It was after midnight when I checked in to a hotel across the road from the hospital. I asked the receptionist for a loan of an iPhone charger and quickly ran back to the hospital to give it to Saron. She thanked me, we cried and then I returned to the hotel, lying awake with the TV on while she miscarried. To say that I felt useless would be an understatement.
That was three years ago and since that night, Saron has been pregnant five more times. That’s five times she put herself – her body – on the chopping block, knowing the risk, intimate with the suffering, all for us. That’s five times I got her pregnant, putting her – her body – on the chopping block, knowing the risk, intimate with my suffering but not hers. That’s got to be the definition of ignoble.
I can never know what Saron feels and I despise language for having the temerity to label feelings. Words give us a shared vocabulary, but not a shared experience. We grieve differently. We endure differently. We feel differently. And that experience of difference makes us both feel so alone.
Saron and I have struggled. We’ve argued. We’ve made up. We’ve lost our minds. We’ve been numb. We’ve been there for each other. We’ve been miles apart. Some days I rejoice that we are still together and some days I think that maybe we are just too hurt to carry on. There are also days when I wonder if all our problems are attributable to the miscarriages. The truth is neither of us can see the wood from the trees. We are so buried in this process, so pot-committed, that I don’t think either of us knows ourselves distinct from the pain, a pain that we assume will subside and be replaced by happiness if we have a child.