A love letter to my husband.
This week I read a heart-breaking article by Brent Stoller, recounting his experience of his wife's miscarriage. What touched me most was his view of his wife and the powerlessness he felt; a bystander, while she experienced the immense physical and emotional trauma of miscarriage. I too recall the horror of miscarrying at home, at 11 and a half weeks, experiencing pain like I've never felt before and hearing my Husb desperate to help on the other side of the bathroom door. As I panted on all fours, experiencing painful and frequent contractions followed by the passing of substantial blood clots, I could hear him on the telephone to the ambulance service begging them, tearfully, to help.
Of course the experience traumatised me but, for Husb, on the other side of that door, I can only imagine what he was feeling, unable to do anything but simply be there. So, inspired by Brent's experience, here's a love letter to my Husb and to all partners who have supported their loved ones through the trauma of miscarriage and infertility.
Thank you for reading.
Darling,
How those early weeks meant everything to me - seeing you swathed in a light brought about by your hope of fatherhood. It was that look, that sense of purpose that I saw in you that made it all the more worth it, knowing that growing in my belly was our hope, our love. How your chest puffed with pride and I had never loved you more. During those precious weeks, you made my comfort and my health your priority. You never complained once when I watched the same film night after night, to take my mind off the endless waiting, anticipating our 12-week milestone. You thought it escaped me how, every night, you turned off the radio and tucked me into bed as I'd drifted off to sleep exhausted, albeit at 8pm, but I knew. I had never felt so loved.
The dream of our baby should have been a reality but, the day we saw my womb full of loss instead of life, the horror began and you, my love, you stood strong as we sobbed and clung together. In the days, months and years that followed, you stayed strong, like a lion, even though your heart was broken, never to be mended. How you managed to keep going, with a business to run and a home to manage, when I was falling apart, I'll never truly understand. Except that, during those years, you turned from simply being my husband, to being my hero. How I clung to your big arms and your big chest and drank from the reserves of your hope.
I didn't manage my grief well. Instead of pouring it away, I poured it onto you - on top of your own. You stayed upright. In fact, you grew taller in my eyes. You had the care and sense to call for help. To take me, kicking and screaming, to a counsellor, to make me realise that I had been locking away my fears and my tears. It was only then that I started to feel better. You did that for me, for us. And you, my darling, you found the strength to keep trying for our baby. Even though our loving marriage and playful bedtimes had descended into dark desperation and sorrow - how did you do that?
Through every appointment with doctors, nurses, high-rolling consultants, you were there to hold my hand. Ready to take the blame for our bad luck, even though you have been blameless throughout. Never pushing me, always supporting my choices, but always remaining hopeful - confident that, come what may, how ever it may, we WILL be parents. Through years of IVF, you did what I didn't have the courage to do, you plunged those needles into my body and, every time, I saw the sadness on your face as I winced. And, you never judged me or berated me for seeking comfort or hope in the craziest of schemes. All the shamans, psychics, healers - you didn't roll your eyes once!
Our first loss wasn't our only loss. After years of invasive treatment, we finally thought our dreams would be fulfilled. But it wasn't to be. How the grief had doubled - tripled! And yet still, you stood strong. You shielded me from the world, protecting me from every family baby announcement like a coat of armour. And, in doing so, you internalised your pain, until you broke.
And there we both were, at rock bottom, but still holding hands. The decision to find an egg donor wasn't easy for me. I kicked, I screamed (again) - my grief was replaced by rage and disbelief. But, as always, you let me be me. Not pushing or directing, just walking quietly alongside, ready to steady me if I stumbled.
Until today, when, again, we are pregnant. It's very early days and we've felt that the odds are against us but, once again your chest is puffed with pride and I see the twinkle in your eye that had been lost. We don't know what the future holds, except that I know what ever happens, you will be there. With some fresh fruit, a decaf tea, a foot-rub and so much more.
This journey is the hardest we've travelled yet but, when I look back at all the sadness and grief, I thank the universe that you are my husband. We have often asked ourselves if life without a child would be so bad - would we be content to be just us? We both still believe that we are meant to be parents. But that's not for the want of love for each other or a lack of contentment in our life together. It's the abundance of love that we share that makes us yearn for parenthood. We have plenty to go around and we are ready to give.
