Aven Kane

Turning to face your husband, you feel more miserable and ashamed than you have felt in months. Not only have you failed to give him the child he so desperately wanted, but now you can’t even accept his embrace without flinching.

“What’s wrong?” he repeats.

Your voice becomes a whisper. “Ever since our last IVF transfer failed…” You draw in a shuddering breath. “I’ve been trying so hard to move beyond all the procedures and remember what sex felt like when it was just something special we shared. But sometimes…” You shake your head. “Sometimes, I just can’t get past it.”

James’ eyes widen in concern. You have his full attention.

“There’s this panel of track lighting in the ceiling of the fertility clinic,” you continue. “It’s got one of those vinyl decals on it, the kind that makes the ceiling look like a cloud-filled sky?”

James eyebrows swoop together in confusion, but you press on, “I can’t tell you the number of times I stared at that panel while I was laying spread-eagle on the ultrasound table, James. Eighty, 90, maybe even 100 times. Just lying there, gritting my teeth and dissociating into that cloud-filled sky while strangers shined lights and shoved instruments inside me.”

He flinches. He’s following you now.

“How are you supposed to turn that off? After four years of being fondled and stabbed and passed around like an anatomical doll, how are you supposed to bounce back like nothing happened?”

Your words come faster now, jumbled on top of each other: “I keep waiting for my desire to return. Some days, it does. But other times, I want to crawl into a hole and die when I think about sex. It feels like trauma, like being split open again, like maybe I have actual PTSD and need to get professional help.” 

You gasp for air. “Sometimes, sex feels like a reminder of all the ways my body has failed me. And my lack of desire makes me feel like I’m continuing to fail, because now I can’t even participate in this basic human function without going numb or melting into a pool of tears.”

Your nose is really running now. Dabbing at your face, you say, “I want to get the desire back, but I don’t know if I can after everything that’s happened. I’m terrified I’m too broken now, and my brokenness is going to drive you away. Because if I can’t even do this correctly”--you motion toward the nearby bed--“then what good am I? What kind of wife would I be?” 

Rather than immediately responding, James stays quiet for a moment. Then, much to your dismay, tears also begin streaming from his eyes. “I’m so sorry.” 

He says each word slowly, with a depth and intensity you’ve never heard from him before. Then, wrapping you in his arms, he sobs into your shoulder, “I’m so sorry you feel that way.”

James’ emotions are so passionate and unexpected that they momentarily stun you. Then, your heart surges with warmth. After so many months of feeling like you are staggering alone through a wildfire, your husband’s words of understanding are as welcome as a burst of petals through the ashes. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” he continues. “I would take it away from you if I could. I swear to God, Aven, I would take this feeling away from you if I could.”

As you stand enveloped in James’ embrace, the warmth of his tears begins seeping through your shirt. In this moment of vulnerability, you finally grasp the extent of your isolation and the solitude that has begun wrapping itself around your heart.

Now, as you feel the shuddering of James’ body against yours, something shifts inside you. The chasms that gape between you haven’t magically mended, but you glimpse a light in the darkness, a flicker from James’ side of the divide that signals he hasn’t forgotten about you, he still sees you, and he still embraces the darkest parts of your heart.

James’ sobs gradually subside, but his embrace remains firm. “I love you, Aven,” he says, his voice emerging as a soft rumble against your ear. “I’m so sorry this happened, but I’m here, okay? You’re not alone. I promise you that.”

You don’t realize how much you need to hear these words until they are spoken. It’s your turn to resume sobbing. “I love you, too, James. I love you more than anything in the world.”

As your husband finally pulls back to look at you, his eyes glisten with tears but shine with resolve. For the first time in a long time, you look into James’ eyes, and you feel hope.