Two years ago tonight we found out we were going to be parents. I couldn't believe how much a tiny faint pink line could change me so suddenly. When the initial shock wore off, we laughed and cried and laughed while crying, and I remember going to bed, still your sweet wife in our honeymoon dream, asking myself, "Will this change us? How can I make sure it doesn't?"
I realize now that I was asking the wrong questions. It would and it should change us--we were adding another human to our home. I should have asked, "How can this grow me into a better woman so I can be an excellent wife and mother?" Instead, I just kind of left you in the wake of my tornado of birth and baby facts I read every spare minute of every day. A few months after Edie was born, you looked at me and said, "You are not the woman I married." I told you I agreed, I was a mother now. What I didn't say but we both heard was, "So I don't have time to be your wife anymore."
To my defense, I was coming off the trauma of being told our brand new baby might be dying in my arms. I don't know how many different diseases and disorders were thrown at us, and it became more and more difficult for me to come back to life as each test came back negative. When it was all over, I was sure I had nothing left. But she was okay and she actually needed me to survive, so I mustered up what I could. But there wasn't enough for the both of you.
What I couldn't tell you then was that it wasn't Edie who was sick, it was me who was dying in your arms. The anxiety was suffocating me and I didn't know how to communicate that with you in the midst of it, just like she couldn't tell us she was hungry.
What I can tell you now though is that I learned so much from that time, and I hope you're still waiting for me as I let it make me into that better woman and wife for you. I learned that when stuff gets real I am no better or stronger than anyone else--I have no more control over my life than a newborn baby. So I hope to stop trying to hold onto something that's way too big for my hands and start holding yours again. I'm coming out of my coma, and I miss you.
For better or for worse, and all of the stuff in between, too,