It’s an understatement to say November 10th was a terrible day.
It’s the date Jim was handed a radiologist’s report and read the words “metastatic disease.” And then the devastated two of us headed out of a Boston hospital into a cold, black early night. If any color seeped from that night’s sunset, I didn’t see it.
No light. No hope.
If that day had not come as it did, engendering all the days in between, then this year I would not have found myself celebrating the November 10th birthday of a little girl who hadn’t yet been born on that deeply dark day.
I met her mom only because the universe’s butterfly wing machinations somehow had deposited the two of us on the same stage last spring to tell our stories about “Coming Home.” Her story was about bringing her newborn daughter home from the hospital. Mine was about bringing my husband home to die, four endless short months after that November 10th.
And after watching her daughter blow out the candles on her Elmo cake–flickering lights laced with wishes, the very definition of hope–I headed back to a new home Jim never saw, complete with a puppy he never knew.
Within sight of the same Boston hospital where my young husband received the news he certainly would soon die, I caught a glimpse of old and new perfectly lit by a stunning sky. The sunset lingered, turning to bright orange and purple. Violet light burst from the base of my favorite bridge. Its cables fanned out against the lipstick sunset, echoing Old Ironsides’ gorgeously complicated rigging.
Even on this day, it’s impossible not to feel buoyed by such a sight.
Oh, and my lovely little friend, born November 10, is Lucia Esperanza.
Light and hope.
Love in the Spaces 
Just saw a vibrant, deeply purpled and reddened sunset out my own window…and I think to myself What a Wonderful World. (that was the song that my daughter & I danced to at her wedding….she sang it in Children’s Choir and Jim used to sing it with his barbershop quartet)
One of my favorite songs, and one of the first my baby girl would sing along to even before she understood the words….good memories…..
How sad, yet hopeful and beautiful.These remembrances make us sad and bring us joy at having known this wonderful young doctor. As we age we have a splendid memories of Jim and what a remarkable person he was. You bring us the words to remember him with such pleasure.
I’m glad–words are all I’ve got….along with the occasional photograph.
Deeply touching, but full of hope. A powerful post. Thank you for sharing and making me think.
And thank you for reading and your kind words.
Thank you for sharing this powerful and poignant life story. Ether hugs 🙂
Thank you–ether hugs back 🙂
Esperanza is one of my favorite names….but did not fit our family for obvious reasons, but I just love how it sounds in Spanish; Yang in Chinese is much harder to pronounce for me. All the same, hope is a beautiful thing, and something I didn’t fully appreciate until despair played its role.
Hope and despair, like sorrow and kindness–you have to know one deeply to feel the immensity of the other
Reblogged this on Love in the Spaces and commented:
November 10th. It was the worst of days; it was the best of days…..
all we can do is hope to be buoyed when needed. Love you. thank you for this magnificent share. ❤
You have buoyed me more than you know ❤
These anniversaries of loss are hard. I’m glad you had a shining light to brighten the darkness of yours.