Our Daughter, 6, Died While Playing in Our Yard: Kitty's Story

Friends, today we're sharing a very sad story. A year ago, one of our readers lost her oldest daughter, who was six years old, in an accident. It happened in the middle of an ordinary day. It's something that truly almost never happens, but it's also something every one of us is afraid of. So please read this only if you feel up to it. Kitty's courage and openness in telling us her story moved us deeply, and we're so grateful for her trust.

Dear Kitty, you're a mom of four. Tell us a little about how you live.

My husband and I live with our two sons (5 and 3) and our daughter (1) in a small village in Thuringia, in eastern Germany. I grew up here and came back after a few years of college. My mother lives on our property, right next door in the neighboring house. We know pretty much everyone in town.

We love being outdoors, and in summer especially, we're often in the garden until evening. Over the last few years we've redone it the way we wanted. Vegetables grow between fruit trees, flowering shrubs, and colorful perennial beds, the chickens cluck and the bees hum. It's exactly how you'd picture country life. The kids have plenty of areas for playing, digging, sliding, and running wild. They grow up free and carefree here, they get to try things out, and they're very curious about the world around them.

You had four children. In November 2021, your oldest, your daughter, died in an accident. Can you tell us about that day?

My husband was at our neighbors' helping with the butchering, which happens every year on that weekend. Our big girl (6 at the time) had actually wanted to go to the indoor pool, but unfortunately the two older kids were in quarantine because of a COVID case at their preschool.

We were out in the garden together all morning, until I went inside to make lunch. The baby (3 months old at the time) was sleeping peacefully in the stroller, the two big kids were playing together in our willow dome (it's kind of like a little hut made of branches), and Grandma was raking leaves right next to them with our younger son. A short time later she came into the house, upset and pale, and asked me to call emergency services. I didn't know yet what had happened, and I ran straight out to the garden.

There I saw our big girl lying unconscious on the ground. She had slipped while climbing around in the willows, and as she fell, her scarf got caught on a small stub of a branch. Our older son had alerted Grandma, who got her free first. When our daughter didn't come to, Grandma came to get me.

What condition was your daughter in when you found her?

Since I couldn't find any signs of life, I started CPR right away, with the boys watching. My mother called emergency services, and the dispatcher stayed on the phone until the rescue crews arrived. A neighbor came over because he'd heard something must have happened. I think I just screamed the whole time. The neighbor went to get my husband, who kept up the resuscitation.

Soon after, our local fire department and the ambulance arrived, and only a few minutes later, the rescue helicopter. After what felt like forever, they told us they had been able to bring our daughter back. She had a pulse again and was breathing on her own, but she was still unconscious. She was flown to a nearby hospital, and my husband went with her. The rest of us stayed behind in shock, and until my husband called from the hospital for the first time that evening, we were looked after by several volunteer crisis chaplains.

Your daughter was then admitted to the hospital's pediatric intensive care unit. What did the doctors say about her prognosis? And can you describe how you experienced those first hours?

Our daughter was put into a medically induced coma so that her body, and above all her brain, had to work as little as possible. That was supported by hypothermia treatment, a kind of cooling suit that first lowered her body temperature to 91°F (33°C) and then raised it back to normal very slowly over several days. A first scan of her head already showed the beginning of brain damage from the lack of oxygen. But at first, they couldn't give us a prognosis. We were in a bubble, and we were just glad we'd made it through the first night.

The next morning we sat down with the doctors, and they stressed again that we'd have to wait a few days. Only after about five days, with a second scan of her head, would they be able to judge the extent of the damage.

There was never an all-clear, and we were prepared for anything. Her condition was critical but stable, and we were happy for every day that at least brought no decline. Our thoughts ran in every direction: Will she be well again by the time she starts school this summer? Would she want to be cremated or buried?

Because of the strict visiting rules at the time, only one of us could be in her room at once. The other stayed home or drove laps around the hospital with the baby. The boys were at preschool and weren't allowed to visit, and we wanted them to have a “normal” daily routine for now. Once we took our older son to the hospital so he could at least see it from the outside, and we took pictures of our daughter to show the boys.

