I married my first husband at 21. Hindsight 20/20, not my best decision. Twelve years of life later, we divorced. That story isn't worthy of my time to write it or your time to read it. It happened. The End. After that, I moved into an apartment. One year and one rebound boyfriend later, I (literally) crawled back home to Mommy and Daddy into their open arms with a torn ligament in my knee and two dogs in tow. The first three attempts to fix said ligament failed. During this time I met my now husband, Joel. My lifesaver. My tattoo covered, Star Wars obsessed, heavy metal music lover, soulmate. The man who I never thought I'd fall head over heels in love with and end up marrying one day.
Unbeknownst to both of us, he impregnated me in November 2016 after just over 6 weeks of dating. Now, before all you haters all sound off at once, I was on the pill and had been for 15+ years. In addition, before any surgery they make you pee in a cup to test for pregnancy the day of surgery, and a blood test within 30 days before. So the two surgeries I had while pregnant I tested negative for pregnancy. So no, I'm not a moron, I was told by a man with an M.D. behind his name that I was not pregnant, more than once. Moving on. Joel and I went out, we partied, we had A LOT of fun. We did everything a kid-less couple in their early 30's would do in the honeymoon phase of a relationship. We shared Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and Valentine's Day. Then March 1, 2017 it was time for Hail Mary surgery #4. This surgery would put me basically on bed rest for 3-4 months. Being waited on hand at foot 24/7. Binge watching Netflix until my eyes hurt. The amount of times the screen popped up and asked "Are you still watching: Grey's Anatomy?" is embarrassing. Sounds great right? Nope. It was the worst kind of hell. I remember telling Joel I'd rather give birth than go through that.
Oh the irony.
I was a terrible patient. Joel was a God send. My family was incredible. I know they all wanted to kill me at times, OK, most of the time, but alas, we all made it out relatively unscathed. Joel and I crutched through those terrible months together. I did all the crutching, his lucky ass got to walk through it like a normal person. I honestly think it made us stronger as a couple, maybe we got by with a little help from my friend, Percocet. The recovery was slow, painful, and most of all frustrating. I just wanted my life back. I wanted to simply walk and was SO jealous of everyone who could. Read: Joel. That poor man took on the brunt of my frustration like a true champion. I hated him for being capable of walking. Looking back I now realize how ridiculous that was; to be mad at someone for being able to walk. I eventually got well enough to start my job doing menial tasks working for my Mom, still on crutches. Then they day that would live in infamy happened. June 29, 2017. The day I found out I was 35 weeks pregnant. My stomach still drops out like it does when you drive over a sharp hill when I think about that day.
Much like basically every episode of the greatest TV series of our time, Grey's Anatomy, I feel it fitting to leave this post on a cliffhanger.
Until next time, friends! Bear with me. I promise my story is worth the read. I promise to be as entertaining as possible in sharing my terrifying catapult into motherhood.
Here is a picture of the end result of this journey to hold you over.
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| Jordan Faris Born August 4, 2017 |
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