It’s that time of the week again! Five Minute Friday. Where I take a que from Lisa-Jo Baker who gives us a single word, and we write sans abandon or correction for 5 minutes.
This week’s word: Friend
A keeper of secrets. A fortress of faith. A single entity that understands your soul, your smile, your voice like none other. A friend. It’s amazing what images this word conjures up, and who comes to mind. For me, I married my best friend. As I drove home today, pondering the multiple changes that are about to occur in our lives I thought of how it’s always just been me and him-against the world.
When my hubby and I started dating, every one told us it was puppy love. When we got engaged (at 19), we were told it wouldn’t last a year. But what all those nay-sayers didn’t understand was that this man, this one person, can understand me better than any one else on earth. He is my sounding board, my compass, my companion.
Tonight we listened to a song, where the singer gave a loving attribute to his wife, his beautiful girl, as he chronicled their relationship from dating to when she gave him a daughter. With just the two of us in the car, I cried for that loss that we will never have. For the child that I can never give him. And instead of telling me that it’s ok-that he doesn’t mind, he told me it doesn’t matter. That it’s not about him or about me, it’s about us. It always has been and it always will be. That’s all I need to remember. I am my beloved’s, and he is mine. He’s my best friend, my soul mate. And in the end, that’s what matters.
As we’re rounding out National Infertility Awareness Week, this topic has been weighing heavily on my mind. One of the (many) things people who have never experienced infertility don’t understand is what it means to your relationship. I know of so many couples who’s relationship crumbled with their attempts to get pregnant. And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve reflected on the fact that I will never give my husband the gift of a child.
There will be no hospital bed, where he will hold my hand and count out breaths. There will be no focus on his eyes as he tells me I’m doing great. I will never see the look on his face as he holds our child. He will never look at me, and tell me I did well. He will never kiss my wet brow, and hand me that child, because that child will never be. But regardless, he loves me. Regardless, he will hold my hand, wipe away my tears and tell me that I’m brave. That I’m strong. He will remind me that it’s just me and him, against the world.