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I follow Winter in and take a seat next to him on the couch across from the therapist.
She introduces herself—Claire—and then gives us a rundown of how the session will work. She then looks between us and says, “So, why don’t we start with you telling me why you’re here.”
Winter stretches his arm out behind me, across the couch, and says, “Birdie miscarried last year, after we’d done seven years of IVF, and just before that, my brother died. So you could say we’ve got some stuff to talk about.”
I stare at him, happy he took the lead. It’s not that I didn’t want to; I just hoped he’d contribute equally to this session, and it looks promising after that.
Claire’s kind eyes make me feel comfortable to share our story with her. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. “Do you have a preference for what you’d like to talk about first?”
Winter looks at me, waiting for my response on this one. He takes my hand and holds it on his leg.
I smile at him and then answer Claire. “I honestly don’t know where to start. It’s been such a mess of emotions for eight years. We prepared for IVF for one year and then did ten cycles over the next seven. I miscarried three times, and that was after previously having two ectopic pregnancies and losing both my tubes. The reason I wanted to come in and talk to you is because after I miscarried this last time, and we said that was the end of IVF, we both threw ourselves into work and drifted apart from each other. We avoided talking about it. I mean, after the initial disappointment and anger that we shared. And on top of that, we were grieving Winter’s brother’s death. I don’t think we grieved any of it properly; I’m hoping you can help us figure out how to do that.”
“That’s a good place to start, Birdie,” Claire says. Then to Winter, she says, “Do you feel the same way?”
He takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “I know we got busy with work and didn’t have a lot of time to talk about stuff, but I don’t know we avoided talking about it. We’d already spent seven years talking about it. There wasn’t much else to say once it was all done.”
“We talked about IVF for all those years, yes,” I say to Winter, “but we didn’t really ever talk about the emotional fallout of reaching the end of the road.”
He looks at me. “I thought that was a given.”
I frown. “What was a given?”
“The way we both felt about the end of the road. It wasn’t a happy fucking feeling, and I just thought we both felt the same.”
“We did. I guess I just got to a point where I wanted to talk about it with you and I felt like you shut down on me every time I tried. And about Max, too.”
“That was because I was busy, not because I didn’t want to talk.”
I don’t want to get into an argument with him over this, but I do want him to face his avoidance of dealing with his pain.
Shifting to face him, I pull his hand onto my leg and hold it tightly. “Okay, let’s talk about it now. Tell me how you feel about us never being able to have a child of our own.”
Winter’s shoulders are stone, as is his face. I don’t want to see him break. God, how I don’t want to see that. But I think it might be the thing he needs in order for us to move forward together. “I’m disappointed, but—”
I shake my head. “No. That word doesn’t even begin to describe it. Dig deeper. Tell me how you feel it in here”—I place my hand to his chest—“and whether it stops your breaths from coming some moments. Tell me if you wake in the middle of the night feeling like there’s a big, gaping hole in your life that you know will never be filled.” I push him harder as my voice cracks. As my tears threaten. “Talk to me about how you wonder if we’d just done something differently, we’d have a baby today. Maybe if I’d focussed more on being less stressed, we’d have a baby or maybe if—”
“Stop.” It’s one word, and it’s spoken low. He doesn’t raise his voice, but holy hell if that one word isn’t so black it darkens the room. He works his jaw and I swear I see the first fracture hit his heart. “You did nothing wrong. Fucking nothing. I won’t sit here and listen to you say that. And as for how I feel in here”—he pounds his chest—“I feel like I’ve scraped my soul from the inside fucking out and given it over ten times. Watching you go through every cycle was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in life, and then watching you lose our child, knowing there would be no more chances for another, it fucking killed me. I don’t talk about it, because you’re right: there’s not one fucking word that comes close to describing how it feels.”
Tears stream down my face as I squeeze his hand.
My strong man.
My broken man.
We both turn silent after that, and after allowing the silence for a while, Claire says, “Winter, I know you don’t want to listen to Birdie lay blame at her own feet, but I think it’s important for her to be able to unpack her feelings over that. Guilt not dealt with will only fester.”
Winter contemplates that deeply before nodding. “Okay.”
“Thank you,” Claire says and then looks at me. “Tell me about the guilt you feel, Birdie.”
My tears turn into sobs at her question, and I realise just how much guilt I feel. Winter’s arm comes around me and he holds me while I open up. “I was anxious for seven straight years. I worried about the smallest things. About every damn thing. I blew stuff way out of proportion and refused to have hope some days. It all felt too hard and too much for me to cope with. I feel like all of that stress must have surely contributed to my inability to fall pregnant and also to the miscarriages I had.” I take a deep breath. “I feel guilty that I took away Winter’s chances at becoming a father”—I ignore the soft curse word he drops—“and while deep down I know he does
n’t feel that way, I can’t help how I feel over it.”
“Have you heard of Acceptance and Commitment Therapy, Birdie?” Claire asks as she offers me a tissue.
I take the tissue and wipe my tears. “No.”
