This is the question my eldest daughter posed to me the other day. When we both look at our lives at present, the answer to that question is a resounding, “yes”. But that road to get here was not easy. We both suffered an incredible loss when Kayla, my daughter, her little sister died by suicide in March, 2007. The blame, the shame, the hurt, the rage, the sorrow, the meaningless is all so unbearable. As a mother, to lose a child is an ineffable experience. There are absolutely no words to describe the hole that is in my very soul. As a big sister, who was the closest person on earth to Kayla, my older daughter’s loss was just as inexplicable and horrifying.
Right after Kayla passed, we went our separate ways both physically and emotionally. She graduated from high school and left the country deciding to get away as fast as possible. She and I didn’t talk very much for many years. Our coming back together, healing from the loss and hurt, is a story for another day. I will tell you, though, THAT story is profound! A testament to the hard work we both did to get to where we are today.
But, first, I want you to know about…
The Night That Changed Our Lives
I want to bring you to March, 2007. The night of the greatest pain I have ever endured. A night of pure hell. I am talking about the night my daughter, Kayla, committed suicide at the age of 14.
On a typical March day, I went home from my shift as an operating room RN to find my daughters, ages 14 and 17, arguing. I'm not sure what their disagreement was about; they seem to fight over everything. Internally, I beg for silence. Then Kayla tells me she needs to go to Staples for her English project. She's working on a book report for Stephen King's "It," which calls for the use of an art medium to illustrate an artistic element. Her idea involves creating a curb with a gutter drain, inserting a clown inside, and letting a red balloon emerge from the gutter. We went to Staples together to collect the things we needed.
I must pause here to explain a bit about my ex-husband. He's someone who's perpetually unhappy, constantly yelling, and never pleased with anything. He always points fingers at others for his problems, never acknowledging his own faults. His biggest offence was taking out his anger on the girls. Their lives were miserable when I wasn't home, though he was less harsh when I was home. After Kayla's death, I discovered the full extent of their suffering. He was possessive over his belongings, from the tools in his garage to the pens on his desk, forbidding anyone to touch them. He had a particular fondness for Sharpie Marker Pens, owning every colour available. On the day I took Kayla to Staples, I bought her a set of Sharpie markers to prevent any issues with using her father's, which was out of the question for him.
The drive to Staples is etched vividly in my memory. The radio was blaring, and "Somebody Told Me" by The Killers filled the car. She adored that song for reasons unknown to me, prompting us to sing at the top of our lungs. Her playful, fun-loving nature was what I cherished and miss the most. She playfully mocked my driving to rile me up. On braking, she'd lurch forward, dramatically reacting to my stop. "Whoa, Mom, you almost sent me through the dashboard!" she'd exclaim. With each acceleration, her head snapped back; a left turn had her leaning against the passenger window, and a right turn found her bumping into my shoulder. We laughed so hard our stomachs ached all the way to the store. Inside, after getting our supplies, as I prepared to pay, she couldn't resist snooping through my wallet, poking fun at my ID photos. When finding my driver's license, she was curious about my choice to be an organ donor. "I am," I confirmed, "having witnessed the incredible gift of life one can give when they no longer need their organs." "I'll be an organ donor too, when I get my license," she declared. Little did we know how profound and significant that conversation would become in the days to follow.
The Peacekeeper
Back home, I headed downstairs to the laundry room; my eldest daughter was in her room upstairs studying, and Kayla, who prefers to stay close to me, began her project in the basement rec room. When my ex came home, he went straight to the rec room to watch TV. Noticing Kayla on the floor with her project, he inquired, "Are those my Sharpies?" A sense of dread washed over me, and a familiar unease settled in my stomach. "Here we go again," I thought. Throughout my marriage, I had been the peacekeeper between him and our daughters, constantly stepping in to protect them from his harsh words. Fulfilling my usual role, I entered the rec room and explained to him that the Sharpies Kayla was using were new, which I had purchased for her today.
