But Graham has been the constant fighting force behind my healing. I finally stopped being as sad about our fate. I stopped focusing on what we would never have together and started focusing on all the things we did have and could have. It didn’t eliminate my pain altogether, but I’m happier than I’ve been in a very long time.
Of course opening the box didn’t miraculously solve everything. It didn’t immediately take away my desire for children, although it did increase my lust for a life outside of being a mother. It didn’t completely dissolve my aversion to sex, although it did open the door to slowly learning how to separate the sex from the hope from the devastation. And I occasionally still cry in the shower, but I never cry alone. I cry while Graham holds me, because he made me promise I would stop trying to hide the brunt of my heartache.
I no longer hide it. I embrace it. I’m learning how to wear my struggle as a badge and not be ashamed of it. I’m learning to not be so personally offended by other people’s ignorance in relation to infertility. And part of what I’ve learned is that I have to have a sense of humor about it all. I never thought I would be at a point where we could turn all the painful questions into a game. Now when we’re out in public, I actually look forward to when someone asks if we have kids. Because I know Graham is going to say something that will make me laugh.
I’ve also learned that it’s okay to have a little hope.
For so long, I was so worn down and emotionally exhausted that I thought if I figured out a way to lose all hope, I would also lose all expectation and all disappointment. But it didn’t work that way. The hope has been the only positive thing about being infertile.
I will never lose hope that we might actually have a child of our own. I still apply to adoption agencies and talk to lawyers. I don’t know that we’ll ever stop trying to make it happen. But I’ve learned that even though I’m still hoping to become a mother, it doesn’t mean I can’t live a fulfilling life while I continue to try.
For once, I’m happy. And I know that I’ll be happy twenty years from now, even if it’s still just me and Graham.
“Shit,” Graham mutters as we reach our car. He points at the tire. “We have a flat.”
I glance at the car, and the tire is definitely flat. So flat, no amount of air could salvage it. “Do we have a spare?”
We’re in Graham’s car, so he opens the trunk and lifts the floor portion, revealing a spare and a jack. “Thank God,” he says.
I put our bags in the backseat of the car and watch as he pulls out the tire and the jack. Luckily the flat is on the passenger side, which is flush with the sidewalk rather than the road. Graham rolls the tire near the flat one and then moves the jack. He looks up at me with an embarrassed look on his face. “Quinn . . .” He kicks at a pebble on the sidewalk, breaking eye contact with me.
I laugh, because I can tell by his embarrassment that he has no idea what to do next. “Graham Wells, have you never changed a flat tire?”
He shrugs. “I’m sure I could google it. But you mentioned to me once that Ethan never let you change a flat.” He motions toward the tire. “I’m giving you first dibs.”
I grin. I’m loving this way too much. “Put the parking brake on.”
Graham sets the parking brake while I position the jack under the car and begin to raise it.
“This is kind of hot,” Graham says, leaning against a light pole as he watches me. I grab the wrench and begin removing the lug nuts from the tires.
We’re on a busy sidewalk, so two people stop to ask if they can help, because they don’t realize Graham is with me. Both times, Graham says, “Thank you, but my wife has got this.”
I laugh when I realize what he’s doing. The entire time I’m changing the tire, Graham brags about it to everyone who walks by. “Look! My wife knows how to change a tire.”
When I finally finish, he puts the jack and the flat tire back in the trunk. My hands are covered in grease.
“I’m going to run inside this store and wash my hands.”
Graham nods and opens the driver’s side door while I rush into the nearest store. When I walk inside, I’m taken off guard as I look around. I was expecting this to be another clothing store, but it isn’t. There are pet crates displayed in the window and a bird—a parakeet—perched on top of a cage near the front door.
“Ciao!” the bird says loudly.
I raise an eyebrow. “Hello.”