The psychologists from the hospital's crisis intervention team, who were by our side the whole time, told us it would be important for the boys, so they could understand. Beyond that, there wasn't much we could do except sit at her bed, read her favorite stories aloud, play her the songs the preschool kids had sung, and hold her hand.

And then it was time for the second scan.

Right, we were nervous, and we were already talking about possible early rehab. At first, what they told us was vague, though maybe I just hadn't really taken it in. We scheduled a time for a long sit-down conversation with the doctors. Then during our nightly call to the unit before bed, a doctor told us in plain words that the scan had been “catastrophic” and that everything that made our daughter who she was had been irreversibly destroyed. We were in shock and talked until late into the night about what this would mean for us and what might lie ahead.

How did you cope with that news?

The next day, of course, the mood was heavy. I was exhausted and spent the whole day on the couch with the kids, blinds down. My husband drove to the hospital alone in the morning, and there was nothing new.

Late in the afternoon, we got an unexpected call from the hospital saying our daughter's condition had worsened significantly over the last few hours, and her circulation kept collapsing. They asked us to come in with the children to say goodbye. We hurriedly packed a few things and had a friend drive us.

When we arrived, the nurses had already prepared everything. A dim night light was on in the room, and the monitors were switched off. They had dressed our daughter and combed and braided her hair.

The doctors had one last talk with us. They told us there was nothing more they could do. The damage from the lack of oxygen to her brain was simply too massive and widespread. They could no longer interrupt, let alone stop, the failure of her body's functions with medication.

How did you say goodbye?

We decided to stay the night and be with our daughter together, all of us, on her last journey. They brought extra beds into the room, and we painted her nails and made handprints and footprints.

We explained to the kids what was about to happen. The situation must have felt strange to them, too. Their sister lay there, seemingly asleep and peaceful in her bed, and she was going to die and not come home with us.

We put the children to bed and then said our goodbyes in peace. We lay down in our daughter's bed with her, stroked her, and whispered our wishes and thoughts to her. Shortly after midnight, we told the doctors we were ready, and they took her off the ventilator. We laid our ears on her chest and listened to her heartbeats getting slower and slower. About 20 minutes later, her heart stopped beating forever.

How do you explain to three siblings that the fourth is gone?

From our experience with other deaths in the family, and from the good psychological support at the hospital, we knew from the start that we had to explain everything to the kids honestly. We knew not to use phrases like “Your sister fell asleep,” and to use clear words instead, like “Your sister is dead.” Even when that isn't easy.

And if you can't think of an answer, you can say that out loud, too. The kids are very open and unselfconscious about it. Of course they ask the occasional uncomfortable question, often totally out of the blue, in situations where you'd never expect it. That's hard. But after a few minutes, they just go back to playing.

We included the kids in everything from the beginning. Together we picked out clothes, music for the funeral service, and little keepsakes to go in the casket. We painted the casket and the urn together, and we said goodbye one more time at the open casket.

Do you think kids grieve differently than adults?

Kids definitely grieve differently than adults. They don't sit in a corner and cry. Sometimes they're withdrawn and thoughtful, at other moments they're overly wound up, and often they're very angry. There are some good books on children's grief, but there's no set instruction manual for handling it, because it shows up differently in everyone and is just very individual.

And how do you and your husband grieve differently?

It helps me to talk a lot about the situation and my feelings. Anyone who asks me something gets an honest answer, even though a lot of people don't handle that very well. Sometimes I'm sitting somewhere, lost in thought, and I just start sobbing. Afterward I usually feel a little better.

In everyday life you're so busy and distracted, but the feelings that build up just have to come out after a while. The kids are sometimes a bit confused by it, because they don't see it that often. I explain to them what I was thinking about and why I'm sad right now. I've also done a lot of crafting over the last few months, and a lot of writing. Writing down my sometimes tangled thoughts helps me. I'm also thinking about starting a blog, to maybe help others in the same situation.

People rarely approach my husband and ask how he's doing. That's really a shame, because men don't grieve any less, maybe just more privately. My husband will go into the woods to cut firewood, or out to the workshop, to be alone with his thoughts or to let everything out.

What does losing a child do to a relationship?

In our case, losing her together has bonded us even more. Since the accident we've talked a lot about our thoughts and feelings, even though in the everyday chaos there isn't always much time for it. We can tell when it's all too much for the other and they need a few minutes to themselves.

