All Your Perfects
Page 50
Graham smiles. “Almost. Saffron was born two minutes before Juniper.”
I roll my eyes, and he squeezes my hand as we cross the street together.
It still amazes me how much has changed since we opened the box two years ago. We came so close to losing everything we had built together because of something that was out of our control. Something that should have brought us closer together but instead pulled us further apart.
Avoidance sounds like such a harmless word, but that one word can cause some severe damage to a relationship. We avoided so much in our marriage, simply out of fear. We avoided communicating. We avoided talking about the challenges we faced. We avoided all the things that made us the saddest. And after time, I began to avoid the other half of my life altogether. I avoided him physically, which led to emotional avoidance, which led to a lot of feelings that were left unsaid.
Opening that box made me realize that our marriage wasn’t in need of a minor repair. It needed to be rebuilt from the ground up, with an entirely different foundation. I started out our life together with certain expectations, and when those expectations weren’t met, I had no idea how to move forward.
But Graham has been the constant fighting force behind my healing. I finally stopped being as sad about our fate. I stopped focusing on what we would never have together and started focusing on all the things we did have and could have. It didn’t eliminate my pain altogether, but I’m happier than I’ve been in a very long time.
Of course opening the box didn’t miraculously solve everything. It didn’t immediately take away my desire for children, although it did increase my lust for a life outside of being a mother. It didn’t completely dissolve my aversion to sex, although it did open the door to slowly learning how to separate the sex from the hope from the devastation. And I occasionally still cry in the shower, but I never cry alone. I cry while Graham holds me, because he made me promise I would stop trying to hide the brunt of my heartache.
I no longer hide it. I embrace it. I’m learning how to wear my struggle as a badge and not be ashamed of it. I’m learning to not be so personally offended by other people’s ignorance in relation to infertility. And part of what I’ve learned is that I have to have a sense of humor about it all. I never thought I would be at a point where we could turn all the painful questions into a game. Now when we’re out in public, I actually look forward to when someone asks if we have kids. Because I know Graham is going to say something that will make me laugh.
I’ve also learned that it’s okay to have a little hope.
For so long, I was so worn down and emotionally exhausted that I thought if I figured out a way to lose all hope, I would also lose all expectation and all disappointment. But it didn’t work that way. The hope has been the only positive thing about being infertile.
I will never lose hope that we might actually have a child of our own. I still apply to adoption agencies and talk to lawyers. I don’t know that we’ll ever stop trying to make it happen. But I’ve learned that even though I’m still hoping to become a mother, it doesn’t mean I can’t live a fulfilling life while I continue to try.
For once, I’m happy. And I know that I’ll be happy twenty years from now, even if it’s still just me and Graham.
“Shit,” Graham mutters as we reach our car. He points at the tire. “We have a flat.”
I glance at the car, and the tire is definitely flat. So flat, no amount of air could salvage it. “Do we have a spare?”
We’re in Graham’s car, so he opens the trunk and lifts the floor portion, revealing a spare and a jack. “Thank God,” he says.
I put our bags in the backseat of the car and watch as he pulls out the tire and the jack. Luckily the flat is on the passenger side, which is flush with the sidewalk rather than the road. Graham rolls the tire near the flat one and then moves the jack. He looks up at me with an embarrassed look on his face. “Quinn . . .” He kicks at a pebble on the sidewalk, breaking eye contact with me.
I laugh, because I can tell by his embarrassment that he has no idea what to do next. “Graham Wells, have you never changed a flat tire?”
He shrugs. “I’m sure I could google it. But you mentioned to me once that Ethan never let you change a flat.” He motions toward the tire. “I’m giving you first dibs.”
I grin. I’m loving this way too much. “Put the parking brake on.”
Graham sets the parking brake while I position the jack under the car and begin to raise it.
“This is kind of hot,” Graham says, leaning against a light pole as he watches me. I grab the wrench and begin removing the lug nuts from the tires.
We’re on a busy sidewalk, so two people stop to ask if they can help, because they don’t realize Graham is with me. Both times, Graham says, “Thank you, but my wife has got this.”
I laugh when I realize what he’s doing. The entire time I’m changing the tire, Graham brags about it to everyone who walks by. “Look! My wife knows how to change a tire.”
When I finally finish, he puts the jack and the flat tire back in the trunk. My hands are covered in grease.
“I’m going to run inside this store and wash my hands.”
Graham nods and opens the driver’s side door while I rush into the nearest store. When I walk inside, I’m taken off guard as I look around. I was expecting this to be another clothing store, but it isn’t. There are pet crates displayed in the window and a bird—a parakeet—perched on top of a cage near the front door.
