Husbands are Great, But . . .

“Maybe you’re having a kid with superpowers.”

That’s what my husband said to me as he walked casually around the hospital room.

I was lying on my side, fetal-position, on the tiny, stiff white cot, breathing heavily through my mouth because my nasal passages were all swollen shut from hours of weeping. I had my winter coat on to try to alleviate the wild shivering, and my shoes were kicked off on the floor. I didn’t even know why we were there anymore. I had already spent six hours there in the emergency ward, and I couldn’t remember the last thing the nurse had said about why we still needed to wait.

I had had a miscarriage. Or at least, I was quite sure I had. I’d been at my parents’ house, butchering chickens with my mom, when I’d started to bleed. I called my mom downstairs to tell her, and she’d whisked me away to the hospital in my car while I sobbed uncontrollably in the passenger’s seat, my head against the frosty window. I’d waited so long for this pregnancy.

My mom murmured soothing words about God and Hope and a Plan all the way there, and then had had me lean against her shoulder and squeezed my hand as we sat and waited. I saw a nurse, registered with another, waited an hour while the TV played soaps at us, and finally got led to a curtained-off room in the back where we eventually saw a real nurse. I was wet-faced and trembly the whole time. Eventually my husband came to relieve my mom. She left tearfully, promising to wait for any news and to pray. My husband strode into the room casually, gave my shoulder a brief, encouraging squeeze, and sat down in the chair at the head of the cot. He stretched out his legs and relaxed, getting up every once in a while to wander. He examined the cheesy posters pinned to the curtained walls and criticized them with amusement. He hung around while I was pricked, prodded, and questioned. During a particularly long wait between nurse visits is when he made his suggestion about the baby with superpowers.

Let me just say, he wasn’t all that comforting.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My husband is an incredibly caring guy. He left to get me soup when he realized I hadn’t eaten in seven hours (though he did come back with curly fries instead of soup when he couldn’t decide which kind to get. He tried). He has always been good with caring for me when I’m sick, bringing me breakfast in bed, leaving shiny Echinacea pills on my plate at every meal and forcing me to eat saltines in between (his notion of a cure-all).

But as for emotional support when I’m suffering . . . well, he’s a guy.

I try not to blame him too much. After all, what can he really understand about the agony of infertility or miscarriage? How can he really fathom the horror of seeing blood when you’re not supposed to, or the overwhelming joy of seeing a flicker on the ultrasound screen when you’ve been convinced that your baby is long gone? (Yes, I found out a few days later that my baby was still safe and sound in there. But he didn’t bother coming to the appointment with me. When he came to pick me up afterward, he smiled and said, “That’s good. That’s a relief.”)

Husbands are awesome. But there are some areas in which they can’t be expected to help all that much. That’s when you need girl friends and mothers.

When I told my female friends about what I was going through, they were overflowing with compassion. They expressed hope, but mostly shared in my grief, which was what I needed. They offered to pray and to bring me food. I was so grateful for their friendship during that time in my life.

But there is one thing my husband can always do for me . . .

If you are a husband and your wife is struggling – especially with anything distinctly feminine – here’s my advice: hug her. Your words probably won’t do much good, but your arms probably will. Nothing comforts an aching woman’s heart like a husband hug. Hug her often.

My husband is great for that.

Photo courtesy of CapturedByChelsea.