January 4, 2022, marked a day that forever changed my life, a day that would remain imprinted in my heart, no matter how much time passed.
It was the last time I saw the faces of the three people I loved the most, the three people who had been there for me through every hardship and joy.
The three people who had been such an integral part of my world, who had shaped me in ways I never realized.
In an instant, I was forced to say goodbye forever, a goodbye that came too soon, too suddenly, leaving me lost in the wake of their absence.
That day, the grief was almost unbearable, like a weight that crushed my chest and refused to let go.
I had been on a long drive with my mom, and the road stretched out before us like an endless ribbon, one that seemed to go on forever, without end.
We talked about everything and nothing at all, just trying to pass the time, trying to distract ourselves from the reality of what was happening.
The silence in the car was occasionally filled by her voice, but the weight in my chest remained, no matter how hard I tried to shake it off.
It had been four years since those three caskets closed, and yet, the memory felt as fresh as ever, as if no time had passed at all.
I had told myself that I was okay, that I had moved on, that I had found a way to keep going without them.
But today, the pain came rushing back, a flood I wasn’t ready for, an overwhelming wave of emotions that threatened to drown me.
The rawness of the grief that I thought I had buried resurfaced, as sharp as the day I first felt it, as painful as the first moment I realized they were gone.
For months, the days had blurred into each other, one indistinguishable from the next, all of them blending together in a haze of time.
But today, there was no ignoring it, no pushing it aside.
It was impossible not to feel the weight of the years, to feel the absence of those three precious souls who had once been by my side.
I had to face it, even though it hurt more than anything I could remember, a pain so deep it almost seemed endless.
But I couldn’t let the day slip by without acknowledging the loss, without giving it the attention it demanded, the respect it deserved.
I couldn’t let myself pretend that everything was fine, that I was okay when the truth was that I wasn’t, not really.
Even if it meant stepping back into the sorrow, I had to honor the memory, I had to make room for the grief.
I had to confront the pain that I had been trying to avoid, trying to bury beneath the surface, hoping it would eventually fade.
And so, I’m sharing it now, because that’s how I process, how I heal, by giving it a voice, by letting it out into the world, even when it feels like too much.
The grief doesn’t disappear; it never goes away, no matter how much we wish it would.
But through the pain, I’m learning how to carry it, how to live with it without letting it consume me.
My mom and I have been working with a grief counselor, someone who’s been guiding us through this difficult journey, helping us navigate the mess of emotions that come with losing loved ones.
She’s helped us learn to process the emotions, even when they feel overwhelming, even when they seem impossible to bear.
She told us that, despite the immense weight of our grief, we were further along than many others at this stage, not because it hurt any less, but because we had learned to let the pain flow through us instead of keeping it bottled up.
Grief has a way of finding you, whether you’re ready for it or not, whether you’ve prepared yourself for the wave or not.
It waits quietly in the background, watching, waiting, and when it comes, it demands your attention, it demands to be acknowledged.
And today, it surged forward, overwhelming me with its intensity, with its weight.
I remember arriving at the funeral home that day, the moment my mom saw the three hearses lined up, waiting for us.
She never spoke of it without emotion, and that image has stayed with her, forever etched into her memory.
The pain of that moment is something I don’t think she’ll ever be able to forget, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget it either.
I didn’t see it from the same angle, but I can imagine how it must have felt for her, how the sight of those three hearses, lined up and waiting, must have broken her heart all over again.
I remember bits and pieces of the day, fragments of moments that have stayed with me, even as the rest of it feels like a blur.
I remember the line that wrapped around the building, the faces of the people who came to say goodbye, the voices of those who shared in our sorrow.
I remember my mom, frail and hurting, yet still reaching out to others, still offering comfort despite the immense pain she was carrying.
She was in so much pain, yet she insisted on giving hugs to everyone she could, to be there for them, even when she was barely holding herself together.
She was determined to be there, to be present, despite the agony that was consuming her, despite the ache in her heart that never seemed to ease.
I wish I had more photos from that day, more to capture the faces, the emotions, the rawness of it all.
But the memory is blurry, fragmented, as if I haven’t fully processed it yet, as if I’m still trying to make sense of it.
It’s still something I’m trying to understand, trying to come to terms with, and I’m not sure I ever will.
There was one decision, one moment that I’ll never forget, a decision that haunts me to this day.
It was the moment I had to decide when the caskets would be closed.
It wasn’t a responsibility I wanted, but it fell to me, and I had no choice but to make it.
I remember asking my mom when she wanted the caskets closed, and her response was immediate, filled with sorrow and heartbreak.
“Never,” she said, and I could hear the tears in her voice, the pain in every word she spoke.
I knew in that moment that she wasn’t ready for that final goodbye, that she wasn’t ready to let go, even though we all knew it was coming.
In the end, we made the decision for her, a decision that I’ll never forget, a decision that still feels too heavy to carry.
Between the end of the viewing and the start of the service, we gave her medication and allowed her a break, hoping to give her a moment of peace before the final moment arrived.
It was during that brief moment that the caskets were closed, without her seeing it, without her having to witness that final moment of closure.
I don’t know if it was the right decision, but I made it out of fear, fear that seeing it would be too much for her, fear that it would break her even more.
There were so many decisions that day, so many things that no one should ever have to decide, decisions that still weigh heavily on my heart.
But we had no choice, and we had to make them, because that was the reality we were forced to face.
I kept telling myself, “Just keep going. Get through this moment,” but now, looking back, I realize that it’s not just about surviving the moments.
It’s about honoring them, acknowledging the grief and the pain, and allowing it to be part of me, part of who I am, because that’s how we heal.
After coming home from the service today, I found myself doing something small but meaningful, something that helped me feel connected to them again.
I opened packages that had arrived, filled with “Kind Like Kam” moments, moments that reminded me of the kids and the love they brought into this world.
It wasn’t much, but it felt right, it felt like a way to honor their memory, to keep their spirits alive in my heart.
It felt like a small wink from them, a reminder that they are still with me, even though they’re not physically here.
Even four years later, they remain a part of me, and I carry them with me every day.
The memory of that day, of those three caskets closing, still weighs heavily on my heart, and I don’t know if that weight will ever truly lift.
It’s been four years, but the pain hasn’t gone away, it hasn’t faded like I hoped it would.
It’s still raw, still fresh, but I’m learning to carry it with me, to live with it without letting it consume me.
I will never stop talking about them, sharing their stories, because they were a massive part of my heart, and that will never change.
Their memory will live on in everything I do, in every decision I make, in every moment of my life.
Because one man’s decision to drive impaired changed every single piece of my family’s world, and it’s something I’ll never forget.
Four years later, the pain is still here, but with each passing day, I’m learning to cope, to heal, and to keep their memory alive, no matter how hard it gets.
I’ll never forget them, and I’ll never stop remembering.
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