I’ve been quite sad over our lack of baby-making abilities—-the number of women with child/having a child seems unusually high, or else I’m just more aware of it—-and I’ve taken to soothing myself with sugar because that’s how I roll.
I’m glossing over the nitty gritty for self preservation’s sake. The short version: it’s been really fucking rough.
My health goals had been side-lined in favor of eating M & M’s for lunch, the consumption of which began a pretty immediate downward shame spiral from which I’m just starting to emerge. Logically I understood that a lunch of M & M’s would not make Jason’s sperm magically grow back, nor would it lift my general outlook and make me a less bitchtastic person, but in those moments I wasn’t thinking of the long-term; mostly I just wanted to numb whatever it was inside of myself that ached.
For a few weeks I kept my feelings to myself. I didn’t want Jason to feel like this was all his fault. He didn’t choose to get a cancer that would leave him probably infertile, but I try to be sensitive to the fact that he might feel guilty and I didn’t want to compound his negative feelings. (The permanence of his infertility is yet to be determined; it could correct itself in years or it could not. He’s had two semen analyses so far and they’ve both come back negatory on the sperm front.) A few nights ago we talked about it: the unfairness and the horrible feelings and the jealousy and anger and the loss. And it helped. Having an ally in these shit-filled trenches soothed my broken heart in a way that sugar never, ever did.
Danielle’s wedding is best summed up in pictures.
Garrett’s wedding is best summed up in words. (If you want to see some pictures, check out the wedding’s Instagram feed.)
I only cried once during the ceremony, while I was walking down the aisle with Jason as part of the wedding party. I took one look at my brother standing there, ready to get married, and promptly lost my shit. If Jason hadn’t been holding on to me I would have just sat right down in the dirt and cried out of sheer happiness.
When I left Florida Garrett was 21 years old, full of piss and vinegar with a penchant for beer drinking. He stood up there on his wedding day in a dark grey suit and I hardly recognized him. He was a man ready to get married; he was sure about her. I felt a surge of pride when I saw him and I so desperately wanted to give him a hug. Instead I wiped the tears off my cheeks and remembered to smile.
His eyes welled when she walked towards him. He looked like he wanted to run to her, to swoop her up and carry her towards the officiant just to speed the process along. They exchanged their vows–the two of them were so full of emotion that the air was thick with it–and when it was over they were husband and wife, just like that.
Both weddings were special to me for completely different reasons. Danielle has been one of my bestest best friends since I was 15 years old. It was a reunion and a party and there was lots of fun and silliness and shots and dancing. Garrett’s wedding was sacred in a way that I was not familiar with; he added another member to our family on Saturday, and I felt nothing but joy.
