My daughter died laughing.
Ashley was born on January 9, 1998, and from the moment I knew she was coming, I couldn’t wait to meet her. After 26 long hours of hard labor, she finally arrived, weighing 7 pounds, 11 ounces. In that moment, she made me a mother—a title I have cherished every single day since. From the very beginning, she filled my life with purpose, love, and light.
Ashley was the first-born granddaughter on both sides of our family, and she was adored. She was a happy, bubbly child who loved to laugh, play, and be silly with her cousins. In elementary school, she loved making art projects just for me—little treasures I still hold onto today. School came easily to her. She was an A–B student, and her teachers absolutely loved her, always having kind, positive things to say. Ashley was well-liked by her peers, not tied to just one group of friends. She moved easily between cliques and connected with people from all walks of life.
She had big dreams. Ashley wanted to grow up to be a marine biologist, live in Hawaii, and work at Sea Life attractions. She was a good kid who stayed out of trouble and was truly headed for something special—until her young life was tragically cut short.
In February of 2012, Ashley was 14 years old when she asked to stay the night at a friend’s house for a birthday slumber party. Her stepfather and I said yes. We had met the girl before, and she lived just a five-minute walk behind our house. There were five girls invited, and Ashley was beyond excited. Before this, she had only ever attended family sleepovers, so this felt like a big milestone for her.
That Saturday was beautiful, and Ashley was especially bubbly that morning. She braided her 9-year-old sister’s hair and took a selfie, turning slightly to the side and holding in her stomach. She was proud—she had lost a few pounds and had been working hard at it. Around 2:00 p.m., she hugged us goodbye. We told her we loved her and asked her to call and check in at 6:00 p.m. Her stepfather joked, “Be careful. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Then she walked off toward her friend’s house.
At 6:00 p.m., Ashley called just as promised. Everything sounded fine, and we had no reason to worry. That peace shattered when our phone rang at around 10:30 p.m., jolting me awake. A police officer was on the line.
“Hello, is Ashley Long your daughter?”
“Yes… what’s going on?”
“We are working on her, and you need to meet us at the hospital in Medford.”
I was confused and terrified. Medford was 15 minutes away. Ashley was supposed to be just behind our house. None of it made sense.
When we arrived at the hospital, we were taken into a small, closed-off room near the emergency department. Time stood still. Eventually, a doctor, a nurse, and a grief counselor came in and told us our daughter had died. I collapsed. My body went numb. In that moment, life as I knew it ended.
The doctor explained that Ashley died from asphyxiation caused by inhaling helium. I was stunned. I had never known helium could be dangerous—let alone deadly. The police later explained that Ashley and the other teens had left Eagle Point and gone to Medford. The birthday girl’s mother had become too ill to host the party and asked her daughter-in-law to take over—without notifying any parents. That decision set off a chain of tragic mistakes made by both adults and minors.
The woman picked up the girls, stopped at a liquor store, and gave alcohol to the teens while driving. Once at her house, she mixed more drinks for all five minors. Later that night, she and the girls went to a neighbor’s house and returned with three men in their thirties. The men began drinking with the girls.
At some point, one man found a helium tank in a closet. He gathered Ashley and her friends into a circle and began inhaling from it, encouraging the teens to do the same. One by one, they did. Ashley was last. According to her friends, she hesitated and kept pulling away. The man insisted it was harmless. “You’ll be fine. All your friends did it.”
Finally, Ashley gave in. She inhaled the helium and burst into laughter at the sound of her voice. In the middle of that laughter, she collapsed to the floor. She never saw it coming. None of them did. My daughter died doing what she loved most—laughing.
My devastation became the driving force behind a mission. In Ashley’s memory, I began raising awareness about the hidden dangers of helium inhalation. I created a Helium Awareness Facebook page and a Pinterest page showing creative ways to decorate events without using helium. I worked with our local Parks and Recreation to place a memorial bench near a playground, hoping it would spark conversations and save lives. I’ve seen families sit there, and that means more than I can explain.
I also published two books. One, The Air Inside, teaches elementary-aged children how to stay safe around helium and balloons. The other tells Ashley’s story—her life, her dreams, and the tragic accident that took her from us. I titled it My Daughter Died Laughing.
Raising awareness has given me strength and purpose. I believe honoring our loved ones in positive, meaningful ways helps keep their spirit alive. Every life matters. Every life has purpose. I truly believe this is Ashley’s.
Before I end, I want to share a poem Ashley wrote in eighth grade, titled “Your Life Matters to Me.”
Waking up in the morning feeling like you’re worth nothing
People don’t hear the voice inside you screaming out real loud
You hold it in, afraid to let it out
So you just sit back and let it tear up your world
BUT there is something you need to know about your own life
That it matters to me
Life may take you down sometimes
But you’ll always have me by your side to bring you back up
Wipe away your tears and tell yourself you’re stronger than you think you are
Don’t let those words bring you down this far
My life would never be the same without you around
I just want you to see your life matters to me
Just because you’re different doesn’t mean you’re strange
Don’t give up everything you have over the words they say
You know they’re not true
Don’t let it get to you
Because your life matters
Life may take you down sometimes
But you’ll always have me by your side to pick you back up
Wipe away those tears and remember you’re stronger than you think you are
People can change
I just wanted you to see
It matters… life matters
It matters to me
Thank you, Ashley, for these words. I will live by them for the rest of my life, because your life matters to me—now and always. Thank you from the bottom of my broken heart.
