Butterflies for Leah

By Nancy Loeffler

On November 3, 2000, my 17 year-old daughter Leah was in an automobile accident on her way to school. She lost control of her car and hit a tree, the only tree in the middle of a cornfield. She had massive head injuries and died of her injuries on November 8, 2000.

To describe what it means to be Leah's mother may be impossible for mere words. She is a much-loved daughter and sister. She is an independent spirit, always-living life on her own terms, from the moment she was born. Throughout her and her older brother's upbringing, we attempted to help both of our children learn to think for themselves and make decisions based on their own truth. She was always intense about everything. She could be as sunny as a perfect day, or as enraged as a storm cloud. Parenting her was joyful and exasperating at the same time. I knew that having her as my daughter was presenting me with lessons that I needed to learn. As she grew, she taught me so much about myself as I sometimes struggled to understand her incredible spirit. My focus was always to help her become the person she was meant to be. I began that quest for myself many years before. I usually found that I needed to hear the things I was telling her as much as she did. As she became a teenager, life took on the typical mother/daughter struggles. Through those years, she and I and her father struggled a lot. Our frustration came from trying to understand her and her intense spirit, rather than from trying to mold her into someone she wasn't. Through our many ups and downs, we worked through a lot of issues. We were able to help her focus her intensity in appropriate ways, and we were beginning to enjoy a more relaxed and heartwarming relationship. In the last six months of her life, we saw her blossom. She became very close with her brother who was away at school. She decided where she wanted to go to college. The summer before the accident she visited our family in Chicago on her own, giving them the gift of knowing her as a 17 yr. old young woman, and not the 10 yr. old girl she was when we moved from there. We saw her making good decisions. She spent time with us even though she really wanted to be with her friends. She was really happy. Her smiles lit up the world, her laughter was a joyous sound.

After more than two years, Leah's death continues to affect me every day. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of her a thousand times. I have been through two years of events without her. Yearly milestones like birthdays, Mothers day, holidays, have come and gone twice. Special events, such as her brother's college graduation are celebrated with a sense that something is missing. Each one has been different. Each one breaks my heart open in a new way. There is a shifting of energy and a nuance that is born from every new experience. The intimacy of day to day grieving for my daughter is truly a spiritual experience. Everything I do and say is affected by her presence in my life. There is no longer time for things that do not serve me. Time is precious. Connections are precious. There is no greater gift that that. How I wish that I could have learned that lesson without losing Leah. That is my greatest regret, that and not knowing her longer, not getting one more hug, one more smile, one more squeal and laugh. I have learned along this journey that I must make space for my grief, to surrender to each feeling as it comes. There are very specific things I know I must do just in order to function anywhere near what one might consider normal in my everyday life. This began in the days and weeks after her death. I took time each day to feel the feeling of my grief, what ever they were and how ever they manifested. Sometime I would just cry and let my heart break open over and over. Sometimes I would write my feelings. As time went on, I began to express my grief in creative ways. I danced my grief, I vocalized my grief, I painted my grief. The important thing for me is to make the space for whatever is there in the moment. There are times when the balance is upset. This is not an exact science. At those times I give myself the time and space again to be with what is in that moment. The most surprising thing that has come from this practice is the ability to feel joy amidst the grief.

I struggle with connecting with her now. Sometimes it feels like I try too hard, and she is elusive. Sometimes I just open without expectation and she is there, but when I try to grasp at it, she is gone. I am convinced that my true purpose in life is evolving out of this experience. I believe that in the great cosmic mix of things, Leah and I agreed to this path to further our own spiritual growth. In the worst times, I wonder what kind a fool I was for agreeing to such a devastating role. Losing my daughter only to have to stay, live and grieve for her forever after. Why me? After asking that for the millionth time, I sit in silence with it and know in my heart that I am on the right path. I still do not know exactly what it is. I sense movement, I sense it unfolding as long as I am willing to be here and meet it in each moment. Out of this silence has come the call to write my story, our story. I am not a writer, but our story seems destined to be a book. I will continue to meet each day, each feeling as it arises. I am beginning to heal. This sometimes startles me. How can a mother heal after losing her daughter? I know it doesn't mean that I will stop missing her physical presence, or feeling debilitating and raw grief. It does mean that I go on without shutting down event though sometimes that seems like the easier path. It is not mine, and I will continue along this solitary path without expectation.

Just after my mother died, more that ten years ago, I would see a yellow butterfly whenever I would think of her. After Leah died, I asked my mother if Leah was with her. Shortly after that I saw two yellow butterflies together. I often see yellow butterflies now when I think of Leah. If you feel the inspiration of a lively spirit, and see a yellow butterfly, it just might be Leah. Welcome her into your heart. Know that you are blessed.

Nancy Loeffler
nellen13@hotmail.com