The delivery was fast.
Bright lights.
Too many voices.
Fear.
Then crying.
Three separate cries.
I remember Carter squeezing my hand.
I remember asking:
“Are they okay?”
Someone said yes.
Then everything became fragmented.
Recovery was not the beautiful montage people post online.
I had surgical pain.
Swelling.
Bleeding.
Weakness.
Then months later, after the obvious healing was supposedly over, I discovered that pregnancy had left me with pelvic-floor dysfunction and stress incontinence.
Sneezing could become a problem.
Lifting a baby the wrong way could become a problem.
Coughing.
Laughing.
Running up the stairs.
Some days were fine.
Others were humiliating.
At least they felt humiliating then.
My doctor told me it was not unusual after a multiple pregnancy.
She referred me to a pelvic-floor physical therapist.
I started treatment.
Exercises.
Strengthening.
Breathing techniques.
Time.
And on days when symptoms were worse, protective underwear.
My therapist said:
“Use whatever lets you live your life while your body recovers.”
That sentence helped.
Carter did not.
The first time he saw the package, he stared at it and said:
“You’re still having that problem?”
“Yes.”
“It’s been months.”
“I know.”
“Shouldn’t it be fixed?”
“I’m in physical therapy.”
He frowned.
“You didn’t have this before.”
“No, Carter.”
“I also hadn’t carried three babies before.”
He laughed.
“I’m just saying.”
That became his favorite phrase.
I’m just saying.
As if adding those words erased everything before them.
At first, I convinced myself he was uncomfortable.
Then I told myself he didn’t understand.
Then I told myself he was tired.
The triplets had changed his life too.
Except eventually I had to admit something.
Most of the changes had landed on me.
Carter went back to work three weeks after the babies came home.
He told everyone he needed to because we needed income.
That was true.
I appreciated it.
What wasn’t true was the idea that his responsibility ended when he returned from the office.
I did nights.
He had work.
I did pediatric appointments.
He had meetings.
I handled bottles, laundry, naps, food, medication, diapers, therapy appointments, grocery orders and the endless rotation of cleaning generated by three infants.
Carter loved our children.
I want to be clear about that.
He loved holding them.
Photographing them.
Making them laugh.
He loved taking all three out in the expensive stroller and hearing strangers say:
“Triplets?”
He was proud of them.
He just didn’t seem to understand that loving children and caring for children were not identical things.
And when I struggled, he used humor instead of empathy.
Four months after the birth, I cried because none of my clothes fit.
Carter said:
“You had three people living in there. What did you expect?”
Six months after the birth, I tried to initiate intimacy, then stopped because something hurt.
He rolled over and said:
“Let me know when the renovation is finished.”
He apologized the next morning.
I accepted it.
Seven months postpartum, I leaked urine while laughing at something during dinner.
I rushed upstairs.
Carter later whispered:
“At least you didn’t pee on the chair.”
I stopped laughing.
He said:
“Oh my God, Elena, relax.”
By nine months postpartum, I had stopped telling him about appointments.
By ten months, I had started sleeping in the guest room some nights because I felt less lonely there than beside him.