“Ciao!” the bird says loudly.
I raise an eyebrow. “Hello.”
“Ciao!” it screeches again. “Ciao! Ciao!”
“That’s the only word he knows,” a lady says as she approaches me. “You here to adopt or are you here for supplies?”
I hold up my greasy hands. “Neither. I’m hoping you have a sink.”
The woman points me in the direction of the restroom. I make my way through the store, pausing to look at all the various animals in their cages. There are rabbits and turtles and kittens and guinea pigs. But when I make it to the back of the store, near the restroom, I pause in my tracks and suck in a breath.
I stare at him for a moment because he’s staring right back at me. Two big brown eyes, looking at me like I’m the fiftieth person to walk past him today. But he still somehow has hope in those eyes—like maybe I’ll be the first one to actually consider adopting him. I step closer to his cage, which is flanked by several empty cages. He’s the only dog in the whole store.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper. I read the note at the bottom left corner of his cage. Beneath the Italian description is a description written in English.
German Shepherd
Male
Seven weeks old
Available for adoption
I stare at the note for a moment and then force myself to walk to the bathroom. I scrub my hands as fast as I can, because I can’t stand for that puppy to think I’m just another one of the dozens of people who walked past him today and didn’t want to take him home.
I’ve never been much of a dog person, because I’ve never had a dog before. I honestly thought I’d never own a dog, but I have a feeling I’m not walking out of this store without this puppy. Before I leave the bathroom, I pull my phone from my pocket and shoot Graham a text.
Come inside to the back of the store. Hurry.
I walk out of the bathroom, and when the puppy sees me again, his ears perk up. He lifts a paw and presses it against the cage as I come closer. He’s sitting on his hind legs, but I can see his tail twitching, like he wants my attention but he’s scared it’ll just be fleeting and he’ll be spending another night in this cage.
I slip my fingers between the bars of his cage, and he sniffs them, then licks me. I feel a tightening in my chest every time we make eye contact, because seeing him so full of hope but so scared of disappointment makes me sad. This puppy reminds me of me. Of how I used to feel.
I hear someone walking up behind me, so I spin around to see Graham staring at the puppy. He walks up to the cage and tilts his head. The puppy looks from me to Graham and then finally stands up, unable to stop his tail from wagging.
I roll my eyes, and he squeezes my hand as we cross the street together.
It still amazes me how much has changed since we opened the box two years ago. We came so close to losing everything we had built together because of something that was out of our control. Something that should have brought us closer together but instead pulled us further apart.
Avoidance sounds like such a harmless word, but that one word can cause some severe damage to a relationship. We avoided so much in our marriage, simply out of fear. We avoided communicating. We avoided talking about the challenges we faced. We avoided all the things that made us the saddest. And after time, I began to avoid the other half of my life altogether. I avoided him physically, which led to emotional avoidance, which led to a lot of feelings that were left unsaid.
Opening that box made me realize that our marriage wasn’t in need of a minor repair. It needed to be rebuilt from the ground up, with an entirely different foundation. I started out our life together with certain expectations, and when those expectations weren’t met, I had no idea how to move forward.
But Graham has been the constant fighting force behind my healing. I finally stopped being as sad about our fate. I stopped focusing on what we would never have together and started focusing on all the things we did have and could have. It didn’t eliminate my pain altogether, but I’m happier than I’ve been in a very long time.
Of course opening the box didn’t miraculously solve everything. It didn’t immediately take away my desire for children, although it did increase my lust for a life outside of being a mother. It didn’t completely dissolve my aversion to sex, although it did open the door to slowly learning how to separate the sex from the hope from the devastation. And I occasionally still cry in the shower, but I never cry alone. I cry while Graham holds me, because he made me promise I would stop trying to hide the brunt of my heartache.
I no longer hide it. I embrace it. I’m learning how to wear my struggle as a badge and not be ashamed of it. I’m learning to not be so personally offended by other people’s ignorance in relation to infertility. And part of what I’ve learned is that I have to have a sense of humor about it all. I never thought I would be at a point where we could turn all the painful questions into a game. Now when we’re out in public, I actually look forward to when someone asks if we have kids. Because I know Graham is going to say something that will make me laugh.
I’ve also learned that it’s okay to have a little hope.
For so long, I was so worn down and emotionally exhausted that I thought if I figured out a way to lose all hope, I would also lose all expectation and all disappointment. But it didn’t work that way. The hope has been the only positive thing about being infertile.
