Grief Is The Price We Pay For Love By Guest Blogger Denise Aleardi

     I find solace in the deep woods. Sitting amongst nature is a peaceful getaway from

civilization. It allows me time to reflect on the gifts I have received from God and how fragile they are. It’s also a reminder of the endless cycle of birth, growth, decay, death, and rebirth. Sadly, this walk into the woods was for a different and horrific reason.

     As the detective accompanied me into the woods along the pebble trail that led to the tree where Lacie’s body was found, I wondered why it took three days to find her.  It was a difficult decision, but I had to see for myself.  There is no understanding, only speculation, as to why she hung herself.

     I agonized over what her final moments were like before she took her last breath and questioned why she died before me.  While death is inevitable, I never imagined my child would pass away before me. I was Lacie’s mama bear, and she was my cub.  I wanted to be the one to greet Lacie in heaven.

     The hardest part of grief is not talking about it to someone, especially a person you talked with every day. But now that person is dead.

     I miss her smile. Her creativity. Her infectious laugh.  Her empathy, compassion, and concern for others. Her drama. Her investment endeavors.  But most of all, as my business partner and the mother of my grandchildren.

     Lacie and I were co-owners of residential care homes, and she was also the owner of a concession stand at the local hockey rink that served nutritious protein shakes and

the best chocolate chip cookies for the hockey players and their families.  She was striving to provide the healthiest stand in the county.

     Lacie was always looking for ways to improve and evolve into the best version of herself, and to help others along the way.  She loved the outdoors, gardening, boating, and working out at the gym.

     Lacie was also a great mother to her autistic son. She poured her heart and soul into researching and finding the best diet, supplements, and environmental products to

help create the fullest life possible for him.

      Nothing really matters much these days except for the love of family and friends.  Family will cry with me, listen to why my heart aches, while only a few friends will do the same.

     Most people don’t know what to say and really don’t understand where I am with my tragic loss.  My life is not the same as it was before.  Therefore, my relationship with people is different.

     Growing through grief is exhausting and debilitating. It becomes a constant uninvited partner who confuses the mind, weakens the body, and breaks the human spirit.  And one that I must endure.

     My life is empty without Lacie.

     I prefer to be alone because it’s my way of dealing with grief.  I can be angry, sad, quiet, and unhappy on my own, without criticism or judgment.  I don’t need to explain my feelings. It’s also alone time with Lacie, so I can talk to her and reflect on the good memories I had with her.

     To find comfort in dealing with Lacie’s death, I pray a lot, work on projects, take walks, listen to music, paint watercolors, paddle board, read, and visit Lacie’s grave and have quiet conversations with her.  I also attend a support group for parents who have lost a child called Bereaved Parents of the USA.

     The support group has been a big help.  It soothes my heart and reassures me that I am not alone in my loss.  Each time I attend, the meeting serves as a measure of the progress I’m making on my grief journey.

     Although I have accepted her death, the anger, guilt, sadness, and depression bring me to tears that make time and space oblivious.

     I think about Lacie several times a day, generated by triggers like a song, photos of young adult women her age, and the same car I see on streets and highways.  It saddens me that I struggle to visit our local European Bistro again, where Lacie and I met to discuss business and family matters.  And also to the casino where Lacie and I enjoyed gambling together.  It just isn’t the same without her.  It saddens me even more to see other moms, daughters, and granddaughters socializing with one another.

     It is hard to imagine life without Lacie.  Each day, I feel as if a part of me is dying.  My grief is so devastating that I continue to wish to trade places with Lacie because

nothing else can fill the hole in my heart.  My soul has been shaken and awakened to new depths of pain.  I have lost my way and desire to live.  I feel my life has no purpose anymore, which makes it difficult to move forward.

     I find some solace and happiness in the crystal platter memorial adorned with her photo, beautiful sparkling crystals, and sacramentals. It sits on my kitchen counter next to my coffee machine.  When the sunlight shines through the window, it illuminates the

crystals.

     I wake up to it every morning and say goodnight to it every evening before I go to bed.

     Whenever I feel the need, I add another item to the platter, like a small angel, prayer card, cardinal, figurine, small plaque with an inspirational quote, heart, or rosary.  Eventually, I may need another platter.  I cherish this platter because it serves as my connection to Lacie, one that will never die.

     A song that helps me manage my grief is “The Way We Were” by Barbara Streisand.

These words in the song explore the complexities of love, loss, and selective memory that detail my grief journey.

     “Memories like the corners of my mind, misty watercolor memories of the way we were.  Scattered pictures of the smiles we left behind, smiles we gave one another for the way we were.  Can it be that it was all so simple, or has time rewritten every line, if we had the chance to do it all over again?  Tell me, Would We?  Could We?  Memories may be beautiful, and yet what’s too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget. So it’s the laughter we will remember whenever we remember the way we were.”

      I am stuck in the grief abyss.  For the moment i remain there. Sometimes I find myself thinking about suicide as a way to pass on the pain.  It’s a struggle to find the courage to move through my grief-stricken days.

    As Lacie’s parent, I never let myself experience her pain.  It’s about the love and positive energy I had with my daughter, but still, a part of me has been cut off.  I have

a renewed understanding that the ongoing spiritual bond I have with my daughter is normal, it’s forever evolving, and I have the great capacity to adapt in due time.

      I’d like Lacie’s life to be valued, celebrated, remembered, and loved.  Sharing this continued bond with her begins with sharing the pain her death has brought to me, her surviving family, friends, neighbors, and other people in the community.

     My biggest wish is for Lacie to appear in my dreams as a sign from God, telling me she is at peace and all right.

     While my daughter’s children live on with her spirit, they bring on a secondary and anticipatory grief.  Emotional intelligence and fragility have become their gauge.

Traumatic memories seem to fixate in their brains, which results in my grandchildren having to deal with and manage the anxiety about the fear of losing their dad.

     Grief is the price we pay for love.  I read that “the depth of love is equal to the depth of grief” is a common sentiment.  It suggests that the intensity of sorrow experienced after a loss is a direct reflection of the love connection that existed before.  This perspective highlights that love and grief are intertwined, with deep love inevitably leading to profound grief when that love is lost.  If the price I pay for loving Lacie is the pain and sorrow I endure now, then it is worth it.

     As I have learned how to manage my grief, I have developed a heightened awareness that my love for Lacie may be more powerful after death.  And the best way to express that love is to make the everlasting love connection more powerful than the pain and grief of losing Lacie.

Lacie was 38 years old when she took her life.  She was my only daughter among three sons.

Next blog, A Man’s Perspective on Grief.

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