Recently, we parted ways with our former home. It wasn’t a momentous occasion; homes change hands every day, and we hadn’t actually lived there for years. After relocating to the suburbs, we opted to lease it out instead of navigating the chaotic post-bubble real estate scene. For the past six years, various young adults have called that house their home.
While I appreciated the reliable tenants we had, my role as a landlord felt like a weight lifted. Yet, a persistent and deep-seated feeling of sadness lingered. I found myself considering a two-hour drive to bid farewell—not to the house itself, but to the small patch of earth in front.
Nearly seven years ago, we had planted a vibrant hibiscus right there. Seeking to brighten the property, we invested in an array of gardening supplies and plants. We filled planters with colorful blooms and even attempted to grow tomatoes. That hibiscus, surrounded by a riot of impatiens, was not just decorative; it served a deeper purpose.
Just days before the planting, we had faced the silence of an ultrasound machine, devoid of the reassuring heartbeat we longed for. Instead, we were met with the unsettling stillness that marked the end of a hope—a hope that had already begun to blossom within me. I left the hospital not only empty but carrying an ache that felt like it snatched a piece of my soul.
As my partner, Jake, tended to the garden in the hot sun, I observed, hoping my grief could somehow be buried alongside the plant’s roots. Unbeknownst to us, our gardening became a quiet farewell, with the hibiscus serving as an unintentional memorial.
With the earth packed tightly around it, I thought we could finally move forward. Yet, the following months were among the darkest of my life. The economy was in freefall, Jake was overwhelmed by job-related anxiety, and I found myself trapped in a cycle of despair. I swung between anger and a profound emptiness, all while navigating fertility treatments and the stark reality of single lines on pregnancy tests. Yet, even as I passed that hibiscus, an unexpected sense of peace washed over me, albeit briefly.
A year later, we moved, and unfortunately, that plant didn’t survive. If I’m honest, it likely wouldn’t have thrived even if we had stayed. The soil was poor, the sunlight scarce, and my gardening skills left much to be desired.
So many memories are tied to that house: bringing my eldest son home on a chilly October day, hosting dinner parties in our snug kitchen, and dancing in the cramped living room. Yet, amid these recollections, the flower—and the wood chips that filled its space—stands out most vividly, evoking a complex blend of emotions.
Though the plant was a tribute to our pain, over time it transformed into a symbol of our strength. Through our struggles, Jake and I grew closer, and from the sadness of that flower, a deeper love and appreciation emerged. Out of that experience sprouted an unyielding hope and an extraordinary faith.
A few years back, while tidying up the yard, I noticed the semicircle of bricks still marking the spot where the flower once thrived. I paused, whispered a goodbye to our lost little one, and expressed gratitude for our younger son, born a couple of years later. I didn’t dwell but acknowledged the past before moving on.
Yet, as I awaited confirmation from our attorney that the sale had concluded, my thoughts kept drifting back to that hibiscus plant and the emotions it encapsulated. Why, after all this time, did I feel so unsettled? Why did it feel like I was grieving anew? Why did saying goodbye to something that represented such a painful chapter leave me feeling so conflicted?
Grief is rarely logical. Society often dismisses the pain of miscarriage, suggesting we shouldn’t mourn as we would for other losses. People kindly remind us that it wasn’t meant to be, while well-meaning friends say things like, “It wasn’t a healthy fetus.” But despite all the rational explanations, I felt an undeniable, almost irrational sense of loss. It’s the raw truths of love, grief, hope, and fear that make our human experience so beautifully complex.
We leave fragments of ourselves in so many places, and my sorrow is intertwined with that patch of dirt on Nelson Street. Yet, from that same spot, I carry forward hope, resilience, and courage. Perhaps the essence of our journey lies not in what we leave behind, but in what we choose to carry with us.
Goodbye, home on Nelson Street. Goodbye, flower that once bloomed. Goodbye. But dear angel, you will always be a part of me.
If you’re navigating similar feelings, you might find solace in our other blog posts on home insemination kits or check out Healthline for fantastic resources on pregnancy and related topics.
Summary
This reflective piece explores the deep emotions tied to miscarriage and the symbolism of a hibiscus plant planted in memory of lost hopes. It captures the bittersweet journey of grief, resilience, and the memories associated with a former home. Ultimately, it highlights the importance of what we carry with us through life’s challenges.