Two days ago, my Rust wrote a blog post about me.
If you know me on Facebook, you may have seen it. I shared it. It wasn’t to boast. Not like you may think. I shared it because the words that man wrote about me, as romantic and easy as they seemed to be, I do not know how he wrote.
What you can not know, is that I imagine he wrote them hunched over our kitchen table, tears streaming down his tired face, as I lay curled in bed, finally sleeping after a long and painful night. You see, the picture we paint, though beautiful, is not always as it appears. Rusty was hurting. Because of me. And yet he chose those words.
He wrote that post on a Sunday.
The day before was bright and sunny, despite a gorgeous thunderstorm midday. Together we had chocolate muffins and perfectly sweet coffee for breakfast. We cleaned the house awaiting our friends who were coming over for the afternoon. I cooked. We laughed. We had so much to be happy for. Our upcoming wedding. Friends. Wonderful trips. So much, so very much.
At twilight I went to the kitchen to make brownies. A simple request, and one I was more than willing to take. Rusty’s dad was in the foyer, quickly eating the kabobs I had served. I don’t remember what it was we were talking about. But one minute became the next, and I realized I was bleeding.
At 10 weeks pregnant, I was bleeding in my kitchen floor.
On August 20th, Rusty got down on one knee, ring in hand, and asked me to be his wife.
On August 30th, 7 home pregnancy tests, an ER visit and an ultrasound told us we were expecting.
For those of you who know me at all, you know what a miracle this was. I have severe PCOS. I am 41 years old. I had Seven 9 years ago, with the help of horrible drugs, a Turkish fertility specialist, and lots of prayers. Another baby was not something I expected, and yet, here I was, about to start all over again.
We were thrilled.
We told only our family, and very few close friends. I wanted to wait. I knew the risks. Wait until the 12 week mark before announcing. I knew. But family is family, and the glimmer of hope – the joy – we could not bear to keep it to ourselves.
I flew home to Texas just last Friday. Rust had wanted us to go out to eat and to Build-A-Bear. I was tired…I had been tired for weeks. So I said no. I even went so far as to say I would hate to have that bear in my house should something happen.
After I somehow pulled myself together enough there in the kitchen to send Rusty’s dad to get Rust for me, we ended up in a local ER.
I won’t tell you now about those hours. The humiliation. The pain. The pleading I did into my covered face, begging God to please just let this be okay.
No one listened.
Rusty wrote those words after hearing a young doctor with no sympathy utter “There is no heartbeat.”
I know he was there with me in that room. I know he was, and I know he wasn’t far from me. But when I think of it now, I cannot see him. The room is huge and blank. I see only the doctors ugly shoes.
But I know he heard the words. “There is no heartbeat.”
And I know his heart, with mine, was breaking.
This is the man I am about the marry. A man who chose to write about how lucky he thinks he is to have me. After a night like that, he finds gratitude and unlimited love. For me. I need no other miracle.
Yes, I miss his hand on my stomach. His face pressed against my growing belly, the scratch of his whiskers on my skin, the warmth of his whispers to our child. But it is he who is my miracle.
We may try again. If the universe that brought us together can muster up one more chance, we may try again. If not, I am loved by the gentlest man I know. The biggest heart, and that heart beats for me.