Letters

My husband and I are approaching our tenth wedding anniversary and in those ten years he has kept precisely two letters from me. The first was while we were in school applying for jobs, the same jobs in some cases. The rejection letters were unrelenting at times and after a while they took a toll on what was already a very stressful time in my life. It was then that the first letter disappeared. I don't believe I even actually saw that letter. At some later date he informed me of its contents and that was that. I was a little miffed but after his explanation forgiveness was imminent.

The second letter arrived just months ago. That letter had to have been a lot heavier. It wasn't surrounded in sea of rejection. This letter stood alone. It was the letter from the geneticist who worked with Eli and our family. Since he gave that letter to me I have read it exactly one time. I gleaned from it what I knew, that our Eli was perfect in his absence of both kidneys and his bladder, and that after reviewing Eli's medical records and the family history that we provided, which included our first son's Potter's Syndrome,...we were given an eight percent chance of recurrence. Numbers tell us so much, age, weight, height, identification, intelligence and for me a bonafide risk of having another baby with a fatal genetic condition. Eight percent. I've put alot of thought into the number eight since receiving that letter. Eating eight M&Ms versus eight donuts are two completely different things. Eight out of one hundred, which is what eight percent represents, is a relatively small number. The odds of one being in the ninety-two unaffected population are stellar. But tell that to one of the eight affected. Better yet, tell that to me, who was initially given a three to five percent chance of recurrence. Me, who has two of five children affected thus far. Let's put it this way, I don't buy lottery tickets.

When life sends me bad news I am grateful for a husband that tucks it away for another day.

The Great Divide

One of my biggest marriage secrets is to agree to disagree. Both my husband and I are armed with great vocabularies, solid logic, love of arguing and the strong belief in our own correctness. I am Catholic, my husband is anything but. In fact, he is not only "not Catholic" he is not tied to any religious affiliation and does not openly proclaim a belief in God. We married in the Catholic church, our children have all been baptized Catholic but that area is mine. Mine alone. This has its ups and downs. Before Wyatt's birth my husband would accompany me to church. Afterwards when I left the church, it was my decision and I owned it with no input or pressure. I returned of my own volition and have stumbled through the rocky path since on my own with two or three small girls clinging to my shirttails.

When I married it was my sincere hope that someday my husband would convert just as my grandfather and father did before him when they married Catholic women. That hope was crushed when we were told our first child Wyatt would die and was completely extinguished when he did die. When we got Eli's diagnosis I knew it was over. God certainly didn't score any brownie points there. I don't think we will ever bridge the great divide of faith in this household.

So last night I figure that God must really have a sense of humor. He can make it rain on a sunny day, right? I only hope that he finds our marriage and its sometimes lighthearted approach to faith amusing because we aren't going anywhere.

An Ode to My Husband, of Sorts

Throughout all of this I have been fairly silent about my husband. For one very important reason. Words simply cannot describe the respect, admiration and love that I have for him. The strength and support which he has given me cannot be summed up in letters, sentences, paragraphs or novels. He has silently absorbed so much of my pain and channeled it into productivity within our house. He's bathed and showered our girls for much of my pregnancy and towards the end he took on dishwashing, cooking and cleaning duties as well. Since my surgery he has continued, allowing me to just sit and be whatever I need to be in the moment. He has done whatever I need, whatever I want, with no questions, no complaints, no hesitation. He has hugged me, wiped my tears and almost literally carried me through the long days and nights since letting go of my youngest son. When both of our sons were born, he gently handed me each precious baby and allowed me not to let go. Most of the pictures we have are of me snuggling our sons, kissing them, whispering to them words of love.



A particularly precious gift my husband gave me after Eli's birth, I received after returning home from the hospital. I believe what my husband witnessed is a small miracle sent from heaven. We have solar lights in a ring around the willow tree garden at the top of my blog. Snow has covered the garden and lights for most of the winter. My husband says he has taken to glancing out the window at Wyatt's garden each night before bed. Before we went to the hospital for Eli's birth he had been seeing one light each night. The night we came home from the hospital after Eli's birth when he looked out the window there were two lights lit in the garden. One for each of our precious sons, now together.