Darling, I tell you every day how much I love you, but I don't tell you enough how much I appreciate you. So this is my love letter to you, for everything you have been through, for every time I've clung to you, every time I've screamed or cried in pain, every time I've felt I can't go on and you've been there for me. One day a child will be lucky to call you father. But until then, I'm proud to call you my husband.
With all my love.
Of course the experience traumatised me but, for Husb, on the other side of that door, I can only imagine what he was feeling, unable to do anything but simply be there. So, inspired by Brent's experience, here's a love letter to my Husb and to all partners who have supported their loved ones through the trauma of miscarriage and infertility.
Thank you for reading.
Darling,
How those early weeks meant everything to me - seeing you swathed in a light brought about by your hope of fatherhood. It was that look, that sense of purpose that I saw in you that made it all the more worth it, knowing that growing in my belly was our hope, our love. How your chest puffed with pride and I had never loved you more. During those precious weeks, you made my comfort and my health your priority. You never complained once when I watched the same film night after night, to take my mind off the endless waiting, anticipating our 12-week milestone. You thought it escaped me how, every night, you turned off the radio and tucked me into bed as I'd drifted off to sleep exhausted, albeit at 8pm, but I knew. I had never felt so loved.
The dream of our baby should have been a reality but, the day we saw my womb full of loss instead of life, the horror began and you, my love, you stood strong as we sobbed and clung together. In the days, months and years that followed, you stayed strong, like a lion, even though your heart was broken, never to be mended. How you managed to keep going, with a business to run and a home to manage, when I was falling apart, I'll never truly understand. Except that, during those years, you turned from simply being my husband, to being my hero. How I clung to your big arms and your big chest and drank from the reserves of your hope.
 |
| My husband, the lion. Always protecting, always loving. |
I didn't manage my grief well. Instead of pouring it away, I poured it onto you - on top of your own. You stayed upright. In fact, you grew taller in my eyes. You had the care and sense to call for help. To take me, kicking and screaming, to a counsellor, to make me realise that I had been locking away my fears and my tears. It was only then that I started to feel better. You did that for me, for us. And you, my darling, you found the strength to keep trying for our baby. Even though our loving marriage and playful bedtimes had descended into dark desperation and sorrow - how did you do that?
Through every appointment with doctors, nurses, high-rolling consultants, you were there to hold my hand. Ready to take the blame for our bad luck, even though you have been blameless throughout. Never pushing me, always supporting my choices, but always remaining hopeful - confident that, come what may, how ever it may, we WILL be parents. Through years of IVF, you did what I didn't have the courage to do, you plunged those needles into my body and, every time, I saw the sadness on your face as I winced. And, you never judged me or berated me for seeking comfort or hope in the craziest of schemes. All the shamans, psychics, healers - you didn't roll your eyes once!
Our first loss wasn't our only loss. After years of invasive treatment, we finally thought our dreams would be fulfilled. But it wasn't to be. How the grief had doubled - tripled! And yet still, you stood strong. You shielded me from the world, protecting me from every family baby announcement like a coat of armour. And, in doing so, you internalised your pain, until you broke.
And there we both were, at rock bottom, but still holding hands. The decision to find an egg donor wasn't easy for me. I kicked, I screamed (again) - my grief was replaced by rage and disbelief. But, as always, you let me be me. Not pushing or directing, just walking quietly alongside, ready to steady me if I stumbled.
Until today, when, again, we are pregnant. It's very early days and we've felt that the odds are against us but, once again your chest is puffed with pride and I see the twinkle in your eye that had been lost. We don't know what the future holds, except that I know what ever happens, you will be there. With some fresh fruit, a decaf tea, a foot-rub and so much more.
This journey is the hardest we've travelled yet but, when I look back at all the sadness and grief, I thank the universe that you are my husband. We have often asked ourselves if life without a child would be so bad - would we be content to be just us? We both still believe that we are meant to be parents. But that's not for the want of love for each other or a lack of contentment in our life together. It's the abundance of love that we share that makes us yearn for parenthood. We have plenty to go around and we are ready to give.
Darling, I tell you every day how much I love you, but I don't tell you enough how much I appreciate you. So this is my love letter to you, for everything you have been through, for every time I've clung to you, every time I've screamed or cried in pain, every time I've felt I can't go on and you've been there for me. One day a child will be lucky to call you father. But until then, I'm proud to call you my husband.
With all my love.
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