap kids into car seats and then drive to town. After work, I picked the girls up, headed home, made supper and then piled them back into the truck for swimming lessons.

It was an average, run-of-the-mill day in my motherhood journey, until suddenly it wasn't. 

That evening, another driver smashed into my truck, killing my children and stripping me of my motherhood. He was later charged with impaired driving and the case is still before the courts.

My daily life went from styling ponytails, washing laundry, bagging lunches, running bubble baths for entertainment on boring Saturday afternoons, driving to endless clubs and practices and tucking the two most gorgeous little girls I've ever known into bed with a prayer and story each night to … nothing, just nothing. 

Deafening silence. 

In an instant, I had nothing to do, no one to nurture. My very purpose for living had just been taken from me and has left me drained.

I went from cooking a hot meal for three people every evening to eating cereal right out of the box because caring for my kids came more naturally than caring for myself does.

Now, without my children, who am I? 

It's been two-and-a-half years and I still ask myself this question daily. 

I sometimes joke that I traded motherhood for an acting career. I've never been better at hiding things or bottling them up as I am now. People often remark to my parents, "Clare is so strong. We follow her online. She seems to be doing so well." 

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 through public life pretending I'm fine. But in private, I spend my days yearning for something I can't have, my daughters. Or feeling guilty about the fact that I survived the crash that took their lives.

The fact that I'm a mother will never change. I conceived, gave birth, nursed and raised children for six short years. 

But my motherhood manifests itself 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 trinkets that I know they would have enjoyed. Every year, I still bake themed cakes on their birthdays, light the candles, write them a card and sing to them, usually at their graveside. 

I still send pictures of them to our family group chats when my phone brings up the "on this day so many years ago..." memories. I also still have the dog I got for them as a puppy for their last Christmas. They named him Popcorn, and caring for him and the other puppy I have added since gives me someone to care for, that is still connected to the girls. 

I publish children's books dedicated to my girls. They loved story time. It was an activity we engaged in daily. Writing in their honour has become my way of continuing to nurture their love of reading and reminding the world that they existed.

I read an interview with a sociologist who said the death of a child is considered the single worst stressor a person can go through. And I tend to agree. 

We are designed to be able grieve our elders, but not children. As parents, we don't have children thinking we might have to one day plan their funerals. 

But I'm slowly learning how to live again. I've had to learn how to be a mother without children but I can't just let go of my motherhood. It's woven into the fabric of who I am. When I say my girls were my world, I'm not exaggerating. Everything I did, every decision I made was for them or our future together.

As a Christian, I know my girls are in heaven and I cling to the promise that we will be reunited there someday. My faith in God has been my strength through this gruelling grieving process.

Still, the layer of me that is motherhood becomes thinner every day. As each day passes, I feel further from my children, and it makes the scar left by their loss wider and deeper. Time doesn't heal all wounds.

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