This week we celebrate love. Specifically our love. And least, that’s what they say we need to do.
But the truth is, celebrating seems like such a strange word for what our love has endured. Nothing about our journey as a married couple feels very stereotypical, and so I suppose it is no wonder that this day would not be typical either.
I peruse the cards at the grocery store, but none of them come close to mentioning why I love you the way I do.
What card dares to speak about the way you handed our son back when I didn’t have the strength to?
What prose captures the spirit of a love that witnessed the depths of my grief — and its ensuing depression and anxiety — and never once complained?
Where are the gifts that say how thankful I am you let me parent our rainbow baby the way I feel so have to because of my anxiety, even when you would like to have our evenings — and our bed — back to ourselves?
What date can we go on that would tell you how much I appreciated you letting us try to conceive again and again and again — even when you felt scared that you might lose me if we succeeded?
That you went back to work again and again and again in spite of our losses, so our family would have what we need.
That you upped your parenting at home when you saw how overwhelmed I was.
That you got on board with fostering and adopting, even when those were not apart of your original plans.
That you went to fertility specialists with me, and helped make decisions on where we drew the line.
That you took over parenting at home when I was either sick rom pregnancy or recovering from the loss.
That you have seen me at my absolute worst, and still loved me, still wanted me.
That you proved you were in this through thick and thin, through life and through death.
You were and are the man I’m so thankful to call mine. Our love has overcome loss and infertility, even grown perhaps through it all.
I love you. Thanks for choosing me — even while neither of us would have chosen this journey.
Happy Valentine’s Day my love.