Ten years ago this month, the man who would become my husband asked me on our first date. We’d been texting for a few weeks (after, yes, meeting on a dating app) and I was intrigued by his outlandish sense of humor.
After we decided on a time and place, he texted: “Great, see you then! I’ll be the naked guy holding a guy.”
I took a screenshot of his photo and sent it to a girlfriend with the message: “If you don’t hear from me again, this is the guy who murdered me.”
We clicked instantly and stayed at the restaurant, talking non-stop, until it closed. He was unlike anyone I’d dated in the past, and I was still carrying some baggage from previous relationships (not to mention my parents’ recent separation) so I was hesitant to commit. I was a chronic monogamist who wasn’t great at knowing when to stay or walk away. I wasn’t sure if I could handle another situation turning sour and dragging; another breakup that left me in pieces.
One step at a time, I promised myself. I’ll stay as long as it feels right. If it doesn’t, I’ll walk away.
Eight months later, in January of 2015, my dad was coming to visit and Jason wasn’t feeling well. He was afraid that he was coming down with strep throat, and he didn’t want to be sick when my dad was in town so he went to the doctor for antibiotics. He detailed his symptoms, which included some mysterious bruises that I had chalked up to drinking. “Sorority girl bruises,” I called them. (Don’t come to me for medical advice.)
“Well,” said his doctor. “I doubt it’s cancer or anything, but let’s run some tests just in case.”
The next morning, he got the phone call that changed everything: He was to call in sick to work, pack an overnight bag, and go straight to the hospital—to the oncology wing.
He drove my car while I sat in the passenger seat, my dog (then a puppy, now our dog) shivering violently in my lap. She’d never done that before. We didn’t know yet exactly what was wrong, but we knew something was. Something was wrong.
Jason’s leukemia was caught early enough that he didn’t need a bone marrow transplant, but he did need intense treatment that involved several months in the hospital and several years on chemotherapy. We spent our first Valentine’s Day together in the cancer ward, drinking sparkling cider that a sympathetic nurse smuggled in for us. Everyone there knew me, the sole twenty-something’s girlfriend in a wing full of elderly patients. I brought my laptop and baskets full of fresh laundry. I was the point of contact for family and friends, relaying updates and scheduling visitations. I knew the hospital staff’s names and eyes; beneath them were masks.
Jason’s sister was masked the first time I met her, in the hallway after a change in medication led him to a psychotic break. He was readmitted and under a 24-hour psych hold. “You can go in,” she said. “But I should warn you, he might not know who you are.”
We have so many stories—of procedures and side effects and emergency rooms; of tough conversations that most couples don’t have until they’ve been married for decades. One decision we had to make early on was what to do with his sperm. He’d most likely be rendered sterile by his treatment, but was still young enough to become a father, if he came out alive. He decided to bank it, and put my name down as someone with ownership rights, just in case. Our relationship was one of the shortest I’d been in, at that point. But it felt right, so I stayed.
I told him that I didn’t want to get married until he was done with chemo; until he was officially cleared. That happened halfway through 2018, so that’s when we did it—we got married. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
We knew that we would need medical intervention to have a child, but we didn’t know exactly what that would entail or cost. In 2019, we began seeing specialists and learned that our “good” insurance only covered diagnostic testing. We were told the odds were against us; that the clock was ticking and everything cost more than we had. I left every doctor’s appointment in tears.
I got acupuncture and took supplements and was up all night, wondering how we’d afford IVF and how I’d be okay if it didn’t work. Around me, my friends talked about having babies; about how fun it would be to all be pregnant at the same time. I smiled, lips pressed together. I went home and cried.
Behind closed doors, our conversations shifted from “when” to “if.” We joked about the luxurious life we’d have if we couldn’t. We’d travel and live Downtown; maybe get a second home. It would be so fun. But we wanted a baby.
