Every once in awhile I get an email from my husband that goes something like this:
Great. A new school year and three women came back pregnant from summer break.
I’m so sick of seeing people’s baby and grandbaby pictures.
It’s hard for me to believe that these emails are even coming from him. I imagine that he’s sitting in his office in some sort of trance and his subconscious starts directing his fingers to type out these little messages. His brain (or heart?) is sending me little subliminal electronic clues…”We’re hurting, Megan. We just wanted to let you know.” My husband keeps his hurt concealed. As much as I prod and ask leading questions, he has yet to tell me face to face, heart to heart, how much pain he is in.
There are other clues too. Several months ago I went to the emergency room with a gall bladder attack. I was lying on a bed in a makeshift curtained off room in agonizing pain. A nurse came in to draw some blood and left. As soon as she left I heard my husband say under his breath, “bitch”. Now my husband and I are huge potty mouths. We curse a lot in the privacy of our own home (really no reason not to), but hubby is not generally in the habit of randomly calling women offensive names. I asked him what happened and he responded, “Didn’t you see? She’s pregnant.”
Well, I’m not proud of it or anything, but I’ve certainly thought the same thing in my head as I see random pregnant women walking about or random skinny women walking about for that matter. However, I generally keep those thoughts to myself. After all, it’s not nice.
It’s almost like the pain that he works so hard to keep inside bubbles up every once in awhile and he just can’t keep it in. It bubbles up enough to remind me that I’m not in this alone. It bubbles up enough to let me know that he’s not as OK as he’d like me to believe. It bubbles up enough to make me wonder if he will ever be OK.