The Unspeakable Spoken

A few months after we lost our son Gibson in 2022, a friend and I went to the Ahmanson Theater in Downtown LA to see the musical Hadestown, a modern re-telling of the mythic tale of Orpheus and Eurydice.

Our young dreamer, Orpheus, falls in love with a beautiful, but plagued Eurydice. In the midst of a harsh winter, Eurydice struggles to survive and ultimately makes a deal with The God of the Underworld, Hades, to end her suffering in exchange for her life. Devastated, Orpheus chases after his love into the very depths of Hell, hoping to make a deal to bring her back to life. Orpheus puts up a good fight, and yet, we all know how the story must end. The finality of death cannot be escaped. As the show’s narrator and guide, Hermes, sings to us, “It’s a sad song. We’re gonna sing it anyways.”

The truth is that life is full of sad songs. And yet, the power and beauty of love are entirely irresistible. We return to it, time and again, despite the temporal and fleeting nature of life that is sure to follow. Maybe not today, or tomorrow… but eventually, the cycle of life and death will complete itself. It cannot be controlled, no matter how hard we try. Love and loss are inescapably intertwined, and yet, what a beautiful thing it is that we, as the musical’s lyrics sang, “know how it ends and still begin to sing it again, as if it might turn out this time.”

Hope and love offer us a sense of purpose and fulfillment. They bring life into technicolor and explode past the boundaries of suffering and despair that bombard us at every turn. We make the choice to see the world this way, to sing these songs every day because it creates beauty and redemption that we desperately crave.

We call up old friends to see how they’re doing. We search for people to invest in and with whom we can share our lives. We carry on holiday traditions to honor past loved ones. We help those around us who are hurting and in need.

And sometimes, we grow families of our own…

Last year, after the loss of our second child Elaine, I never thought I would be willing to take the risk of trying to have a baby again. I felt hopeless, angry, and alone. But hope and love are persistent. They etch away at even the hardest of stone. I found myself buoyed by the sheer power of my own resilience and strength. I found safety and comfort in having a partner like Dustin who could be trusted and relied upon. I found that a single seed of hope ultimately could drown out the cacophony of fear and anxiety shouting in my head. Even though, in the back of my mind, a voice was still loudly insisting, “You’d have to be f-ing crazy to do that again.”

Apparently, we were at least a little crazy, because we decided we would give pregnancy another try. (A choice that felt right to us at the time, but in no way, is the choice that every family should or will make, by the way.)

I’m very grateful to report that we are currently about 6 1/2 weeks away from delivering another beautiful, baby girl. Our scheduled delivery date is May 20^th, 2024. So far, things seem to be progressing normally and both the baby and I are doing well. Dustin and I are cautiously optimistic by all that we see and hear at our doctor visits, and we are praying that the remainder of the pregnancy and birth experience is as uneventful (in a good way) as the pregnancy has been to date. We take it appointment by appointment. Day by day. Literally sometimes, moment to moment. Knowing that whatever comes, we’re in it together and that we have all of you behind us, supporting us.

Are we hopeful? Yes.

Are we excited? Yes.

Are we scared? Double yes.

Are we struggling? Absolutely.

Are we grieving? Still.

Carrying so many conflicting emotions at once results in a numbing factor where it’s hard to feel anything in full. At times, it feels like no matter what I do, I’m cheating some part of myself in the process. When I allow myself too much excitement, I hit a crippling wall of panic and anxiety based on personal experience. When I spend too much time in fear, I feel guilty at robbing myself and my current baby from the happiness that this current reality should bring. It’s like I’m always a step outside of two different versions of the world, and it is difficult belonging to both and neither at the same time.

After coming face to face with so much tragedy the last few years, it is impossible for me to live in the blissful ignorance of all that could go wrong related to bringing a baby into this world. I really wish I could. I wish, more than anything, to just be normal. To never have experienced such pain and to live completely blind to all the horrible possibilities. Or, even to be at a place of simple acceptance. What I wouldn’t give to be free of the burden of knowing.

Yet, there are no guarantees in life, especially as it relates to creating and raising a child. A fact I’m continually reconciling and learning to accept.

What I’ve grown to appreciate over the last few years though, is that when we open ourselves up to the vulnerability and possibility of giving our hearts to another, what spills in is the very meaning of life. The cycle of love and loss cannot be escaped this side of heaven. It is relentless in both its gift and its pain. What is gained in the process of loving another, however, makes it worth singing the song.

And so, we sing it again, and again.