Last week, we completed the sale of our home. While this event is routine—houses change hands every day—it felt significant to me. We hadn’t lived in that house for several years; after relocating to the suburbs, we opted to rent it out rather than navigate the unpredictable real estate market. Over the past six years, a variety of young tenants have called our old place home.
Though I had good tenants, I was relieved to step away from my responsibilities as a landlord. Yet, a part of me—a persistent and undeniable part—was filled with unease and sadness. I found myself contemplating a two-hour round trip to the city—not to bid farewell to the house itself but to the small patch of earth in front of it.
Nearly seven years prior, we planted a tall hibiscus in that patch of soil. Eager to add some color to the yard, we invested in gardening tools and an assortment of plants. We filled large pots with vibrant yellow, orange, and red flowers, planted tomatoes along the side, and surrounded the hibiscus with a riot of colorful impatiens. We told ourselves we were just enhancing the space, but deep down, we were mourning.
A week before the hibiscus was planted, we had faced the devastating silence of an ultrasound. There was no heartbeat, just static and the sound of the technician’s steady breathing. That day, I left the hospital with a deep emptiness, carrying the weight of a lost child.
As my partner, Ethan, worked in the garden beneath the blazing sun, I stood back, hoping my grief would take root alongside the plants. Without realizing it, our gardening became a funeral; the hibiscus served as a headstone for our loss. I thought that with the soil tightly packed down, we could move on. However, the months that followed were some of the darkest of my life. The economy faltered, and Ethan became consumed by job-related stress. I spiraled into despair, alternating between anger and a profound emptiness. My life revolved around fertility treatments and pregnancy tests, but every time I passed that hibiscus, a momentary wave of peace washed over me.
A year later, we moved, and the plant perished. Truthfully, it probably wouldn’t have survived even if we had stayed. The soil was rocky, the sunlight inadequate, and my gardening skills were far from exceptional.
Many memories linger from that house—bringing my eldest son home on a chilly October morning, hosting dinner parties in our tiny kitchen, and dancing in the cramped living room. Yet, of all the memories associated with our home on Nelson Street, that flower—and the wood chips that replaced it—stands out the most, embodying a complex mix of emotions.
Though the hibiscus was a tribute to our grief, it eventually became a symbol of our resilience. Through our pain, Ethan and I drew closer together. From the decay of that flower, we nurtured a love and appreciation for one another that transcended anything I had known before. From those roots sprang an unshakeable hope and an inexplicable faith.
A couple of years ago, while tidying up the property, I noticed a semicircle of bricks still encircling the spot where the flower had thrived. I paused there, whispered a farewell to our little angel, and offered a prayer of gratitude for our younger son, who was born after that painful chapter. I didn’t linger long but took a moment to remember, acknowledge, and then walk away. I moved on.
Yet, as I awaited word from our attorney confirming the sale, my thoughts kept drifting back to that hibiscus plant, the surrounding bricks, the grief buried in the soil, and the hope that had emerged from it. This reaction baffled me. I seldom reflect on the miscarriage or that flower now, so why did I feel so unsettled? Why did it feel like I was mourning all over again? And why did saying goodbye to something that represented such a painful period in our lives evoke sadness?
The feelings I experienced were anything but logical. In truth, my grief never made sense. Society often downplays the significance of miscarriages; they go unspoken, unacknowledged, and unhonored, unlike other forms of loss. Well-meaning individuals offer rationalizations: “It wasn’t meant to be,” or “It wasn’t a healthy fetus,” while optimists assure us that “it will happen when the time is right.”
Regardless of the logical and scientific explanations surrounding miscarriages, I felt an overwhelming and almost irrational sense of loss at the time. Perhaps every raw personal truth—love, grief, hope, mercy, faith, fear, forgiveness—carries a mysterious and illogical weight. This complexity is what makes the human experience both beautiful and challenging to comprehend.
We leave fragments of ourselves in various places, and my grief is rooted in the soil outside that house on Nelson Street. But as I scattered pieces of myself across the world, I also carried with me hope, gratitude, resilience, and courage. It may not be about what we leave behind but rather what we choose to carry forward that truly matters.
Farewell, house on Nelson Street. Farewell, flower that once bloomed and the patch of earth it occupied. Goodbye. Yet, my sweet angel, you will forever remain in my heart.
For those navigating similar paths, resources like this article can provide valuable insights into pregnancy and home insemination. Additionally, the journey of self insemination is explored in this post. Celebrate milestones along your journey as highlighted in this blog post.