Love’s the Sweetest Thing

It is one of our songs and a theme we used in our wedding. Reception tables were dotted with large brightly colored pyramid cones, each cone displaying a cascade of succulent lollipops. A flag atop each cone read: love’s the sweetest thing. If you aren’t familiar, the song is by U2. We played it during our cake cutting, because the flighty tune didn’t seem fit for any other part of the occasion.

Love’s the Sweetest Thing is also engraved inside my husband’s wedding band. It was a song that played on the radio ten years ago, during one of our first dates. We had both remarked how much we loved it.

Today we are celebrating four years of marriage and ten years together. We never do gifts, but this year we also decided no cards or flowers. Every penny we have has been dedicated to our trying to conceive (TTC) journey. So this year, in lieu of a four-dollar greeting card, my love, I’ve decided to dedicate this post to you, my amazing husband.

It wasn’t too long ago that you cheered me on as I ran across the finish line. You’d proudly hug my sweat-drenched, tired frame. Or we’d exchange high-fives as we finished a race together. Nowadays it isn’t so much cheering and celebrating, but supporting, encouraging and loving. Not that the latter three displays of affection were absent from our relationship prior to TTC – they did exist – but now their role is so much more prominent. Those lighthearted emotions and displays of affection have taken a backseat to the heavy-duty, serious ones.

On our last anniversary we were struggling to understand why we seemed to be infertile. In the time between that last anniversary and this one, we have lost two babies.  And, perhaps, in the past year we have also stumbled upon some explanation as to why it has been so difficult for us to conceive. Often there aren’t answers. Still, we continue to search for and grasp at bits of reason. I know at times it is hard for both of us to wrap our heads around what has unfolded over the past year.

When I walked down the aisle four years ago, I certainly didn’t realize one of the biggest hurdles in our marriage would be the simple (ha-ha) act of trying to conceive a child.  We had no idea what obstacles lay in wait. But, eh, I guess that’s marriage, right?!…

A month after our previous anniversary, I broke down – a year of TTC had passed. You promised me we would do whatever it took. You desperately wanted to give me what I so passionately wanted. To this day, your dedication to me, and our journey remains.

After our last anniversary, the year wore on and seemed to pick at our tired relationship. A relationship no longer comprised of carefree wine tasting weekends, beer brewing fun, running excursions, and socializing. But, now, a much more complicated existence built upon the pressures of timely intercourse, the sadness and guilt of realizing there was perhaps something wrong with each of us and trying to fix it, the awe-struck moments of wonder and joy when we finally became pregnant, and later, the sorrow, heartache and bitterness that came with losing those pregnancies. Even though we are still baby-less, our lives and our relationship have changed.

After each lost pregnancy you respected the time I needed to heal, but you also encouraged me to pick up the pieces and continue moving forward. You motivated me to get out of my shell and become social again. (I might still be working on that last one.)

There are so many nights you have held me while I sobbed. You comforted me as I wailed,  “When will it be our turn?” “Why can’t I get pregnant?” “Why do I keep losing babies?” “I don’t understand, my body is supposed to get it.” “This is so unfair.”

With each miscarriage, you have rode beside me on that terribly hormonal and emotional rollercoaster – a ride we never bought tickets for, but somehow ended up on. Your body wasn’t the one going through a miscarriage (thank God, that would be weird), but it was your baby and your wife, so you tried to empathize. While I willed you to shed tears, you repeatedly stated that it was your job to be the strong one. And although perhaps inappropriate at times, you often find bits humor in this otherwise sullen journey. Not always, but on some occasions you’ve turned my tears into laughter.

You supported me and understood when I abruptly left my job, due to being harshly mistreated by heartless coworkers the week following our second miscarriage. You told me you were proud of me for standing up for myself and promised me we would be OK… regardless of the fact we now had the D&C and other imminent fertility bills to pay.

You painstakingly rebuilt our front shed, after I very purposefully crashed my car into it during my wildest fit of “When will it be our turn? This is so unfair!” (You know that hit summer song by Icona Pop? “I crashed my car into the bridge. I don’t care. I love it…” Sub shed for bridge and, yep, that’s my jam!)  Anyhow, at that point a couple of months had drifted by since our second loss. As we continued to witness other couples announcing pregnancies and excitedly decorating their nursery, we repaired the destruction my rage had produced. And we mourned the fact that if things had turned out – as they should have with our first pregnancy – we too would be doing the final prep on a nursery, rather than repairing a destructed shed. Instead we felt a gaping distance lay between where we stood, and the ambiguous dream of a someday nursery.

I don’t know about you, but I feel like the past two years of trying to conceive have been a separate lifetime, wrapped up tightly in a cocoon all its own. I suppose in part, that’s what marriage is: a chain of separate small journeys, all linked together by the love and passion of two people.

I wouldn’t want to endure this messy, emotionally draining, passion filled journey with anyone but you. I know if (heaven forbid) we continue to lose babies, I will be able to cope because of you. And eventually, we are going to be alright. If there is anything these recent two years have proven – beyond the need to practice patience and strength – we were meant to be partners in not just this journey, but life.

I hope you find the same love, strength and support within me that I repeatedly turn to in you.

We both know that someday – when that desired outcome does occur – that already sweet end-result is going to be one hundred times sweeter for us than it is for most… It truly will be the sweetest thing.