Grief is the Price We Pay for Love

Today, I was working on a project, and getting distractedly rage-y thinking about people who throw hate and prejudice around like shrapnel, (agitated and impatient are my default emotions this time of year-but to be fair, hate and prejudice make me rage-y all year) when I was suddenly overwhelmed by these feelings and burst into tears. Because grief sometimes disguises itself when it brushes against me, it can take a beat before I register its presence. When I sorted through the muck in my mind, I found the center of my meltdown—my Hart love surrounded by my heartache.

I'm surprised by how intrinsic grief is. It is without thought or reason, yet somewhere deep inside, suddenly, every piece of my being becomes saturated with a longing for my baby boy.

On November 15, 2022, Hart would be turning 18. As always, it feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago that he was here, with me, in my arms. But I've learned grief and time don't exist on the same plane. 

People often ask me, when I think of Hart, how I do I envision him. Is it at the age he would be now or as we knew him? My heart almost bursts with their desire to find a deeper understanding and the enormous empathy they show our family. The truth is, it depends. When I'm remembering Hart, my memories are of him as he was when he was with us. I have a mental Rolodex of memories from our time together, and pull them out to examine and enjoy. When I indulge in magical thinking, it is the age Hart would be now. I try to envision what he would look like today. A strong family resemblance runs through all our children, so it's pretty easy to envision what Hart would look like at every age.

I think about what he would be doing now— how he would change the dynamic of our family, what his friends would be like, what his interests would be. Would he get rage-y at hate and prejudice? Would he be loud and boisterous or quiet and reserved?  I wonder if he would enjoy school and love to learn. Would he write? Would he be artistic? Musical? Would he love math? Science? History? Language? Every year on the first day of school, I envision him climbing up the stairs of a school bus and I wonder…

Hart is ever present in our lives. We miss him terribly, everyday. But our love for him is greater than our grief. I love the quote by E. A. Bucchianari, “So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.”