Love is bravery

Lesson #19 of 40

As I approach 40, I’m embarking on a year-long project to reflect on the lessons I’ve learned in four decades of life. This is lesson #19. You can read the full series here.

I miss holding his hand.

At 11:00 p.m. on October 14, 2020, I checked into the hospital to be induced for labor. Because I was 35 — considered “advanced maternal age” — and had reached my due date, my doctors recommended induction as the safest, or at least the most efficient, route to delivery.

Billy and I settled in for a long road ahead. Induction isn’t a quick process, we were told, and it could take up to a full day. But just minutes after I swallowed the induction tablets, everything went wrong. My water broke, and suddenly, my baby’s heartbeat plummeted. 

What followed felt like a blur of images. Nurses rushing into the room, moving me to a prone kneeling position. Hushed voices. Urgent calls. Shifting me back again. Machines beeping, so much beeping. Speeding down the hall on the gurney, watching the overhead lights rush by. Entering the operating room. Being told I needed an emergency c-section. More hushed voices. More beeping. A nurse holding me close as the anesthesiologist administered a spinal injection. Me, whispering to that nurse, “Will my baby be okay?” Her, asking the operating team to turn on some music, then responding in the kindest, most confident voice: “Oh, honey, this just turned into a birthday party.”

It all happened so fast.

The last time I’d been in a hospital was February 4, 2017 — the day my husband died. Jamie was running a half marathon and I’d found a spot at the finish line where I waited for him to arrive. Then I got word that he’d collapsed on the course.

From there, another cascade of images. Rushing down the sidewalk, the worried faces of onlookers blurring together. A stranger steering me away from where Jamie lay on the ground and toward the emergency responder wielding a clipboard. Riding in the front seat of the ambulance. Trembling with shock. Entering the emergency room. Hushed voices. Machines beeping. The doctor, head bowed, telling me it had been too long since they’d detected a pulse. Holding Jamie’s hand. Telling the medical staff we’d been in the process of starting a family. Hearing a stifled cry. Whispering “yes” when they asked if they could stop resuscitation efforts. Being alone with Jamie — with his body — lying my head on his chest one last time.

It all happened so fast.

Sometimes, it doesn’t happen so fast. Falling in love can be slow. At least, that’s the case for me.

I’ve never experienced love at first sight. Not with Jamie, not with Billy, not even when I held my daughter for the first time. (Is that terrible to admit? I think I’d feel less guilty if I heard from other mothers who experienced the same kind of shock and overwhelm I went through that day.) It takes time and trust for me to warm up to people. I’m much more open in writing than I am in real life. In the real world, I’m often shy — a byproduct of insecurity and self-protection.

A few weeks after Jamie died, I went for a walk along the canal that cut through the historic neighborhood where we, I, lived. It was a sunny, beautiful, crisp day — perfect weather, really — and I felt dead inside.

Getting outside was the only thing I’d been able to do that day. I walked slowly, my feet as leaden as my head. I looked down at the water, up at the palm trees, and down again at the palm trees reflected in the water. None of it felt real. Nothing made sense. I wondered why I even bothered to walk. Why I bothered to get out of bed at all. I was 31, but couldn’t picture anything worth living for ahead of me. Life without my best friend and soulmate seemed like a nightmare — a series of pointless days, wondering what it all was for.

I’ll never forget what happened next. My inner voice cut through the noise and I heard three clear words, followed by calm silence: Love is bravery. The voice was kind and confident, and I listened.

Loving other people, I realized, is the bravest thing we can do. We open our hearts and intertwine our lives with others knowing that they will one day die. Secretly, we hope that the people we love will die after we do, or at least go gently after a nice, long life. 

Still, we know the risk. Still, we take it. It’s beautiful. And it’s so very brave.

I’m glad she lets me hold her hand.

More and more often, my daughter has been asking questions that require careful thought to answer. Sometimes, her whys, whats, and hows stop me in my tracks. The other night, after hearing me say the word aloud, my daughter asked, “What does ‘brave’ mean, mama?”

I told her being brave means doing something even though you feel scared or nervous. That it’s brave to do new things, to get to know new people, and to help others. “I am brave!” she said. “More than you know,” I answered.

Love is bravery. My friend Becca turned this phrase into a print, which I hung above my daughter’s crib. The same crib that’s now her toddler bed. The same toddler bed that will soon be replaced by a big-kid bookshelf as she moves to the daybed across her room. For now, we’ll keep that print on the wall. One day, she’ll likely want to swap it for artwork of her own choosing. Still, the words remain.

I’ve never felt the bravery of love more intensely than I do with my child. I love her so fiercely, so fully, it’s almost frightening. I love the way she smells, the sound of her voice, the ease of her laughter, and the way her mind works. I love the way she cuddles up to me and asks for a “mama hug” when she’s sad or hurt. I even love her when she has a cold and is barking coughs into my face and wiping snot on my shirt. She is perfect. I couldn’t love her more.

Sometimes, I think back to the moment I first held her — when I didn’t feel that immediate wave of love that generations of mothers had assured me I would. I know now that I was terrified. Just minutes before, I was convinced that my baby would die, just as my husband had a few years earlier. It took my mind time to catch up to what my body already knew: this was a birthday party. It was a moment to celebrate.

Today, my baby turns four. Last weekend, we held a birthday party for her — an under-the-sea-themed bash that she loved. There were bubbles and music, a water table and sandbox, and a cardboard pirate ship that’s now covered in colorful scribbles and drawings from dozens of chubby little hands. Our backyard was filled with young children and their proud parents — a sea of beautiful, brave people.

When we think about love, we think about hearts. Our hearts pound when we meet someone special and break when it all falls apart. Jamie died on that February morning because his heart stopped working — a rare, undiagnosed case of fibromuscular dysplasia, I’d later find out. My daughter was born in the early hours of that October day after her heart rate stabilized — a rare occurrence of placental abruption, I’d later learn.

I don’t know why Jamie died or why my daughter lived. But I do know how deeply I love them both — there’s no past tense, even after death. I know that I made a conscious choice to keep my heart open after incredible loss, first to Billy, then to the idea of being a parent. I know that I am lucky to have loved as fully as I do. And I know now, more than I ever did before, how brave that is.

What does “brave” mean, mama? It’s this, I wanted to reply, hugging her tight. Love is the bravest thing you’ll ever do.

xoxo
KHG

Next week, I’ll hit the halfway mark of the 40 Lessons series. If you enjoyed this essay, will you please help spread the word? I’d love to grow our readership for the second half of this project. Thank you!