I hydroplaned after ten minutes of becoming the pilot on our New England trip. Isaac just finished driving his eight hour shift and there I sat inadequate and proved that some women are bad drivers.
He said it wasn't a big deal as I pulled off and he became the lead driver yet again into the raging storm through Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Rhode Island, and passing into Connecticut he drove on - strong, sure, capable.
I sat in the seat next to him trying to help him stay focused and awake so I decided to sing every T.V. show theme song I knew and he had to guess which one it was. Because what else do you do in a storm?
Friends. Save by the Bell. Fresh Prince of Bell Air.
I asked Isaac to do one and he said he didn't know any... until about 20 minutes of me singing non-stop tunes, he interrupts and says,
"I have one...
'cause the eyes of a ranger are upon you,
Any wrong you do he's gonna see,
When you're in Texas look behind you,
'cause that's where the rangers are gonna be"
And we laughed for the rest of the two hours over that moment. We laughed so hard that I almost couldn't breathe. He didn't no one song, but The Texas Ranger.
Chuck Norris for the win.
To many readers, that story is pointless to put in a blog especially a blog about our journey to becoming parents, but to me it could not be more perfect.
That is my Isaac: making me laugh in the storm.
We celebrate six years of marriage this month and for our six year he took me to Cape Cod. A place I have dreamed about for almost a decade. I wanted to be Jackie O. on the beach with my big sunglasses and wild hair smiling in the sun. I wanted to pen a poem in Provincetown like Mary Oliver and see a whale the size of Moby Dick (from the shore of course, Mom). We just never knew we would come during a big rain storm.
Isaac and I have been so blessed in our life, but we have had some big storms. Storms, I wondered if I was going to make out fully alive again. Blows that will make you limp.
And I couldn't have made it without him. His laughter, his contagious goofy smile. His faith & hope in a plan that is so much higher than ours. I remember early on in your diagnosis one night waking & crying for an easy path to parenthood. You know one where we just snap our fingers and the pain is over. The ache has left. The quiet nights and empty rooms are long gone. The bad memories vanished.
And Isaac drew me in and whispered: I can hold you in the dark.
And he has.
He has had pain in his own way. He has wondered and questioned just like me, but he reminds me again and again we can hold on to each other in the dark.
We ran up to the lighthouse in the rain storm. Isaac wearing shorts because well that is all he brought on our trip. Who would have known Cape Cod was 50 degrees in June? And we laughed. We laughed looking out at the observation deck of the Pilgrim Monument where you were supposed to see the skyline of Boston. Do you know what we saw? Rain drops. Rain drops covering the windows of the observation deck. I think I saw a bird. We walked upstairs 252 feet to see a bird in the foggy rain.
I don't want to forget these moments of just Isaac & me. Moments of 3:00 a.m. driving & the talks about life & plans. I don't want to forget the pouring rain & running to the ocean to pretend we were in the heat of Mexico. Or the two flat tires that let us hang around local "coders" for two hours over a hot cup of coffee + their stories. Or the New England woman smiling as we said it was our six year anniversary coming up as she looked at her worn wedding ring & fragile hands understanding everything about love, loss, + adventure.
I might walk a little differently now. I am not the same as I was six years ago + neither is he. Storms have come & gone but he still proves to me there is light in the darkness.
Once I wanted to forget the sadness, but it was in those times I saw us doing what we vowed to do & what a beautiful thing:
from this day forward
for better, for worse
In sickness, in health
for richer, for poorer
to love & to cherish
till death do us part.
To the man who held me in the dark. I will never forget.
Happy Six Years, Ike. I love you.