Marriage: A Five Year History

The day of our rehearsal dinner, Elon Musk smoked marijuana during an interview for Joe Rogan’s live podcast. Tesla stock plummeted and two executives announced their departures. The twinkle lights around my in-law’s house reflected off the lake. Two dozen of our closest family and friends shared in Champagne and classic Cuban food. Obama urged voters to show up to the polls. For the first time since leaving office, he called out President Donald Trump by name, calling him a symptom—not the cause—of fear and progress in America. I wore a short, white dress and extra long hair extensions.

We went to the Seychelles for our honeymoon, stopping for a long layover in Dubai. Djokovic won his third U.S. Open. Longtime CBS chief Leslie Moonves stepped down after half a dozen women made new allegations of sexual misconduct against him. We went to an aquarium inside a shopping mall.

We celebrated our first New Year’s Eve as a married couple in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. We watched the fireworks from the porch of the condo my uncle loaned us. More than a million people gathered to watch the ball drop in Times Square. We went to bed at 12:01am.

In February 2019, I was working as an admin for a small Christian school and pursuing a graduate degree in applied psychology. In the bathroom of the Presbyterian church the school used as their campus, I took a pregnancy test. I was on birth control. The test was positive. A jury found drug lord Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman guilty on charges of drug trafficking, money laundering, and weapons-related offenses. I told my husband to come home from work early. He cried happy tears; I cried terrified ones.

In March 2019, we learned our baby had no heartbeat. The doctor said, “this is what’s called a miscarriage.” She gave me three options for how to proceed. UK prime minister Theresa May and EU leaders negotiated more time for the Parliament of the United Kingdom to ratify the Brexit withdrawal agreement. I took Misoprostol. It didn’t work, but I didn’t know because the doctor didn’t follow up.

In May 2019, I thought I was pregnant again. I got a new OB. He did an ultrasound. There were shootings at UNC Charlotte and Highlands Ranch, Colorado. Alabama passed the nation’s most restrictive abortion ban. I found out my Misoprostol hadn’t worked. I had a D & C.

In July 2019, I found out I was pregnant again. There were two mall shootings in two days, and the United States saw its greatest number of measles cases since 1992. Fear for our child’s life became a permanent condition.

In August 2019, the sonographer told me there were two babies. There were more mass shootings and a string of stabbings in California. Jeffrey Epstein was found dead from suicide in his prison cell. I asked the sonographer if she was sure there were two. I asked my husband to come home early. I showed him an image with two babies. He told me to shut up. We laughed and laughed. It was ridiculous.

On December 15, 2019, our firstborn daughter was born 17 weeks and 2 days too soon. She weighed one pound, four ounces. I named her Vivienne. The Trump administration planned to announce Afghanistan troop withdrawals. The longest U.N. climate talks on record ended. Vivienne was rushed to the neonatal intensive care unit before I ever saw her. My labor stopped.

On December 17, 2019, our second born daughter went into distress. I had an emergency c-section. Boeing suspended production of the 737 MAX plane. I named our second daughter Margot. She was eleven inches long.

On December 22, 2019, a neonatologist told my husband she and her colleagues suspected both our daughters had bowel perforations. My husband of one year, three months, and 14 days asked the physician if our daughters could die. She said yes. Eddie Murphy returned to SNL for the first time in 35 years. I pleaded with God to take me instead of my daughters.

On December 23, 2019, our one-pound daughters had exploratory surgery in their incubators. The surgery had a 50% survival rate for babies their size. Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker did $175.5 million in North American ticket sales, dominating the box office. Our daughters survived.

In February 2022, my husband called me from the hospital to tell me our second born daughter stopped breathing. Her heart stopped beating. More mass shootings made the news. President Trump was acquitted on both articles of impeachment. The nurse did compressions; another nurse pushed epinephrin. A neonatologist intubated her. She came back to us with nothing but a broken rib.

In March 2020, both our daughters went to surgery for hours and hours. The World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a global pandemic. The hospital stopped allowing visitors, stripping us of our support system.

