Joey and I were on a walk tonight and, occasionally, we like to debrief ourselves.  Having a miscarriage, finding out you’re effectively infertile, and then diving straight into IVF all within six months is big stuff, Internet.  And we want to make sure we are on the same team.  Always.  There is nothing more important than the two of us going in the same direction, even if it’s only ever just the two of us; we have to be together.

Tonight, we were remembering our trip to Mexico and how it was so amazing.  Not only was it good to get away and give ourselves permission to just relax, but it was absolutely the best reconnecting time we’ve had.

Then the conversation turned to the memories.  Not just of Mexico, but the most memorable drawing-closer times of this whole big long haul.

Joey told me, walking along the sidewalk, that when we got married four and a half years ago neither one of us really knew what love is.  We didn’t understand what it could mean for us.  It took four years before we got a glimpse of what we are capable of.

But the night we found out we’d lost our baby and spent an awful awful day basically on the couch, we fell asleep holding hands, I think we learned a little bit more about love.  We learned about unity.

And Joey’s biggest standout memory?  I’d forgotten about this, the the moment he mentioned it, I had to agree.

The day after I had surgery the nurse told me I had to walk around the floor once, and then take a shower.  Joey wrapped his arm around my back and gripped my hand in his and he slow, slow, slowly walked me around the unit.  Halfway around we had to sit down; I didn’t think I could finish.  But Joey told me he thought I could, he knew I could, and he gave me strength to try again.  I made it another few yards and had to rest again.  Joey told me he’d get the wheelchair if I needed it, but he was going to help me make it all the way back to the room even if it took two hours.

We made it.

And then I had to take a shower.

The nurse handed me a towel and told me to sit down while I showered, but try to get all the dried blood off and be sure to clean gently around my wound.  I kind of stood there in the bathroom, hunched over because I couldn’t stand straight, and stared at the tub. I was terrified to get in there, afraid I’d slip and fall.

Then, the door opened and Joey came in.  He sat me down in the chair in the shower and handed me whatever I needed: shampoo, conditioner, a washcloth.  And, when I actually saw the scar for the first time, I realized what had happened to me.  To us.  And I began to SOB.

The nurse heard me from the hallway and came running into the room to make sure we were OK, but we were.  Sort of.

After I started crying, poor Joey had to finish my “shower” for me while the nurse lurked outside to make sure I wasn’t going to collapse.  He told me he loved me. He told me it would be OK.  He said we were going to be fine.  He told me I was still beautiful, even though I had a huge scar.

THAT is what love is.

One thing I am learning to be thankful for is how much closer Joey and I have grown.  I think it would have been easy for one, or both of us, to kind of write life off and just check out.  But we haven’t, and we didn’t, and we are knit together in a deeper, more intricate way than I ever imagined we could be.

For better or for worse,
For richer or for poorer,
In sickness and in health,
To love and to cherish;
From this day forward,
Until death do us part.