DearHart

Eighteen years ago, our beautiful, beautiful baby boy died. When I talk about Hart’s death I try to articulate what a beautiful experience it was. It’s hard to believe through the most heart-shattering occurrence so much beauty grew. But it is in those shattered pieces that true beauty lies.

Usually when someone dies, our emotions are complicated. We are sad. We miss them. We long for them. We relish in their imprint on our lives. We celebrate their accomplishments. We love them. But, often, there are other emotions as well. We have regrets over cross words, hurt feelings, unfinished conversations. We long for do-overs. We chastise ourselves for the times we could have done better, been better. These are all perfectly normal feelings, the expected path that grief takes. All of these things that wove the fabric of our relationship while the person was alive continue to drive our grief for them.

The thing is, Hart wasn't tethered to any complications. He was only love. He was in the arms of someone who loved him every minute of his life (every minute). Because we knew our time with him was short, we relished in each moment. We were able to (for the most part) put our lives on hold while we celebrated Hart's very existence, for the entirety of his existence. His whole life carried the magic of Christmas morning. We loved him and continue to love him, so fiercely and so purely.

The gift of knowing his life would be so short helped us prepare (or at least think we were prepared) for his death. We were blessed by incredible people who shared vital information and walked with us every step of the way. We knew what to expect physically. We knew what we should do during and immediately after his death in order to bring us comfort later. We were told how to talk to our other children and how to involve them in his death. We gathered every piece of information that we could in order to lay a solid foundation for our grief.

The only problem was, of course, you cannot prepare your heart. As Hart died (peacefully, painlessly and beautifully) I kept thinking, "Okay, this is it. This is what you've been preparing for. This really sucks, but you're prepared. You've got this." I went over my mental checklist countless times. As I type this, I realize how completely asinine that is, but I definitely thought I could prepare myself for his death. We had about 15 hours from the time we realized the end was near until he took his last breath. We went to the in-house hospice located at the local children's hospital and were drenched in the love our family, friends and caregivers (who had become family).

I was holding Hart, inhaling his sweet baby smell like a junky about to be cut off from her source. Believing if I inhaled enough, his smell would be with me forever. When he died I let out an achingly primal groan. I felt it bubbling up inside me, but was so disconnected from the sound, I couldn't quite figure out where it was coming from.

People often say that when they lose someone, it leaves a hole in their heart. That's not what it feels like to me. I feel like part of my heart is now made of crystal. It is beautifully filled with all of my love for Hart, nothing can diminish it, but it also can't grow like the rest of my heart. There are no new memories to make, no new strands to weave into our relationship, no need for that part of my heart to be able to expand, but it is solid and beautiful and light shines through it and reflects in me.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

                              -Laurence Binyon 

"The deeper that sorrow carves

into your being, the more joy

you can contain"

                                  -Khalil Gibran

Hidden Treasure

The other night the moppets suggested that we watch home movies. I've got to be honest, watching hours of recorded school projects, Steadfast Husband telling everyone to, "Say, 'Hi'," and various moppets' firsts* is not my favorite thing to do.  But the other night watching reenacted memories just felt right. So when they asked, I agree, née encouraged the home video bender to commence. (*To be clear, we have never caught an actual first on camera, but have done an awesomely mediocre job of enthusiastically recording recreated firsts).

At The Cottage, watching home movies is quite an ordeal and truly requires perseverance. We still haven't converted our VHS tapes to DVDs and our VCR is 138 years old...so after 45 minutes of finagling (by Steadfast Husband), hundreds of queries of "is it ready, yet?" (by the moppets), lots of unsolicited advice "just hit play!" (also the moppets) and endless heckling (by me- I believe in the motivational powers of heckling), Fall of 2004 came to life in full blurry black and white.

Snippets of Oldest Son, at age 13, skateboarding, Oldest Daughter, then 10, doing an interview-style book review, with her 7 year-old sister serving as the hard-hitting interviewer and middle and youngest sons showing true brotherly love as only a 4 year-old and 2 year-old can- hugging each other- with the acumen of professional wrestlers, with huge teeth-gritting smiles on their little faces, (there may have been some mooning as well, but I don't want to embarrass anyone).

I must admit to losing interest- a little (and by a little, I mean just a smidgen shy of completely), and was weighing my desire to flee with my lack of desire to move, when the sound of my nasally narrative roused me from my debate. "Okay, let me finish changing him, then you can hold him," I heard. I looked up at the screen to discover the most precious treasure ever! Crackling video footage of sweet baby Hart, he was lying on a blanket on the floor and I was zipping up his romper. I had never seen this footage before! I felt like one of those people who discovers an original Picasso hidden behind a painting of a leprechaun.

Watching the video, it is clear that we were aware that it was being filmed, but none of us had any memory of it, nor could anyone recall ever watching it. We all sat there and watched in silent awe. It was so amazing. And beautiful. And mundane-a diaper change, youngest son patiently waiting, then holding his baby brother-which held his interest for exactly 17 seconds, after which he scooted out from underneath our tandem baby holding fun and started climbing on the furniture. The beauty of the moment was in its complete ordinariness.

“I've seen and met angels wearing the disguise of ordinary people living ordinary lives”
                                                                                                                    -Tracy Chapman

It was the best feeling ever! Like that one perfectly magical Christmas morning that you experience once (even if it only exists in rewritten memories) and hold as the standard for every Christmas morning after!

I might still be sitting there now, lost in my reverie if I wasn't olfactively snapped out of it twenty minutes later when one of our adorable dogs had a smack-down with a skunk.

In my heart it still feels like Christmas morning! (Like an old-fashioned Christmas morning 'round the rendering plant, but Christmas morning all the same!)