My attempt at peacekeeping was in vain, as Kayla was already braced for her father's accusations. She was on the defensive, unleashing her frustration at him, tired of his constant blame for actions she never committed and weary of monitoring her every word and action. "I am sick of you," she yelled. My ex was so angry; defiance was unacceptable. "You girls suck the life out of me," he retorted, his anger palpable. Amidst the chaos, with both ignoring my efforts to de-escalate, I changed tactics, deciding to get Kayla out of this situation. "Go to your room, Kayla; work on your project there. Take your things and go, NOW." Exhaustion from their endless quarrels and my role as mediator had taken their toll. Kayla, in a defiant gesture, hurled the Sharpies at him and stormed upstairs. Her parting words, lost in the heat of the moment, suggested an unpleasant fate for the markers. "Enough, Kayla, go upstairs; I'll check on you in half an hour," I said. Turning to my then husband, I faced his fury with my own, and the confrontation escalated.
The ensuing argument lasted roughly 30 minutes. Seeking solace, I retreated to the laundry room, my entire body trembling from the intensity. Even though I had said I would check on Kayla, I needed to calm down. Surrounded by the familiarity of my sewing room, I began to sort through my quilting blocks, seeking a measure of peace.
The Cost of Being the Peacekeeper
For years I have been ruminating over the scene I just described. It plays over and over in my head. Hindsight is 20/20, they say, and it has never proven more so than when I look back on this event and kick myself for my actions. I thought that if I stepped in between the two of them, I could control the situation. I could tell him I went to Staples to pick up a pack of her own markers and he would be understanding and not bother Kayla. I was trying to protect her. I was in way over my head. In reality, my intervention only escalated the situation and made things worse. But, at the time, I did not know any other way to handle this; I was just too exhausted from years of the same thing.
Crippled by Fear
As I rummaged through my quilting blocks, an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me. "Kayla!" was the only thought that crossed my mind. I found myself frozen in place, unable to move. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, I started up the stairs.
I knew I needed to see Kayla, yet fear gripped me. I hesitated at the top of the stairs. My movements were mechanical, painfully slow. A thought haunted me: "There's no rush; she's gone." Why would such a thought cross my mind? I asked myself. I passed through the kitchen and proceeded down the hallway. Pausing outside my older daughter's room, I asked, although already knowing the truth, "Is Kayla in here?" Without waiting for an answer, I continued towards Kayla's room at the end of the hallway.
I stopped in front of her closed door and knocked. There was no response. I tried the doorknob and found it locked. Darn! I'd forgotten about the lock we installed. Initially, this bedroom belonged to my older daughter, who had put the lock on to keep Kayla from taking her stuff. One day, she moved out because she was fed up with the constant fighting in the house. During her absence, Kayla took over her bedroom. When she returned, my older daughter moved into Kayla's former room because Kayla refused to leave this one. I had forgotten about the lock on the door until now.
Kayla had been self-harming for about a year at this point. For a long time, we had her on suicide watch, which included her not being allowed to close her door except when changing her clothes and checking her room for anything she could cut herself on. I had been desperate when I found out Kayla was hurting herself, and I had tried many times to get her the help she needed, but we did not have good resources in the community for adolescent mental health issues. Eventually, I was able to find a councillor who Kayla had connected to, and the cutting had been gradually decreasing over time. I felt I could ease up on the restrictions, as it was not good for Kayla to feel like a prisoner with no privacy in her own home. As much as that makes sense to me, even to this day I feel I should not have let my guard down. An even graver mistake in my eyes was not taking the lock off of the door in her bedroom, knowing the potential for self harm.
I stepped back from the door, staring at it. I was so scared to open it. I had to muster the willpower to turn and enter my bedroom to search for the keys to the door. They were in the drawer of my nightstand. There I was, rummaging through the clutter in my nightstand's drawer in search of the key, and although I knew I should be hurrying and panicking, it felt like I was moving through thick mud. I couldn't go any faster. My mind was shutting down and closing off from the situation. I had a "knowing" of exactly what I would find once I got the door open. Eventually, I located the key, approached the door, and unlocked it.
Gently pushing the door open, I softly called out for Kayla. There, in front of me, sat our Shih-Tzu puppy, Tori, in the perfect 'sit' pose that dogs assume when they want something or feel nervous. She shifted back and forth on her front paws, whining. "Tori, what's wrong?" I asked. "Where's Kayla?" Not that I expected an answer from the dog. I stepped further into the room. Kayla's bed was directly ahead, made, and untouched. To my right was her desk, cluttered with project supplies, yet Kayla was nowhere to be seen. "What the heck, where could she be?" I muttered to myself. Behind me, to the right of the door, was the closet. Turning towards it, I saw the strangest sight. Kayla was in the closet, her back facing me. "Kayla?" I called out. Then it hit me—she wasn't standing. Her feet were on the floor, but her knees were bent. She was utterly still.
