Closer

By Guest Writer Allie King

I know I want to marry my husband when we are 19 years old, sleeping on separate twin beds in the same room. My grandfather has just died, and despite the grief I know I’ll bring along, I agree to go on vacation with Drew’s family.

The first evening, I lie awake while Drew sleeps soundly several feet away from me.

“Drew?” I whisper across the darkness.

A wave of emotion rises in my chest. My breath quickens, my heart thumps, and my stomach knots. A few minutes later—after no sign of movement from Drew’s bed—I call his name again, a bit louder.

“Huh?” he half-mumbles. “Are you having a nightmare?”

“No, I—I just can’t sleep,” I stammer, my eyes filling with tears. The catch in my voice must rouse him awake.

“Pawie?” he asks, referencing the name I called my grandfather.

“Yeah,” I sniffle back.

Silence hangs in the air before Drew sits up in his bed. “I have an idea,” he says. Seconds later, he’s lugging his heavy, wooden bed across the room and nestling it beside mine.

“I’ll rub your back until you fall asleep,” he tells me, his strong, warm hands settling on my spine, steadying my wild heartbeat. I breathe slowly while he traces delicate loops around my back. We lie like this for hours, me sniffling, him calming, until I fall asleep. I’ve never felt so safe, so comforted by someone’s presence.

//

Our first holiday season as a married couple, Drew and I spend a weekend in the mountains celebrating Christmas with his family. My mother-in-law graciously rents three small cabins: one for her and my stepfather-in-law; one for my brother-in-law, sister-in-law, and nephew; and one for Drew and me.

As soon as Drew and I step foot in our temporary home for the weekend, our eyes meet. In the middle of the room are two twin-sized beds. He smiles good-naturedly, but I see the way his eyebrows crease. My broad, six-foot-two husband hardly fits beside me in our queen-sized bed at home.

I grin to myself, a familiar idea blossoming in my mind.

“Why don’t we just scoot them together?” I shrug. Minutes later, we are rearranging the furniture in our two-night cabin rental—just to be closer to each other.

//

Three years later, Drew and I are in a hospital room with our newborn. The room is almost as dark as the midnight sky outside the window. At six hours post-delivery, my body is beginning to steady, but my mind grows shakier by the minute. Drew situates a blanket and pillow on the sofa beneath the window, and our firstborn sleeps in a bassinet halfway between us.

“I’m going to try to get some rest,” Drew says.

I try to stifle my sobs, but Drew hears me immediately. Panic overtakes my body, even as I fight against it.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, alarmed. When I can’t make out any words, he hurries to my side. “Allie, what is it?” he begs, one hand on the rail of my bed.

“It’s just that … you’re too far away,” I cry. I know how ridiculous the words sound as soon as they come out of my mouth, but I have no other explanation for the terror I feel. He looks at me, then at the bassinet, then at the sofa a few feet away.

“Allie, I’m right here,” he says with a hint of confusion. “I’m not going anywhere.”

This assertion only makes me cry harder, because I know he is right there, but I cannot explain how far away right there feels. I’m used to falling asleep with his body next to mine, reaching for the warmth of his skin when my anxious mind won’t calm. The space that stretches between us feels like a dark abyss, punctuated only by a strange contraption and the foreign infant sleeping inside it. Is this an indication of what’s to come? I wonder. Will this baby change us, pull us away from each other? He falls asleep on the couch, and I fall asleep in the hospital bed crying.

//

Our second-born child is nearly four months old and she detests sleep. I read sleep training books and bark orders while Drew Googles everything and questions my strategies. We’re rarely awake at the same time, but when we are, sleep deprivation twists every conversation into an argument. We are a Jenga tower, wobbly and unstable, ready to crash with the touch of a finger. Each night without sleep is another block taken from our core.

It’s 9 p.m.: the earliest we’ve ever had our daughter asleep. I realize our bedroom light is off as soon as I step out of the shower. My heart sinks. I hadn’t hoped for much—maybe one episode of our favorite TV show or a 10-minute chat about everything we haven’t discussed in four months—but tonight there will be no TV and certainly no chatting. Drew is asleep.

I linger in the darkness, studying the way his chest rises and falls. I crave his brawny hands, the way they soften the knotted muscles in my back. I want to hear the rhythmic drum of his chest, to bask in the sound of his laughter. Hot tears slide down my cheeks.

Now, his hands are for throwing the attention-deprived toddler in the air. His chest is for cradling the sleep-deprived newborn. His laugh is for reassuring the guys he’s up for Saturday’s game. And as I stare at him sleeping so peacefully, I wonder, Is there any part of you left for me?

