On February 14, 2012, I found myself dining at an upscale flatbread restaurant; the petite pizzas left me feeling as if I had just consumed a year’s worth of communion. I was still hungry and yearning for a glass of wine, especially as the clinking of glasses echoed around me. But at six months pregnant—well, I might as well round up—I couldn’t take the chance.
The risks loomed large in my mind while my husband, Mike, of four years, sipped his beer across the table, his expression tinged with guilt. “I really don’t like beer,” I replied, hoping to evoke a bit of sympathy. But honestly, there was no need. We were soon to welcome a child with special needs, and the world was already showering us with pity.
The waiter meticulously cleared our table with a curved metal tool that looked like it belonged in my OB’s office. He took his time—there were plenty of crumbs. What is flatbread, if not just crumbs? I felt nauseous, as if I hadn’t eaten at all, my blood sugar plummeting. Laying my head on the table became an appealing offering to the universe, begging for relief.
I couldn’t help but recall the gestational diabetes test from a month prior—the dreaded test that spiraled into an unplanned ultrasound, an emergency visit to a maternal-fetal specialist, and an amniocentesis. Now, we were stuck in a month-long limbo with the Mayo Clinic, awaiting answers about our baby’s chromosomal abnormalities.
“Dessert?” Mike said, presenting a tiny menu as if he were a game show host revealing a prize. I took it, hoping it would inspire me to utter something beyond “What are the odds…”
Everywhere around us, couples were clasping hands under the harsh glow of fluorescent lights and flickering candle flames. I scanned the room, confirming my sense of loneliness; no one featured a sad pregnant woman and her soon-to-be special needs family in their romantic comedies. Nearby, a couple dipped skewered marshmallows into a pot.
“Let’s get fondue,” I declared, the first full sentence I’d spoken all evening.
His eyes lit up as though I’d just proposed to him again. I imagined that’s how he reacted when he asked me to marry him five years ago—on a moonlit beach, with a headlamp so he could see the ring as he placed it on my finger. A little like being proposed to by a lighthouse.
Mike has been my guiding light through years of infertility. I grapple with the unknown, while he remains steadfast. Our marriage has deepened through the trials of IUIs, IVFs, and FETs, akin to soldiers uniting against a common enemy. I’m aware that many couples don’t survive this; divorce is prevalent in the infertility community, as well as in the realm of special needs.
I observed Mike; the shadows under his eyes, his beard appearing more rugged, and his cracked lips—evidence of his Chapstick obsession. I, too, showed signs of the toll this journey has taken: graying hair and shaky hands as I poked at a banana slice. We’ve both endured so much that I’ve developed a sort of emotional numbness toward calamity. To onlookers, we appeared to be a blissfully married couple on the brink of parenthood, our faces softly illuminated by candlelight.
Little did I know that within a month, our son would be born at thirty weeks—the very day we would receive the results from the Mayo Clinic, as if their call was a starter pistol. At that moment, as I dipped my finger into the fondue pot, I was oblivious to the realities of Beckwith-Wiedemann syndrome or the intricacies of caring for a child with a tracheotomy. I had no idea our son would have curly blond hair, eyes that would turn lush green, and a personality that would make him an avid reader and a music lover.
On this Valentine’s night, I was unaware of the mother I would evolve into—an advocate, a nurse, a teacher, a scientist, and a relentless fighter for his future. All I understood was the love I felt for my husband and the child we were about to welcome. Even without holding hands, it was enough.
This is not a romantic tale; it’s a narrative of life.
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Summary
This narrative reflects on the complexities of pregnancy, particularly in the face of impending parenthood with a child with special needs. The author shares her experiences and emotions during a dinner date, revealing the struggles of infertility and the unknowns of parenting. Through candid reflections, she emphasizes the strength of her marriage and the journey ahead, highlighting the reality of life rather than a cliché love story.