By: Alex Turner
February 14, 2012. I find myself at a trendy flatbread restaurant, where the minuscule pizzas leave me feeling as if I’ve just participated in a year’s worth of communion. My stomach still growls for more, and the desire for a glass of wine is almost unbearable. The clinking of glasses fills the air, and I can’t help but envy everyone else. But here I am, six months pregnant—okay, maybe I’m rounding up—and I can’t take the risk that comes with it.
My husband, Mark, sits across from me, sipping his beer with a hint of guilt. “You know I don’t like beer,” I quip, hoping to stir a bit of sympathy. But there’s no need for that; we’re about to welcome a child with special needs into our lives. The world’s condolences are already piling up.
As the waiter meticulously clears the table with a tool that looks like it belongs in an OB’s office, I feel the nausea creeping in. My blood sugar is dipping, and the thought of resting my head on the table crosses my mind—a silent plea to the universe for mercy.
I can’t shake the memory of last month’s gestational diabetes test. That dreadful test led to an unexpected ultrasound, which spiraled into an emergency visit to a maternal-fetal specialist, followed by an amniocentesis and an agonizing wait. We’re stuck in limbo with the Mayo Clinic, as they attempt to unravel the mysteries within our baby’s chromosomes.
“Dessert?” Mark asks, extending a small menu in a playful manner, as if he were revealing a surprise prize. I take it from him, hoping it might help me articulate something other than, “What are the odds…?”
Around us, couples are intertwined, basking in the romantic glow of dim lighting and flickering candles. I scan the room—one, two, three couples, all holding hands like they’ve stepped out of a romantic comedy. Yet, no one ever casts a sad, pregnant woman and her future special needs family in such tales. Nearby, someone is dipping a marshmallow into a pot.
“Let’s get fondue,” I finally say, my first complete thought of the night.
His face lights up, reminiscent of the moment he proposed five years ago on a moonlit beach, complete with a headlamp to ensure he got the ring on my finger. It was like being proposed to by a lighthouse. And in many ways, he is my guiding light—he has weathered our years of infertility better than I have. I struggle with the unpredictability and deviations from the life plan, but together we have faced it all. Our challenges—IUIs, IVFs, and FETs—have forged a stronger bond between us. I know too well that many couples don’t survive the trials of infertility or the complexities of raising a child with special needs.
I look over at Mark, noticing the weariness etched under his eyes, the way his beard has become a bit scruffy, and the obsessive Chapstick habit that has left his lips cracked. Meanwhile, my own hair is turning gray, and my hands tremble slightly as I reach for a banana slice. We’ve both aged in this journey, and that elusive pregnancy glow seems like a distant memory.
We’ve faced so much adversity that I’ve become numb to calamity. To the casual observer, we appear to be just a couple happily anticipating parenthood, our faces softly illuminated by candlelight.
Little do I know that in one month, almost to the day, our son will make his entrance into the world at thirty weeks. It will happen on the same day we receive the Mayo Clinic’s results, as if their call is the signal for his arrival. As I dip my finger into the fondue pot, I’m oblivious to what Beckwith-Wiedemann syndrome entails, how to manage a tracheotomy, or what the term “cerebral palsy” truly signifies. I have no idea that my son will have charming curly blond hair and vibrant green eyes. I’m unaware that he will be left-handed like me, a lover of music, and a devoted reader who will ignore our screen time rules.
On this night, I cannot fathom the kind of mother I will grow to be—the advocate, the healer, the educator, the innovator, the one who breaks barriers. All I know is that I married this incredible man and we are about to embark on this journey into parenthood together. And even though we’re not holding hands, it’s enough.
This is not a love story. It is a life story.