As I glance across the table, my husband, Jake, of four years, nurses his beer with an apologetic smile. “You know I’m not a fan of beer,” I reply, not only to express my distaste but also to elicit a hint of sympathy. However, it isn’t necessary; we’re on the brink of becoming parents to a child with special needs. The world is already inundating us with its condolences.
A waiter painstakingly clears the table with a curved metal tool reminiscent of something from my obstetrician’s office. There are too many crumbs to count—after all, flatbread is essentially just crumbs. A wave of nausea washes over me; I feel as though I haven’t eaten anything at all, and my blood sugar is plummeting. The urge to rest my head on the table and plead with the universe for a moment of reprieve is overwhelming.
I remember the gestational diabetes test from a month ago, leading me down a rabbit hole of unexpected ultrasounds, frantic visits to maternal-fetal specialists, and the agonizing wait for results from the Mayo Clinic regarding our baby’s chromosomal anomalies.
“Dessert?” Jake asks, presenting a small menu as if it were a surprise prize on a game show. He waves it enticingly, and I accept, hoping it might inspire a thought that doesn’t start with “What are the odds…”
Couples around us are clasping hands under the bright, unflattering lights, reminiscent of a romantic comedy. I scan the room, confirming that, indeed, every couple except us is holding hands. Two tables away, someone dips a marshmallow into a pot of melted chocolate.
“Let’s get fondue,” I say, marking my first coherent sentence of the evening.
Jake’s eyes brighten as though I’ve just proposed a second marriage. I imagine that’s how his eyes looked when he proposed to me five years earlier on a moonlit beach, using a headlamp to ensure he didn’t fumble the ring. In a way, he is like a lighthouse, guiding us through the storm of infertility. While I struggle with uncertainty and deviations from my life plan, he remains steady. Despite the trials we’ve faced, our relationship has only strengthened. The acronyms of our journey—IUIs, IVFs, FETs—have forged a bond akin to soldiers united against a common foe. The divorce rate in the infertility community is alarmingly high, as it is within the realm of special needs parenting, a fact I’ve researched extensively.
As I observe Jake—his weary eyes, the scruffy beard showing signs of age, the dry, cracked lips from his Chapstick obsession—I realize we’ve both aged significantly. My own hair is turning gray, my hands shaky as I skewer a banana slice. We’re both worn down, far from the idealized pregnancy glow.
By this point, I’ve become somewhat numb to crises. To an outsider, we appear to be just a happy couple on the cusp of parenthood, our faces softly illuminated by candlelight.
On this February night, I am unaware that in a month—almost to the day—our son will arrive prematurely at thirty weeks. Coincidentally, this will also be the day we receive the Mayo Clinic’s results, as if their call is a starting gun. At that moment, I have no inkling of what Beckwith-Wiedemann syndrome entails, or how to manage a tracheotomy, or how to interpret an oxygen and heart rate monitor. I don’t know that our son will have curly blonde hair, eyes that will turn green like fresh moss, and a left-handed affinity for music and books. I’m oblivious to the fact that his laughter will soon become the heart of our existence.
On this Valentine’s evening, I can’t foresee the kind of mother I will evolve into—the advocate, the caregiver, the educator, the scientist, the one who will break the chains holding him back. All I comprehend is that I married this man, and we are bringing a child into the world, and while we may not be holding hands, it’s enough.
This is not a love story; it is a narrative of life.
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In summary, this piece reflects the complexities of navigating pregnancy and parenthood, especially when faced with the unexpected challenges of special needs. It captures a moment that intertwines love, uncertainty, and the strength found in partnership.