I used to have this notion of the life that would follow my heavy grief and recovery years. Read more
Pulling into the parking lot, we were overcome by an unanticipated wave of families with young children. Someone decollapsed and snapped into position a twin stroller as I got out of my car. On my right, as I walked into the garden center, a set of grandparents were suspended in time, gazing oozingly at their grandchild before re-entering their vehicle.
It was Good Friday, and Holy Shit indeed. Read more
A settled chill hung in the air as we hurriedly pulled into the flower shop on our way to buy groceries.
“Why don’t we get them at Whole Foods? Whole Foods has flowers.” my husband pointed out irritably.
I slammed the car door without a word and stomped into the flower shop, disregulated autonomic nervous system and all.
I respectfully waited for the owner to take a funeral order as my autonomic nervous system failed miserably to adjust to the cold (which is typically hard on people with dysautonomia as well as other neuropathies). But knowing what it’s like to have a loss that is not societally regarded in any way, I was not about to impatiently huff and pout in the face of someone else’s moment of acknowledgement.
I ordered an arrangement of white flowers in a low, square vase as my lightheadedness ballooned and the room spun a bit, perhaps from both the cold and harsh reality. Read more
An infertility survivor’s early summer musings
I had gotten through Father’s Day without much flinching. These milestones, or non-milestones, depending upon how you look at it seem to, in me lately, provoke the question: Does it get easier, or am I getting stronger? Read more
It was a balmy day here on Long Island. The misty fog that enveloped the south shore temporarily made our yard feel more like a movie set as my husband and I made our way through it, doing our final clipping and clean up in what is an unusually warm December.
“Did you see the Forsythia?” he asked towards the end of our seasonal odyssey that starts in April. Read more
It was towards the end of April on Long Island following the never ending cumbersome winter of 2014 as I looked into the “eyes” of purple pansies, our first purchased flowers of the season. At least a couple of weeks late for pansies, the weather had just started to cooperate, for a day here and there, and my husband and I were ready to initiate the slow yet glorious re-immersion into our yard. Aside from a strong mid to late March showing of my most revered flower, the crocus, the coming of spring had felt like a long awaited prize dangling just out of arms reach. Our last fertility treatment had failed on January 31. With all of my energy since then going towards humble attempts at putting one foot in front of the other, I had been able to give thought to little else. So the jolt I got looking at the purple pansies was sudden and unexpected. “I DON’T know how I’ve been doing this without you,” my soul spoke to the pansies. (Yes, I’m compelled to speak to plants. What of it??) The abysmal state of dealing with this awfulness for three whole months with practically NO garden suddenly took on a poignant significance. Because when life forces you to go through excruciating, traumatic, unbearable crap, better to do it with a garden than without one. Read more