Updated: Feb. 9, 2021
Originally Published: April 12, 2015
We recently sold our home. While the process itself wasn’t particularly momentous—houses change hands every day, and we hadn’t occupied that house in years—the decision stirred deep emotions within me. After relocating to the suburbs, we opted to rent our former home rather than navigate the unpredictable post-bubble real estate market. Over the past six years, various young adults have made that house their residence.
Though we had responsible tenants, I felt a sense of relief in ending my role as a landlord. Yet, a significant part of me—a persistent and undeniable part—felt unsettled and sorrowful. I found myself contemplating making the lengthy drive back to the city, not to bid farewell to the house itself, but to a small patch of earth in front of it.
Around seven years ago, we planted a vibrant hibiscus in that little patch of soil. Eager to add color to our surroundings, we invested in numerous gardening tools and a variety of plants. We adorned our entrance with planters filled with bright flowers whose names I couldn’t recall, planted tomatoes along the side, and encircled the hibiscus with an array of colorful impatiens. We claimed it was merely for decoration, but deep down, we were expressing our grief.
The week before, we had stared at the quiet ultrasound machine, listening only to static. There was no rhythmic heartbeat, just the technician’s calm breaths as we grappled with our loss. Shortly after, I left the hospital carrying the weight of my sorrow, a loss that felt like a piece of my soul was missing.
As my partner, Tom, worked in the sun, I stepped back, hoping my sadness would be buried alongside the roots. Unintentionally, the act of gardening became a sort of memorial, with the hibiscus serving as our headstone.
I thought that with the earth firmly pressed around the roots, we could move on. But the ensuing months were among the darkest of my life. Tom was engulfed in job-related stress as the economy faltered, while I spiraled into despair—oscillating between anger directed at everyone and an overwhelming emptiness. My world revolved around fertility treatments and the anticipation of pregnancy tests. Yet, every time I passed the hibiscus, a fleeting sense of peace washed over me.
A year later, we moved, and the plant did not survive. To be honest, it likely wouldn’t have thrived even if we had remained; the soil was poor, the sunlight insufficient, and my gardening skills left much to be desired.
There were countless memories tied to that house: bringing my oldest son home on a chilly October morning, hosting dinner parties in our compact kitchen, dancing in the living room, and navigating the trials of new motherhood. Yet, of all these memories, the hibiscus and the wood chips that replaced it linger most vividly, carrying a complex mix of emotions.
The plant was a symbol of our grief, but over time, it evolved into a testament to our strength and resilience. Through our heartache, Tom and I grew closer, fostering a love that blossomed from our struggles. From that flower’s roots sprang a profound sense of hope and faith.
Years later, while tidying up the property, I noticed the semicircle of bricks still framing the spot where the hibiscus once thrived. I paused, whispered a farewell to our angel, and offered gratitude for our younger son, born after that painful chapter. I took a moment to reflect before moving on.
As I awaited confirmation of the sale from our lawyer, my thoughts gravitated toward that hibiscus, the bricks enveloping it, the grief buried in the soil, and the hope that emerged from it. This reaction puzzled me; I rarely reflected on the miscarriage or that flower anymore. Why did I feel as though I was mourning once more? Why was I saddened to say goodbye to something that represented such a difficult period in our lives?
My feelings were not rooted in logic. Society often devalues the grief associated with miscarriage; it is not openly discussed or mourned in the same manner as other losses. People often say, “It wasn’t meant to be,” or “It will happen when the time is right.” However, regardless of rational explanations, I experienced an undeniable and profound sense of loss.
The human experience is laced with complex emotions—love, grief, hope, and faith—each intertwined in ways that defy logic. We leave fragments of ourselves in various places, and my grief remains in that dirt on Nelson Street. Yet, I have also carried resilience and courage with me from that patch of earth.
Perhaps it’s less about what we leave behind and more about what we carry forward that truly matters.
Goodbye, home on Nelson Street. Goodbye, flower that once was, and the patch of dirt that remains. Goodbye. But, dear angel, you will always be with me.
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In summary, this reflection on loss intertwines grief with resilience, highlighting the emotional complexity surrounding miscarriage while acknowledging the enduring hope we carry with us.