Simultaneously, also secretly, I was battling health issues of my own. My menstrual cycle had been out of whack for years, and I was in intense, debilitating pain multiple times per month. My doctor refused to take my concerns seriously, instructing at each appointment to take Naproxen (which did virtually nothing) and let her know if things got worse. Things got worse, and worse, and worse. Finally, I convinced her to do an ultrasound, which showed that I had two very large fibroids in my uterus. One in particular was wedged into one of my fallopian tubes, and this was to blame for what medical professionals called my “discomfort.” It needed to be removed, of course—not to relieve my excruciating pain, but to prepare my body for fertility treatments whose outcome was impossible to predict because (surprise!) Jason’s latest test results had come back, and he was miraculously not sterile anymore. This was good, but also bad because it meant our problem was in my body—and, as anyone who’s ever seen a fertility specialist knows, the issue is much harder to resolve if it’s the woman’s.
I found myself a new doctor who actually listened to me—and on March 12, 2020, I had fibroid removal surgery. The next day, Denver went into covid lockdown and all non-emergency medical procedures (including my post-op exam) were canceled. I was told to rest and call if anything felt wrong.
Six weeks later, we were out walking the dog (while responsibly social distancing from everyone else doing the same) and I felt a sharp pain shoot down one of my legs. It was the latest in a series of strange symptoms that had me feeling off since recovering from surgery. A google search convinced me that I had a blood clot, so as soon as the fertility clinic reopened for non-emergencies, I booked an exam.
It was May 4, 2020. The ultrasound tech and I both wore masks, so I couldn’t read her expression when she hooked me up to the machine, looked at the screen, and did a clear double take.
Fuck, I thought. I knew it. Something was wrong. I’d never be pregnant.
“Nothing’s wrong,” the tech said slowly. “But did you know that you’re pregnant?”
I burst into tears.
My pregnancy wasn’t without its challenges. I developed gestational diabetes, which required me to prick my finger four times a day and count my carbs and adhere to a strict no-sugar diet in my third trimester, which coincided with the holiday season (and election season!) of 20-fucking-20. I kept my mask on the entire time I was in labor and as soon as my son left my body, I was tested to make sure I was no longer diabetic and then asked what I wanted to eat. I very firmly requested a large piece of cake.
I’ll forever be part of the microgeneration of moms who had their first (and, in my case, only) child in forced isolation, surrounded not by celebration but by trauma and panic. If you are, too, then I salute you—that shit was hard. (And yet, nothing compared to what mothers in other parts of the world are enduring right now.)
This weekend, the day before Mother’s Day, I’m co-hosting a baby shower for a dear friend—the type of shower that I wish I could have had myself (although, to be fair, Jason threw me a fantastic virtual shower.) This brings up a bunch of complicated feelings that I wish I didn’t feel.
I know that for many people, Mother’s Day is a day of grief. It was for me for a while, but not this time. This time, I’m going to celebrate—with my healthy husband, and our miracle boy, and our dog who’s been with us since the beginning, and a large piece of cake.
In Defense of Motherhood. The short story behind this year’s Met Gala theme. If you’re also watching (and a little confused by) The Sympathizer on HBO, I found this explanation to be very helpful. I’m currently on a shopping hiatus but in my dreams I’m buying this sweater in yellow, new fragrances from my favorite candle brand, and a pair of these sneakers (but which ones??) What to do when your child tells you they remember being someone else? I recently learned about this book and now November can’t come soon enough. A piece on writing (and, embarrassingly, one on stalking) that I really relate to. Edible vases. Mexican travel inspo meets design inspo. I love this perspective on parenting. Nostalgic paintings, prints I love, graphic textile art, and a truly stunning credenza. (And are these paintings or sculptures?)
This whole piece has me weepy. There is something so searing about the clarity you seemed to have felt with Jason, even if I was “I’m not sure all the details but I’m sure I want to be right here, in it with you” I so appreciate you sharing your story…the one of everything.
(Also, Jon and I also met on an app 👯♀️)
What a roller coaster ride this life is. Thank you for sharing your journey to motherhood, and Happy Mother's Day!