When your soul aches for a child, there is little soothing that can be done. The path of infertility can be daunting and cruel with no guarantee of a happy ending. I know, I’ve lived it. Fortunately, I came out on the other side blessed with a family. While it’s easy to look back and remember my own pain, the thing that stands out to me the most is the intense love that I experienced along the way. I attribute so much of that to my husband, the unsung hero of our journey.
I met my husband through a mutual friend about 7 years ago. He was an uncomfortably handsome, athletic guy with a secret Star Wars obsession and a soft spot for kittens. I was swept away immediately. Previous to this, I had declared that I would NEVER get married and made plans to travel the world solo.
He was so continuously kind and thoughtful that he softened the edges of my hardened heart until I wanted nothing more than to be married to him. When you meet someone that makes you feel that way, it’s only natural to begin to wonder what an amalgamation of the two of you would look like in the form of a child. Like many couples, we set forth to expand our family.
Naively, we thought we would have a baby within a year and began planning accordingly. We got a big house and dedicated a space to be our future nursery. We chose a name for a boy and a name for a girl, as gender was the only unknown that we expected. Then we waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing.
I began to lose hope. Several months later, my period was late, so I decided to take a pregnancy test. My husband stood anxiously outside the door. Until he heard me crying. Not only was the test negative, but my period had started. He held me, and kissed my forehead, and let me cry. He was my rock.
Throughout the subsequent fertility journey he would continue to hold me. He was my joy and my hope. He made me far stronger than I ever could have been alone. Through raging hormones, daily shots, Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome, and failed cycles, he remained calmly at my side. And after what was to be our final attempt no matter the outcome, we finally got that positive pregnancy test. He rejoiced with me and held me closer than ever.
A few weeks later, we went apprehensively into an ultrasound where we were to discover if there was a heartbeat. And there it was, flickering on the screen. First one, then two, and finally a third beating heart. Triplets. It was the first time throughout the entire process that my rock cracked. His shoulders heaved as he cried tears of joy. Then he asked to hear their heartbeats again.
There would be many magic moments over the coming months. He would laugh when he felt the babies kick, and kiss my tummy goodnight. He held my hand during surgery and was always by my side during a very difficult recovery. He spent weeks travelling to the NICU with me and tenderly loving our fragile babies. When we finally were home as a family, I never had to tend to the babies alone at night or carry the full burden of the challenge of newborn triplets.
Our little ones are now 19 months old and thriving. It’s amazing to see him with them. He will do anything to make them laugh. Just when I think that my heart would explode if I loved him anymore, I see him with his children and, somehow, my heart expands just a little bit more to make room.