The Price of Love: A Tribute to Esther

Reflections from Lisa Salberg, Founder and CEO:

It was the late 1990's when I first heard the name Esther Grant, such a grown up name for an 8 year old little girl with a big heart.  Esther was an early client of the HCMA and her parents were wonderful volunteers, helping produce and mail the first HCMA newsletters.   As life moved on Esther grew up and I had lost contact with her, until one day a Facebook friend request popped up with the name Esther Rivas.   It didn't take long to connect the dots.   Sadly, I was to learn that Esther was in need of a transplant and we helped align her with a center to get her heart.  Sometimes our body and biology do not want to play nice, and Esther the heart warrior went into rejection of that heart requiring a second transplant.   That is more then most will ever have to endure - but Esther was given a 3rd challenge - the second heart was failing (differently then the first failure) and a 3rd transplant was the only option to survival.   She had to travel to Vanderbilt in Tennessee 4 hours away from her home in Indiana.   There was good news and bad news to follow - a 3rd heart was found  and she had a successful surgery - however it was all too much for her body to endure.   

Esther passed away shortly after her 3rd transplant.  I chatted with Herbert as Esther was fighting for life, this was the first time I had actually spoken with him as Esther was her own fierce advocate.  I began to see how much he had struggled right along side his wife and mother of his 2 children.   Herbert is actively grieving a tremendous loss.   He sent me a version of what is posted below - and I asked him -  Can I post this in our blog as I think your story will resonate with many. We don't talk enough about the grief and the pain after the loss. I thank you for sharing this part of your journey with others and I'm sure you're going to find a great deal of support from the community once it is posted. 

Herbert agreed to share his heart and grief with you all, that take courage - thank you Herbert.

God Bless Esther and may her memory be a blessing. 

The Price of Love: A Tribute to Esther

I am writing this because I need to remember. I need to capture how this feels—this profound loneliness that has settled into every corner of my life since losing my wife, Esther. I need to express how utterly unprepared I was, and still am, for this kind of loss. Can anyone truly be prepared to lose the person they love most in this world? I don't think so.

The loneliness is beyond anything I have words for. As I sit with this pain, trying to understand why it cuts so deep, why nothing in my life has ever hurt like this, I've come to realize something: this grief, this unbearable ache, exists only because of the love we shared. The love Esther had for me. The love I had for her. The complete devotion we gave to each other.

I didn't grow up in a perfect home. Most of us don't. Mine was what others might call broken, though my parents loved me and did everything they could to make me happy. But loss wasn't part of my story. Grief was something I'd heard about but never experienced, not even as a young adult. I've learned since that many people, even those in their 60s and 70s, never truly know grief until they lose their spouse. Now I understand why.

When Esther and I started dating, I knew about her health issues. My mother told me not to let that stand in the way of loving her, because God calls us home when He chooses. So I loved her with everything I had, fully aware of her serious heart condition.

As we navigated hospital visits and doctor appointments together, I learned more about what she was facing. I stayed by her side through it all. Each time her condition worsened, I drew closer, loved harder, served more—because she needed me, and I needed to be there. When we had our two beautiful children, when she underwent procedures while pregnant, we faced it all together.

The first heart transplant pushed me to my limits—anxiety, stress, suffering I'd never known. But by God's grace, through His people, He carried me through.

Esther had such a beautiful spirit. She'd share her concerns when I had ideas, and together we'd work things out. The second transplant pushed me even further, and again, God was faithful.

With the third transplant, I never left her side. She'd wake up asking the doctors and nurses, "Where's my husband?" I slept on a sofa four feet from her bed so I could be there every moment. The doctors urged me to leave for a few hours sometimes, saying they couldn't help me if I broke down—that if I was going to help her psychologically, I needed to stay well myself.

God, I miss her. I'd read the Bible to her. Pray with her. Hold her. That last conversation. I replay it constantly. She still had the breathing tube in, but they woke her up before the procedure. I'd finally cut my hair. It had gotten so long and greasy after months in that hospital. She was rubbing my head, feeling this new boot camp cut. I put my head down on her belly, my ear right there against her, and I told her I loved her. She just kept rubbing the back of my head.

Then they said it was time. They started wheeling her bed out. I'd seen them do it before, so many times. I didn't know. I didn't know this was the last time. But I've always tried to live with no regrets, so I yelled out into that hallway: "I love you, honey!" She gave me a thumbs up. The doctor yelled back, "She says she loves you too!"

That was it. The last thing we said to each other.

Coming home, the emptiness is everywhere. We've passed an anniversary, her birthday. Sometimes I imagine her still here. In our bathroom, her things remain exactly where she left them. Her clothes hang in the same places. The silence is deafening—no voice, no "Mom" from the kids, no sounds from the kitchen where she used to bake, no phone playing bingo games or NCIS episodes.

I wasn't ready for this. This is grief. I'd heard the word but had no idea what it meant. I can't believe I lived this long without understanding. But talking to other widows and widowers, I've learned I'm not alone—many of them had never experienced it either. It's so overwhelming it feels like it will crush you. The only comfort seems to be curling up and retreating into darkness.

This level of pain is staggering. But as I reflect, as I talk to others who understand, I've realized something: this is the price of love. The price of closeness. The price of two becoming one.

I am learning that there is a profound difference between feeling my grief and being defined by it. So when that wave of pain finds me, whether for a moment or a day, I try to honor it, because I know that to honor the pain is to honor the love that created it. My goal isn't to build a life where I never feel this again, but to acknowledge its depth and continue to navigate my path forward, letting my memory of Esther be my light.

And even though it hurts. Even though it tears me apart. Even though some days feel impossible to bear.

Since this is the price of having loved my wife, Esther, I would never, ever change it.

I'm glad I loved her with everything I had. I'm glad we became one. This grief, as unbearable as it is, is simply the other side of the most precious thing I've ever known.

If this is the cost of loving Esther, I accept it. I would pay it again. Because she was worth every moment, every tear, every ache that remains.

This is what love costs. And she was worth it all.