Behind every infertile woman, if she’s lucky, has a partner who shoulders the seemingly insurmountable grief when the dream of parenthood gets snatched away. My Man more than stood by me, he latched on, watched my back, and reminded me that we were “Team Santa Cruz” and there was nothing we couldn’t do or get through–together.
Chapter III – Autumn 1993
“…I could hear him talking on the phone. Then his heavy footsteps marked his arrival as fading sunlight cast long, ominous shadows across our bedroom. The twisted look on his face told me what I didn’t want to accept. I curled my body around Sofia and sobbed.
He draped his body around mine. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I never truly understood when you miscarried or had the ectopic. I didn’t get it before, I’m so sorry.” His body quaked as we wept.
We spent the next forty-eight hours cocooned in a debilitating sorrow. The following morning, I walked from room to room, picking up Sofia’s belongings, which had once been scattered throughout the house. Sofia slept as I collected her handmade flannel blankets, tiny, buttery-soft moccasins, musical toys, and her guardian angel. I walked into the living room and saw Marty sitting outside on our deck, slumped in grief as rain spilled over him. He was soaking wet. My heart wrenched at the sight of my husband defeated. I made a move to bring him in, but something stopped me, made me give him his time. I sat waiting for him with a batch of towels and a steaming teapot. When he finally walked in the sliding glass door, he let me undress him.
“I didn’t know this kind of pain existed,” he said.
At ten o’clock the next morning, we clung to each other and sobbed as we watched Sofia coo, gurgle, and kick her legs at us when we laid her on the agency crib and said good-bye.”