“The sun will come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun. Just thinkin’ about tomorrow, clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow, til there’s none.” How those lines from Annie lit me up on the inside when I first heard them! One of the few records I owned, I still can see its bright red artwork, hear the swell of song, and recall myself repeating the lyrics. Even though I was no downtrodden orphan, Annie walked right into my heart, her optimism fueling mine. 

[As a funny aside, G never wanted anything to do with Annie. I always said the veil between fiction and non-fiction for her was very thin. To wit, we had to walk out of a live community production Cinderella in Amherst as she was overcome with how mean the step-mother and sisters were. Later, we left The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in Leland because one of the actors was a neighbor, and G was terrified about what was happening to Abby.]

*

Nineteen years ago, my perinatologist decreed the end of six months of bedrest. “Even if you might be nervous, I need you to get up and start moving right now,” she said. “You have to be strong enough to care for your baby.” She also told us that G was positioned head-down. These things were so important then. 

There were blue skies in southern California as I put on my swimsuit. We went to Gelsons for what I was craving: fruit and vegetables, fresh bread and paté. Plus lamb chops and spinach for dinner. And then on to the outdoor YMCA pool tucked into the Santa Monica mountains. 

Once in the pool I was overwhelmed by a lightness of being—physically, emotionally and spiritually. Such a contrast to the laps I swam in grief and repair a year prior, and in years of infertility before that. As the sun once warmed my back, I used to imagine a baby spirit hopping on board, vetting me: would she make a good mama? And me, inviting him or her along on the ride. Of everything, I think swimming healed me most. 

On this day, I swam and moved and laughed and blissed out in the joy of having made it six months since my cervical surgery, and now safely into the land of potential healthy delivery. In the world of miscarriage and stillbirth, the calendar is all about viability. We had made it past mere viability to thirty seven weeks.

We went home with our amazing food, friends came by to visit, and later I cooked my first dinner in many moons. We watched Diner that night and remarked at the cast, crackling with potential themselves for careers we knew they would go on to manifest.

I went to bed about 10PM. That was today. Nineteen years ago.

*

What brought me to pen and paper this morning was a realization that then, for all of March 2, 2002, I had no idea what tomorrow would bring. Of course, we never do, do we?

In past reflections on this day—the swim, the meal, the movie—I always go straight to 12:01AM on March 3, as if we knew. Life told through the rear view mirror. 

But we didn’t know.

Today, nineteen years ago, was like any other day of not knowing what tomorrow will bring. 

It was a good day. It was not a day I might have consoled myself with “the sun will come out tomorrow.” The sun came out today. 

Here in Ohio, the sun is out today, as well. (But it is not outdoor swimming weather.)

We were excited for G to arrive, a small bag was packed, and X had put it in the trunk of my car.

*

The power of tomorrow seems to be a piece that is crossing a lot of minds right now as we cross soon into a year of Covid-land. Today, last year, we were still ignorant of the pandemic, or at least its scale. There were whispers of it at a fabulous leap-year dinner party. But not at the Russian Turkish Baths (at least that we could hear). We indulged in everyday luxuries like sitting at a café and “watching the world go by,” as my mother would say. 

Generally speaking, the power of tomorrow reminds us of the potential for regret but also the potential for pleasure in the present: small things like putting your face in the sun. Tasting a strawberry. Sitting in a comfortable chair. Listening to birds’ chatter. Going for a walk. Taking a deep breath.

The power of tomorrow really reveals itself in retrospect. Both for the highs and the lows. For accidents, deaths, near-misses, serendipities, and yes, births. 

Maybe the knowledge of what happens tomorrow forever shines a light on today in memory. Maybe we paint our yesterday-memories in colors to complement or contrast with tomorrow once it is revealed. 

But the potential of tomorrow also lies in what we do with today. Looking back nineteen years, I see a day in which we did soak up the good, almost preternaturally so. 

I also know that today, nineteen years ago, was not without concern. We had three more weeks for G to be full-term. There was so much unknown and a faint shadow of fear hidden in every corner. Fear based on experience.

The reality is that as much as we live for tomorrow, much of the time, we have no idea what it will deliver, good or ill. 

I suppose what I really want to say, having seen some darker days both then and now, is that: when it’s a good day, I want to remind myself to really see it. To really juice that moment. 

I may be romantic in memory, but I think we did. In some ways, it may have been one of the best days ever. I had not been out of bed since September except to use the commode or take a shower. It was like Christmas Eve, but we didn’t know. Or maybe somehow, we did. 

*

We make our stories once we have lived, not as we are living.

When I finish writing, what will I do? Will I follow my plan or will I trip and fall? Will the phone ring? Or will I get sent in a new direction? Will the dog have his own ideas? Will G need something?

This started as a reflection on the power of tomorrow, of what may come, and of what will come when we see it in reverse. But right this minute, I am noticing that I want to make some tea and go sit in the winter sun. I want to juice today a bit and soak in a moment of quiet and gratitude for having made it through darker days, and in acceptance of the fact that I have no idea, really, what will happen next, a source of angst for me at times. Clearly, a source of delight, too.

*

At 12:01AM tomorrow, I woke up to a puddle of water with cervical stitches still in place, and the race was on with hair-raising twists and turns until 6:19PM, eighteen hours later, when she arrived.

In the remembering of today, I want to say what I know I would have said then, if I had known all of this: Thank You.

Above all, thank you for her safe arrival.

Thank you for nineteen years of undiluted unexpected adventure: a ride of the highest highs and the lowest lows.

My greatest teacher, I said then, and I still say now.

*

And thank you for tomorrow, whatever it brings.

Image above of YMCA’s Temescal Pool that sadly no longer exists. Nor does our old home down the street.