Day That Shall Not Be Named

I’m thinking of my Bunny today, as I’m sure many of you ruminate on lost children or babies still confined to your dreams. I stumbled across a sentence in my reading that I want to share with all the childless mothers looking for a safe space to breathe today. It goes,

…I wonder if hope might be the most precious thing we have, even more than love, for if we love but cannot hope, we live in a bleak world.

B and I have been wrestling with some powerful uncertainties and pending test results since I wrote last that cast a very complicated light over the future of our embryos and our chance at biological children, and it’s natural, I think, to become conditioned to expect disaster when this crazy life has wended its way without warning into so many violent upheavals. Lord knows we have love in abundance: it’s the love (even when it’s unrequited) that makes us hurt. Today, if you’re squirming in the darkness of longing and despair, find the courage to let the sun shine in just a little, wish upon a star, believe in the inevitability of brighter days.

In a few minutes, I’m going to slide into my sneakers and let my feet carry me until the feelings turn to vapor, and then I’m spending the day in the soil, planting, cultivating life in other ways. John Steinbeck lived out his last years – infirm, aware that he was dying – at his cottage in Sag Harbor, where he whiled away his remaining hours with his hands in the earth, sowing seeds he knew he’d never see blossom. Like him, steeped in death as I am right now, there’s therapy in immersing myself in blooming lilacs and the sweet little nest that appeared just outside my living room window.

IMG_2905It’s like borrowing hope from the grass and the birds and the tree we planted soon after we lost the baby, which now resides happily in our backyard, devouring the sunlight and rainwater, green with the promise of new life after death. Be gentle with yourself today, sister-friends, and maybe a little selfish if you’re not strong enough to bend with tradition and the expectations of others. And like Anne Frank, who found solace in a chestnut tree,

Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy.

…just for a minute, just to survive this day. Love to you all ❤

14 thoughts on “Day That Shall Not Be Named

  1. A lovely post. I’m loading up my shots this morning as I enter my 4th IVF cycle. I too will be planting in my garden today. I live in Sag Harbor not far from Steinbecks cottage. Spring is in full throws here, finally. If you ever want to come out for a visit I would love to meet you and make you tea.
    Thanks for the words and for making me feel like I am not alone. Xx

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  2. This post brought tears to my eyes. Your hope and grace are a thing to behold.

    That I have not left words of empathy here until now is something I regret. I think of you often with love and hope in my heart, sending love and light.

    Abiding with you on this day that should not be named, and every day.

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  3. Thank you again for this post today. I read this earlier in the morning and it helped get me going on this difficult day. I have been reflecting on last year at this time, and though much has happened in a year, fundamentally nothing has changed. I am still childless, battling infertility while those around me build families and seem to move on with adult life. Thinking about you later in the day, while I fight to make today about more than loss and longing, I realize that something IS very different this year compared to last – I feel stronger. Thank you for putting your emotions into words to help the rest of us. I hope the garden turns out beautifully.

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  4. Thank you for being brave to post your feelings into words. I sit here reading them and sigh with relief that on this day i am not alone with the feelings of hiding from everyone.

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  5. Robins! I found one this week, too. Four perfect blue eggs, such a symbol of hope, especially in this community. I hope watching them hatch and grow brings you hope. And the lilacs.. Yours must be ready to bloom, too, right? Ours are just starting to open, the first whiff of perfume releasing into the air. It’s a cliche, yes, but it really is the time to hope, if you can manage. I’m glad you can at least imagine being hopeful.

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    • They hatched, maybe even on Mother’s Day, or at least that’s when I noticed her flying back and forth with worms hanging out of her mouth. I saw the little guys too, all googly eyed with their translucent beaks stretched open for food. IDK about hope, but it’s been really cool to watch!

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  6. I’m way behind in your posts… But I just love you for trying to lift us up even in your own despair. You are a ray of sunshine! Wishing you god speed!

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    • Oh gosh, not sure I’m doing much lifting! I mostly have posted a lot about hope and coping, but I think it’s only fair to be honest about the dark stuff for those who might be reading and need to hear they’re in good company,

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