In daily life we split the chores and the childcare. All of that helps us stay strong together and gives the kids and our family a stable foundation. I appreciate all of it so much, because it's not a given, and some relationships do fall apart after a loss like this.

Is there anything that helps you process it?

Little rituals and crafting together help us remember our daughter. For example, we painted a picture together of what the place where our girl is now might look like.

From vacations or outings, we sometimes bring back stones or other things we find and make something out of them. I crocheted a life-size doll that sits in the kids' room wearing our daughter's favorite things. Together with the kids, I picked out her most-loved pieces of clothing and sewed them into cuddly dolls.

The kids' room is still unchanged, and the door always stays open. The kids sometimes go in to play or look through her memory box. Sometimes they want to sleep in there, too. We go to the cemetery together, bring flowers, decorate the grave, or light candles. Or we sit together in the garden, at the place where it happened. We've decorated that, too. We don't want the kids to be afraid to keep playing here.

The kids don't always feel like doing these things, which is totally fine. But they also often come to us on their own, wanting to talk or look at pictures and share memories of her. Their preschool has also handled the grieving process with real sensitivity. There was a memory corner in the classroom, a “tree of remembrance” was planted in the yard, and our little one got a photo album he can look at whenever he wants. The kids also visit the cemetery together now and then.

I photograph rainbows and collect feathers. For us, that's grown into a kind of “sign from heaven,” a greeting from her. We find a little comfort in it. We also get support from family and friends, who babysit now and then, take the kids on outings, invite us over for dinner, or just go for walks and talk with us.

We're not in therapy at the moment, neither individually nor as a family. We tried a support group once, but at that point it just wasn't quite right for us. Recently we applied for a family-focused retreat program, a kind of supported stay for grieving families, where we all plan to go together to understand and work through our grief better, to get a break from work and all the tasks and obligations of everyday life, and to connect with others in the same situation.

Were there things people said or ways they reacted that really hurt you?

Yes, quite a few. I'm sure many people do it without thinking and want to comfort us, not hurt us, but they just can't find the right words. Things like “You still have three other kids” or “You're a role model for us, and we can learn from you” are probably meant very differently from how they land with us, but it simply hurts to hear them.

It also doesn't comfort us when someone says, “God only gives such burdens to those strong enough to bear them.” On top of that, we're not even religious.

And then, of course, there are the truly awful things that reach you, some directly and some through the grapevine, like “Of course they couldn't handle four kids,” “You just have to watch them better,” or “Well, you'd better not have another one now.” That's disgusting and intrusive, and you have no idea what to say back.

But at this point I really want to single out everyone who “dares” to just stop by, talk to us, and ask how we're doing, who give us a big silent hug, and who share so deeply in our loss. Our daughter was so open and cheerful that many people are truly devastated and heartbroken.

How are you doing right now, a little over a year after your daughter's death?

You land, more or less steady, back in some version of everyday life. You go to work, run the household, take care of the kids, and get done everything that needs doing. But you're often less focused and less resilient than “before,” tired and numb. Some things become meaningless, and others you simply learn to appreciate. But you're alive, and you try to make the best of it.

Of course, there are still many times when I'm completely wrecked and endlessly sad, and I still can't believe what happened. The moments of numbness and pain aren't present all the time anymore. They come more in waves, and maybe they've lost a tiny bit of their intensity. There are “normal” days again, too, days when you can be happy and grateful for the time we had together and for what we still have.

Grief isn't over after a year, as so many people like to say. The feeling of grief, of painful longing, of love for our daughter will always stay with us. Somehow you learn to fit it into your life, but that life is simply different from “before.”

What do you wish for the future?

In general, I wish for a more open way of treating people who are grieving, and of talking about death and dying. For example, that you wouldn't get funny looks if you don't wear black for a year or if you sit down for a picnic at the cemetery. I wish more people would dare to face the subject, and not shy away from including their kids, who can truly be role models when it comes to this.

For myself, I hope I don't become an overly anxious mother, that I can keep giving my kids room for a free and carefree childhood and not wrap them in bubble wrap to protect them from every danger in life.

For my family, of course, I wish for health, and that we all manage to cope with this heavy loss and never stop appreciating that we have each other.