One of my significant objectives this year has been to thoroughly declutter my home. This endeavor extends beyond merely sorting through toys, shredding outdated documents, and clearing out unworn clothing from our wardrobes. It is about the aspiration—and the belief—that I can lead a lighter, more joyful, and fulfilling life with less. This journey involves discerning what I genuinely need and mustering the courage to part with items that no longer serve a purpose in my life. Objects that hold little influence over the authenticity of the memories they symbolize, such as a T-shirt from a charity run or a concert ticket stub. Regardless of these items, the experiences and emotions remain intact.
As I navigate each room, evaluating the myriad belongings that fill my space and contemplating whether to discard or retain them, I’ve come to recognize that the motivations behind our attachment to items—guilt (children’s stuffed animals), hope (my pre-pregnancy jeans), nostalgia (the shoes worn on my wedding day), and sorrow (my late dog’s bee costume)—are often the same reasons we ultimately find the strength to let go.
A Bowl of Memories
Eight years ago, I crafted a bowl during a pottery class while on a summer family vacation in Colorado. I took the class because, at that time, my options were limited. Being five months pregnant, activities like horseback riding, biking, or even enjoying a drink in the hotel lobby were off-limits. Even walking to the spa for a prenatal massage left me breathless due to the altitude.
The bowl I created was both unattractive and beautiful; flawed in its design yet beautiful because it represented a moment of creation from my own hands. The resort kindly shipped it home, and to my surprise, it arrived intact. It survived several moves before finding its place on a modest white shelf above the bathroom toilet—an odd location, perhaps, but where else could it go?
Initially, I should have discarded it upon its arrival (its appearance was unappealing), but I held onto it as it reminded me of the treasured summer spent reveling in the bliss of my second trimester. The initial nausea and fatigue had faded; my belly was round yet comfortable, and I enjoyed ample time to dream of strollers, diaper bags, and baby names. It felt magical.
Reflections on Loss
However, there was more to my attachment. While first pregnancies often feel enchanting, this wasn’t technically my first. That honor belonged to a pregnancy I experienced a year and a half earlier, coinciding with a different family vacation—a cruise to the Caribbean. After taking a home pregnancy test, I hurried to my doctor, who wished me well and advised caution regarding the local water in Mexico, promising an ultrasound upon my return.
What I recall most vividly from that trip, aside from the night I miscarried, was the abundance of Christmas cookies everywhere. It was impossible to enter any room on that ship without encountering a tower of beautifully decorated treats.
Shortly after returning home, I found myself in the hospital. Despite severe pain during the cruise, tests indicated I was approximately eight weeks pregnant. However, the ultrasound revealed a different story. Heartbroken, I counted backward from 100 in the operating room, uncertain if I would wake up with one less fallopian tube or worse. Fortunately, I emerged intact, but the relief was fleeting, as the tissue found in my uterus indicated a molar pregnancy—a growth of abnormal cells that could never develop into a baby.
This cruel twist led me to a gynecological oncologist just weeks later, as molar pregnancies can evolve into something more sinister, known as choriocarcinoma, a type of uterine cancer. In the following months, I underwent weekly chemotherapy treatments and spent the next year having my hormone levels monitored, as the cancer was treatable but could have posed serious risks if undetected.
In a peculiar way, my first pregnancy was magical; it was an illusion of immense proportions, a vanishing act I had never witnessed before. I longed for a child but instead faced cancer, watching everything I believed in dissolve before my eyes.
Though I never liked the lopsided, grotesque tulip bowl I fashioned during that summer in Colorado, I kept it because I believed it symbolized the arduous journey I endured to regain my life and trust. To rise from my falls, heal, and ultimately cherish the joy of a real pregnancy and the arrival of my baby.
Ultimately, however, it was merely a bowl—an unsightly one at that. So, I discarded it, realizing that the memory of that magical time would always reside within me, independent of any physical object. For those navigating the complex journey of home insemination, additional resources and insights can be found at this article. Also, explore more about the process at Make a Mom, a trusted authority on the subject, and learn what to expect during your journey at Parents, an excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination.