Bubble Umbrellas and Christmas Melodies

August 21, 2021

My favorite part about today is the rain. At the end of August, a near- end-of-summer month, the act of reaching for my bubble umbrella feels like a shift towards fall, a transition I’ve been longing for since July.

It’s been a long summer.

When people ask how our summer has been, I say, “Good, I’m just really ready for the fall.” What I really want to say is “I’m ready for Christmas.” Because surely by Christmas— and this is something I don’t say out loud — the sadness and confusion from my pregnancy loss might not feel so hard to carry.

And surely by Christmas, the anxiety from Nora’s summer hospital admission might subside. 

And, maybe by December, I won’t be so frightened by the reality that a virus, COVID or otherwise, has the very real potential to result in respiratory failure for my daughter.

By Christmas, things will be different. Right?

Today, at the end of August, the rain was an excuse to listen to Christmas music, layer blankets on my family, pop popcorn, snuggle on the couch and watch Charlie Brown Christmas. The rain brought a flood of hope— promises of all things tilting towards new seasons. And yet, while I’m looking forward to the fall, I don’t want to rush away from here and now — the final few weeks of summer. Because there is something inside me that wishes to hold tight to this summer: the details of my pregnancy, the memory of my baby, my grief.

I’ve been writing since the start of summer, since I first thought I might be pregnant. The desire to re-read, edit, write, or even share anything at all comes and goes. While writing and sharing pieces of my life hasn’t felt exceptionally natural lately, I have been slowly pulling from my pregnancy journal and writer-notebook to create a collection of brief essays I plan to share in this space in the weeks to come. This has been an important process as it reminds me of a few things: 1) I was pregnant with my third child, and now I’m not— our baby existed, 2) I’m surrounded by love, and 3) grief charts its own course.

For those of you who are in the space to stay, thank you in advance for walking with me and my family. We’re forever grateful you choose to love and encourage us through all circumstances. Cheers to rain clouds, bubble umbrellas, and Christmas melodies long before fall.

With love,

Jesse