The question lingers in my mind, carving a deeper chasm in the canyon that stretches between us. I climb into bed beside him, certain I’ve never missed anyone so desperately.

//

One year later, on a blistering August afternoon, our now four-year-old firstborn falls out of his chair onto our back patio. He stops breathing. His face turns blue. His entire body seizes.

Several minutes later, an ambulance screeches to a halt in front of our home. The first responders load our son onto a stretcher, then into the back of the vehicle. I am attached to his side, inconsolable. Drew stands at the back of the ambulance, understanding only one of us will fit in the crowded vehicle. Our son’s body has stopped seizing, and his eyes roll forward in brief flashes.

“He’s coming to, Mom,” one of the EMTs says.

When the IV is placed, he moves to the driver seat and I motion for Drew to take his place in the ambulance. My husband makes his way to the door, but the paramedic still in the back with me holds up his hand. “Sorry, Dad,” he says, “you need to drive separately.”

My heart falls into my stomach. “Wait, no!” I cry. “He has to ride with us!” I can’t imagine facing the next 20 minutes without him.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” he says, his voice firm, “there isn’t enough space.” With that, he shuts the door, and the ignition switches on. I watch out the back window as my husband’s face grows smaller and smaller.

After spending a night in the hospital, we are sent home with unclear answers. The glaring truth haunts us: our son may have another seizure without warning. A fever could cause it. A virus.

Drew is consumed with the need to keep our son healthy. I am consumed with the need to keep our son safe. He carries hand sanitizer in his pocket everywhere we go, scanning rooms for coughs and snotty noses. I carry our son’s hand in mine everywhere we go, scanning rooms for danger or unfamiliarity. We are Hot Wheels cars stuck on two different loops, flying unrelentingly in opposite directions. Although our tired hearts need each other, our nervous systems are intent on one thing only: protecting our child.

The months tick by with no more seizures. When the one-year anniversary rolls around, Drew and I collectively breathe a sigh of relief. Our anxieties still plague us, but they’ve softened with time. We can speak of them now—admit they’re there, and we admit that they’ve driven us away from each other.

We make a concerted effort to talk to each other, about the life we’re creating for our kids, the kind of family we want to be. I hold his hand during church. He wraps his arms around me in the kitchen. We dream about a third baby.

A few months later, that dream takes form in my womb, and then, eleven weeks later, comes crashing down in blood and tears and heartbreak. Drew drives me to the hospital for my D&C. He holds my hand when the nurse blows my vein and squeezes when she tries again. He kisses me on the forehead before they roll me away for surgery. He is the first thing I see when I wake up.

But when we get home, I need to lie in bed, and he needs to tend to our five and three-year-olds. I need to care for everything we’ve lost, and he needs to care for everything we have. He comes to bed weary with physical exhaustion, where I lie weary with emotional exhaustion. We are puzzle pieces strewn on the playroom floor, belonging to each other but laying there separately.

//

One Saturday morning a few weeks later, a small question about our plans for the day swells into an eruption of all the grief and stress we’re both carrying. I sit cross-legged on our bedroom floor and tell him how lonely I am. He sits on our bed, his head in his hands, and says he’s sorry.

“I don’t want to lose us,” I cry, and I see how my raw, honest admission affects him. His eyes grow heavy and sad.

“Me neither,” he says.

Later that afternoon, I’m putting away laundry when he grabs my hand.

“Let’s watch a movie tonight after the kids go down,” he says with a smile. I’m caught off guard by his suggestion. I love watching movies together—he knows this—but it’s something we haven’t made time for in months. I nod my head slowly, a smile parting my lips.

A few hours later, I close my son’s door and walk the hall to our bedroom. Drew has the movie I’ve been wanting to watch pulled up on my laptop.

“Ready?” he asks, and I nod as we climb into bed together. Before we click play, I turn my whole body to face his, and he does the same, reaching for my hand. He pulls my body into his, and I rest my head on his chest. I’ve forgotten what it is to feel his steady heartbeat against my cheek, to know the warmth of his skin.

Tonight, we’ll watch an entire movie together. It really shouldn’t be a big deal. But it is. Because I know children and life and heartbreak can wedge themselves into cracks in your marriage that you never knew were there. I know you have to keep moving towards each other to keep from moving away from each other. I know two heavy beds are much easier to move together than two heavy hearts.

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This essay won our annual Love After Babies writing contest—exclusively open to Exhale members. Learn more here.

Guest essay by

Allie King

. Allie lives in East Tennessee with her husband and two children. She’s passionate about baked goods and mental health, belly laughs and the way God moves. When she’s not writing, you’ll find her walking to the library with her little ones or lost in deep conversation with a friend. Find more of her words on Substack or Instagram.

Photo by

Jennifer Floyd

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