I will never lose hope that we might actually have a child of our own. I still apply to adoption agencies and talk to lawyers. I don’t know that we’ll ever stop trying to make it happen. But I’ve learned that even though I’m still hoping to become a mother, it doesn’t mean I can’t live a fulfilling life while I continue to try.
For once, I’m happy. And I know that I’ll be happy twenty years from now, even if it’s still just me and Graham.
“Shit,” Graham mutters as we reach our car. He points at the tire. “We have a flat.”
I glance at the car, and the tire is definitely flat. So flat, no amount of air could salvage it. “Do we have a spare?”
We’re in Graham’s car, so he opens the trunk and lifts the floor portion, revealing a spare and a jack. “Thank God,” he says.
I put our bags in the backseat of the car and watch as he pulls out the tire and the jack. Luckily the flat is on the passenger side, which is flush with the sidewalk rather than the road. Graham rolls the tire near the flat one and then moves the jack. He looks up at me with an embarrassed look on his face. “Quinn . . .” He kicks at a pebble on the sidewalk, breaking eye contact with me.
I laugh, because I can tell by his embarrassment that he has no idea what to do next. “Graham Wells, have you never changed a flat tire?”
He shrugs. “I’m sure I could google it. But you mentioned to me once that Ethan never let you change a flat.” He motions toward the tire. “I’m giving you first dibs.”
I grin. I’m loving this way too much. “Put the parking brake on.”
Graham sets the parking brake while I position the jack under the car and begin to raise it.
“This is kind of hot,” Graham says, leaning against a light pole as he watches me. I grab the wrench and begin removing the lug nuts from the tires.
We’re on a busy sidewalk, so two people stop to ask if they can help, because they don’t realize Graham is with me. Both times, Graham says, “Thank you, but my wife has got this.”
I laugh when I realize what he’s doing. The entire time I’m changing the tire, Graham brags about it to everyone who walks by. “Look! My wife knows how to change a tire.”
When I finally finish, he puts the jack and the flat tire back in the trunk. My hands are covered in grease.
“I’m going to run inside this store and wash my hands.”
Graham nods and opens the driver’s side door while I rush into the nearest store. When I walk inside, I’m taken off guard as I look around. I was expecting this to be another clothing store, but it isn’t. There are pet crates displayed in the window and a bird—a parakeet—perched on top of a cage near the front door.
“Ciao!” the bird says loudly.
I raise an eyebrow. “Hello.”
“Ciao!” it screeches again. “Ciao! Ciao!”
“That’s the only word he knows,” a lady says as she approaches me. “You here to adopt or are you here for supplies?”
I hold up my greasy hands. “Neither. I’m hoping you have a sink.”
The woman points me in the direction of the restroom. I make my way through the store, pausing to look at all the various animals in their cages. There are rabbits and turtles and kittens and guinea pigs. But when I make it to the back of the store, near the restroom, I pause in my tracks and suck in a breath.
I stare at him for a moment because he’s staring right back at me. Two big brown eyes, looking at me like I’m the fiftieth person to walk past him today. But he still somehow has hope in those eyes—like maybe I’ll be the first one to actually consider adopting him. I step closer to his cage, which is flanked by several empty cages. He’s the only dog in the whole store.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper. I read the note at the bottom left corner of his cage. Beneath the Italian description is a description written in English.
German Shepherd
Male
Seven weeks old
Available for adoption
I stare at the note for a moment and then force myself to walk to the bathroom. I scrub my hands as fast as I can, because I can’t stand for that puppy to think I’m just another one of the dozens of people who walked past him today and didn’t want to take him home.
I’ve never been much of a dog person, because I’ve never had a dog before. I honestly thought I’d never own a dog, but I have a feeling I’m not walking out of this store without this puppy. Before I leave the bathroom, I pull my phone from my pocket and shoot Graham a text.
Come inside to the back of the store. Hurry.
I walk out of the bathroom, and when the puppy sees me again, his ears perk up. He lifts a paw and presses it against the cage as I come closer. He’s sitting on his hind legs, but I can see his tail twitching, like he wants my attention but he’s scared it’ll just be fleeting and he’ll be spending another night in this cage.
I slip my fingers between the bars of his cage, and he sniffs them, then licks me. I feel a tightening in my chest every time we make eye contact, because seeing him so full of hope but so scared of disappointment makes me sad. This puppy reminds me of me. Of how I used to feel.
I hear someone walking up behind me, so I spin around to see Graham staring at the puppy. He walks up to the cage and tilts his head. The puppy looks from me to Graham and then finally stands up, unable to stop his tail from wagging.