On April 28, 2020, our firstborn daughter was discharged from neonatal intensive care. She weighed just over six pounds. Trump unveiled new coronavirus testing guidance to be led by states. New York canceled its presidential primary. Vivienne came home with an oxygen tank and wound care instructions.

On May 6, 2020, our second born went to surgery to repair a bowel obstruction. I wondered if she would survive. The United States reached 73,000 coronavirus related deaths. The UK planned to ease coronavirus restrictions. Margot came back from surgery whole, albeit missing 24 centimeters of her small intestine.

In June 2020, our first born started babbling. Our second born was transferred to the complex care unit. We waited to find out if she would need a tracheostomy. Black Lives Matter protests took the country by storm. Joe Biden was announced as the DNC candidate. We sat in a room full of masked medical professionals to find out our daughter’s fate. They gave us an expected discharge date.

On July 28, 2020, our second born was discharged from neonatal intensive care after 224 days on the unit. For the first time in seven and a half months, we felt like we could breathe. Notre Dame withdrew as the host of the first presidential debate because of coronavirus concerns. Margot came home with an oxygen tank and a feeding tube.

On September 8, 2020, we had been married two years. We had two daughters and half a dozen oxygen tanks at home. Record heat fueled severe fire threats in California and Oregon. We took a photo of the four of us in the living room. My husband and I looked so tired. The babies were perfect.

In December 2020, our daughters turned one-year-old. The Pfizer-BioNTech COVID-19 vaccine became available for people 16 years of age and older. New York City welcomed elementary school students back to class. We remained in hiding to protect our daughters’ premature lungs.

In June 2021, our firstborn daughter walked. Coronavirus cases declined. There were more shootings. I thought about the obstetrician who warned me that if she lived, she may never walk or talk or feed herself. I wondered how I could ever send my miracle babies out into this messed up world.

On September 8, 2021, we had been married three years. My husband and I went on our first date since the twins were born nearly two years prior. Britney Spears’ fight to end her conservatorship took an unexpected turn when her father petitioned to end the arrangement. We drank Champagne on the patio at Hillstone and took a single selfie. I was having a bad hair day. My husband didn’t care.

In November 2021, our second-born daughter walked. There were 11 mass shootings over Halloween weekend. I thought about the obstetrician again. I considered homeschooling our daughters to protect them from this messed up world.

In the summer of 2022, the twins were already potty trained. We were nearly half a year into the Russian invasion of Ukraine. A gunman killed 19 students and two teachers at Robb Elementary in Uvalde, Texas. The girls learned to swim, and we made a few trips to the emergency department for high fevers and runny noses. I cried for the mothers who lost their babies. I cried with relief that I still had mine. My husband held my hand.

In September 2022, we had been married four years. We came down with COVID. I watched my daughters breathe while they slept, looking for any signs of respiratory distress. The Bidens hosted the Obamas for the unveiling of the Obama’s Official White House Portraits. The twins emerged from the virus unscathed.

In November 2022, our adoption home study was approved, marking the beginning of our wait for Baby number three. Ron DeSantis defeated Charlie Crist in Florida’s Governorship race. Flu cases in U.S. hospitals were the highest the country had seen in decades. We wondered if baby number three was a crazy idea.

In December 2022, our daughters turned three. We spent Christmas in the hospital because our second born daughter developed pneumonia. The governor of Maryland banned the use of TikTok on state devices. I sobbed when they transferred Margot to the Special Care Unit to put her on a high flow nasal cannula. We were discharged seven days later, and celebrated Christmas on New Year’s Eve.

Today, on September 8, 2023, my husband and I have been married five years. It feels like twice as many and half as many all at once. We have packed more life than I ever cared to live into the last five years. While I would haven’t chosen much of it, I wouldn’t take it back. The country has grown more violent and more polarized. The world is on fire. We are different, too. We thought we knew what love was that night on the lake. We couldn’t have imagined how trauma and tragedy would do more for our love than twinkle lights and tostones ever would.