I left you guys about seven years ago after our daughter died. Yes, I said, “she died,” instead of “passed away.”
I have observed so many phrases that we all say in order to soothe over the harshness of death, and that one has always bothered me.
She didn’t just drift away, and I do believe she “crossed over,” but first she died, and just like that, our picture changed.
I wrote many columns reflecting on daily life with her and our family, while navigating through Kacie’s 18 years of illness and trying to live a “normal” life.
I’ve been asked to write again over these last seven years, and I tried, but my stories were full of bitterness. I think I’m ready now.
Twelve years ago, we had a professional family photograph taken in Seal Beach on the jetty. That picture hangs in our living room today, forever depicting the family that once existed. A mom, a dad, a daughter and three sons are sitting on the rocks, smiling, together and having a moment of normalcy.
I know the stress and worry that was spent on having that photograph made. Would Kacie be feeling OK, or worse, what if she was in the hospital on that date?
Would she have enough strength to climb rocks and stamina to hold up for an hour? She did, and she is smiling that beautiful smile which makes her appear as if she didn’t have a care in the world. The boys were so young and innocent. They grew up with their sister’s illness and it became a way of life for them, even though they were exposed to a side of life that most kids their age never knew existed.
On June 2, 2008, our world stopped, innocence was taken away, the picture of our family froze in time; Kacie died. We could carry her around in our hearts, but she would never be in another picture, ever again.
She gained another brother a year before she died, and I remember her trying to get me to have a picture of all of the kids made. I should have listened. Of course we have a few snapshots of them all together—not many, though—over just the course of a year.
I’ve felt guilty these last few years that we have not had a big picture hanging on the wall with our seven year old in it. On the other hand, I couldn’t get past the thought at how much our “picture” has changed. There would be no smiling daughter, and there would be grown boys stripped of innocence. They have struggled with their feelings and emotions while navigating the roads of becoming young men. Even the 7-year-old knows all about death, not because he remembers, but because none of us will ever forget.
This is why it was such a huge milestone for me, for us, to have a professional photograph taken the other day in Seal Beach, at the beach.
It was time, it had to be done, if not for us, then for our little boy who wants to see his face with his family. He is a big reason this family has made it through these last few years. He was the smile that never stopped through the pain. He ran through the cemetery in his diaper playing in the sprinklers, he reminds us when he sees a bottle of Cholula on the table at restaurants that “Kacie could drink it,” because he has listened to the stories and he is innocent.
I can’t wait to see the pictures the photographer took. I’m not going to lie, my heart will hurt a little to see the “new picture” of our family, yet I will feel happiness to freeze this moment in time, when we persevered. Seven years later, we are together in the picture, a mom, a dad, and four sons. Through thick and thin we are family and nothing can change that.
Oh, and Kacie was there in that picture, I assure you; in her brothers’ complaining, her brothers’ smiles, her brothers sass, her brothers’ zest for life, and in all of our hearts and souls. So, as we were told by many, “Life will go on.” Now I can tell you; yes it does, but never the same, not worse, just different.
Lesley Rutledge works in Old Town Seal Beach and lives in Island Village in Long Beach.