The Cost of Fear and Overwhelm
Overwhelmed by intense fear in response to trauma is a normal physiological reaction. I find this completely understandable, yet the guilt I feel, despite my efforts at rationalization, took over much of my life. The most guilt-ridden part of my story is right here. If I had checked on her as promised and been clear-minded, I would have naturally walked down the hall and, upon finding the door locked, would have broken it down. That is what I tell myself. I could have been the hero. I knew I could have done it to save her. But none of that happened; I was slow and unfocused. My greatest fear was materializing, and I was unable to face it.
Again, it comes down to the hindsight argument. I could have done many things, but this is what happened. I have come a long way to learn that guilt is a heavy burden to carry, and it's important to understand that I was a human being facing the greatest fear of her life. I choose to give myself grace and understanding rather than dwell on what could have been. This is where compassion and love for oneself come into play. I now know I did my best with what was happening at the time. I will not beat myself up about it anymore. The regret is there, but the guilt is gone.
How Hope Blindsided Me
I screamed for help as loud as I could. My eldest daughter rushed to the room, and I stopped her at the bedroom door. "Call 911; Kayla's hurt," I told her. The terror in her eyes was palpable; she had never before heard such a raw, deep, frightening tone in my voice. She sprinted to call for an ambulance. My ex-husband entered the room, swearing at the sight before him. We managed to get Kayla down and lay her out on the floor. I began CPR immediately, desperately trying to revive my little girl. After what felt like an eternity, a paramedic took over the CPR from my weary hands. I was numb with shock, yet my nurse instincts kicked in. I provided a detailed handover report as if I were at a work trauma. The room was crowded with people—paramedics attending to Kayla, firefighters pacing the halls, police officers scattered throughout. It seemed as if the house was swarming with dozens of people. The red glow of emergency lights flickered through the windows.
I suddenly felt unable to breathe. I wanted to lie down. Police were asking questions. I sat on the kitchen floor and talked like a robot. I still felt like I couldn't breathe. I couldn't leave the house for fresh air. I needed to be around my daughter. I couldn't leave her. I wandered down the hall to her room. I am stopped by an officer, who asked if I need to sit and if I wanted some water. I walked immediately into the bathroom, lied on the cold tile floor, and tried to breathe. The sounds were very intense. The lighting was very bright. When will this stop?
Miraculously, I heard the heart monitor beep into life. The flatline is replaced by the steady blips of a pulse. "BP 180/100, heart rate 120," someone announced. She has a heart rate, blood pressure—she's alive. "Thank God, she's alive. She's going to be okay!" I said to myself. As the stretcher rolled past the bathroom door, I rose to my feet. A police officer offered us a ride to the hospital, and we climbed into his cruiser. Taking a deep breath, I let it sink in—she's alive. As an RN, I was briefly troubled by the potential brain damage she may have sustained. But then I reassured myself that no matter what, we could handle it. Her being alive is what really mattered.
I believed Kayla would be fine. However, she wasn't, and my night of horror was far from over.
Part One: Pause for Thought
I'll pause here and take a breath, as I realize I haven't been breathing properly while writing this. This is my first time recounting the incident in writing. There's much to learn just from this part of the story.
Looking back on this night, the Sharpies stand out. It seems trivial that such a small thing could trigger such a terrible event. However, the realization came that Kayla's distress wasn't really about the Sharpies; it was rooted in something deeper. It took years to understand and accept this. I've been piecing together stories from her friends about what Kayla's life was like that year.
Aside from the previous takeaways mentioned throughout the story, there are a few more ways to learn from what I've written so far.
This story raises questions about how we treat those important to us. What lessons are we teaching them about ourselves, and what do they see of us through their lens? Do we show our loved ones that material possessions are what matter most? Do we value relationships enough to admit when we're wrong or have gone too far? Does the person in front of you know their importance to you? Have you told them? Have you shown them? This incident may be extreme, but it prompts reflection on how we show up in our relationships. What mindsets are you holding onto that have a high cost for you in your relationships? Are your values aligned with who you are, or are you hiding behind a facade? Uncovering the lies we tell ourselves and the masks we wear is perhaps one of the first steps towards becoming who we're meant to be, who we truly want to be. In the months and years after Kayla's death, I had to take a hard look at myself and how I was living my life, and I did not like what I saw or who I was being.
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