Here’s a round-up of some of the experiences and senses that brought me into the present moment the last few weeks. In this, you’ll find some of the foods, snacks, shows, and books that I’ve been finding joy in this June.
June has been filled with dualities, which feels appropriate for Gemini season. It has been truly life and death, rainfall warnings and heat waves, emotional turbulence and newborn quietude, sour pineapple and sweet smoothies. My heart kept screaming in the early days of June, wishing for my brother. The first half of the month I was all-consumed with an anxiety that my baby would be born on the same day that my brother died. I spent many days on the phone pleading and sobbing with hospital attendants while my obstetrician was out of the country to make sure I could get this baby out early.
It took more of me than I’d like to admit to push for that, and I felt briefly awful taking up extra space in a medical setting. (I spent a lot of my childhood in hospitals for a health condition, so I try to avoid raising attention on my health where I can.) Thankfully, when my obstetrician returned, she was fighting for me and my mental health more than any healthcare provider ever has, and I was able to deliver Kylian on June 14th.
In the days that followed, we returned to the hospital for routine tests and my gut instincts had been validated. There were so many pregnant people and baby emergencies just after we were discharged, which meant I would have been bumped to the anniversary of Liam’s passing had I not fought for June 14th. I cried for new reasons: gratitude that something good could happen in a year of absolute heartbreak. I really didn’t appreciate how much my soul needed to meet this little baby until he arrived. It has been healing — not only within the context of a year, but healing to my younger, single parenting self — to experience a new baby in a safe and supportive environment.
My dad, a man of few emotional words, said something that has really stuck with me. Having lived a thousand different lives himself, some filled with more loss and sadness than I wish for him, he said that while some losses have stayed with him, nothing is to be taken for granted, and that life is so very precious. I appreciated this because it didn’t pander to the forced positivities that so often are recklessly thrown on grieving people — cherish the memories, be grateful for the time you did have together — which dismiss the heartbreak that comes with being robbed of time you thought you had. My brother was 28, a whole life ahead of him, and not only was his time robbed, our time to see him grow and find new paths in life was, too.
This second half of June has been happier and sleepier than I thought. For many days we’ve been living like mole-people with curtains drawn and fans blowing through a heat wave, nights on the back deck with a glass of wine, ice baths, take-out vegetables, and a revolving door of family from here and away. This time last year I felt so very alone in the world, like a piece of me had fractured off permanently when Liam died. This time eight years ago I also felt deeply alone as a new parent, realizing that life and partners don’t always work out the way you’d hoped for. To be surrounded by so many family members now, holding both our joys and our grief in gentle ways, feels like a huge gift to my past selves.
I’ve spent more time away from my phone, books, and television than I have in years, so my round-up is a little different, a little less, but I feel more full and alive than I have in nearly a decade.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to anthrodish essays to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.