... my husband, I mean. The other night while I was showering, a memory surfaced. I'm not sure why it picked that specific moment to come up (I have my ideas, but that's a story for another day).
When I was 17 weeks pregnant with my son, we had our "big ultrasound" (where you find out the sex, but we didn't because we're the ones who enjoy driving everyone else nuts by not "needing to prepare"). Instead, we found out that my triple screen (for neural tube defects and genetic abnormalities) had come back abnormal and that there were some abnormalities on the ultrasound that were markers for genetic problems. One evening while we were still reeling from all of that, I was lying on the couch and had a huge gush of blood. I. was. terrified. It's funny how your brain protects itself. I was too scared to think at all, yet I had the presence of mind to gather all reminders of what had just happened and the pregnancy itself and put them away. I was so sure that the next time I walked through my front door I would no longer be pregnant.
The car ride to the hospital and wait in the emergency room were like a dream... a bad one. I didn't know what was going on inside, but I did know that it was bad. And it had to be over. It was too good to be true after all. I was numb, not really processing much. When they put the doppler on my belly and we immediately heard a strong "whoosh whoosh whoosh," I cried. I wasn't sure if it was relief that the baby was still alive or horror that I was about to deliver a live, healthy, very non-viable baby because my body was failing again. At one point they told me that they saw some tissue (like ruptured membranes) coming out, later they said no, it was just blood. Finally there was an ultrasound and we were no closer to figuring out what was going on. Over the course of hours and several doctors, we began to understand that I wasn't dilated, they didn't think my membranes were ruptured, the baby was doing well, and nobody knew where the bleeding was coming from. I was to be admitted overnight for observation.
While I waited in the ED for a room upstairs, my husband ran home to take care of the dogs and get clothes. Throughout the whole ordeal, he'd never shown any sign that he was shaken at all. And I was too distraught to realize that of course he was. He just calmly led me through the motions, held my hand tight when we listened for the heartbeat and when I got a catheter, sat close to me, joked, but only at the right time. He later told me that when he walked out of the hospital, he called our families to explain what was happening. First my family to ask them to call me since he was worried about leaving me alone. And then his. As soon as his mom answered the phone, finally relieved of his duty to be the strong one, finally able to be the frightened parent, he broke down and couldn't talk. Of all that we experienced that day, that is the only part of the story that still brings tears to my eyes.
I love him because he is my rock, and man do I need one. I love him because he's stood right by my side through the hell we've endured in our quest for parenthood. I love him because we've weathered storms together and understand this experience mutually. I love him because he allows me to grieve our losses in my own way. I love him because he loves being a Dad as much as I love being a Mom. And I love him because he is a darn good one, just ask our son.
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