My husband has told me how beautiful I am since the day we began dating; nearly 7 years ago. And every time he says it I tell him he’s sweet, thank him, or don’t say anything at all. Because I have never believed him. Until today.
This last trimester has left me sick and discouraged to say the least, with my only solace being that it is a medical impossibility to be pregnant forever. This girl’s gotta come out eventually and I can finally cease being a host and start being a Mom. It’s such irony that shortly after a post like, “Learning to Love Helplessness”, my blood pressure would sky-rocket, my swelling would increase, I would spend the following two days vomiting and my doctor would utter in hushed tones words like, “pre-eclampsia”, “bedrest”, and lastly, “possible hospital stay”. How much more helpless can you get than to be banished to your room until Monday with no guarantee that the extra rest will help avoid going to the hospital?
I’ll admit it. I completely lost it. I did say this was a learning process, didn’t I? And with my head over the bowl of the toilet at home, my husband sat next to me on the lip of the tub, brushed the dirty hair out of my face and told me how beautiful I was. And I looked at myself. In my pajamas I should have changed yesterday. With an angry, red rash raging up and down my arms. With my eyes blotchy and my face swollen to nearly twice it’s size. At my once, slim figure covered with baby and fluid, and way too many pints of Ben and Jerry’s.
And I looked back at his face and realized that he meant it. He meant it just as much now as he did seven years ago when I was a size 6 and could touch my toes. Before he ever had to watch me throw up or carry me up the stairs or put my shoes on for me because I can no longer reach. I am too practical to marry anyone with delusional tendencies, which only leaves one other option. He must be telling the truth.