MINE ALONE

Chapter :33 Jude

I used to think wanting a baby was the difficult part.I was wrong.Preparing for one…That was its own journey.It had been almost two months since Adrian and I had started following the fertility specialist’s plan.

Two months of appointments.

Blood tests.

Meal plans.

Supplements.

Exercise.

Carefully timed routines.

And enough medication to make my bedside table look like a small pharmacy.

Some mornings I would stare at the little organiser box and sigh dramatically.

“I don’t want to.”

Adrian, who was usually making breakfast, would look over his shoulder.

“I know.”

“I hate them.”

“I know.”

“They’re disgusting.”

“I know.”

“I think they’re plotting against me.”

That always made him laugh.

“I promise the vitamins aren’t plotting.”

“You don’t know that.”

He would walk over with a glass of water, gently place it in my hand, and smile.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

“We’re in this together.”

I would groan as though he had asked me to climb a mountain.

Then I’d swallow every single tablet anyway.

Because every pill represented hope.

And hope was worth a little discomfort.

Or at least…

That was what I kept reminding myself.

⸻

The side effects, however…

Those were another story.

Some mornings I woke up exhausted despite sleeping for nine hours.

By lunchtime I wanted another nap.

Certain foods suddenly made me feel queasy.

Others tasted completely different.

There were days when my head felt strangely heavy.

Days when my muscles ached after the lightest workout.

Days when I simply wanted to curl up under a blanket and sleep until tomorrow.

As a doctor, I knew that medications and supplements could affect everyone differently, and I’d discussed every symptom with my specialist. We adjusted things as needed and kept monitoring my health closely.

Knowing there was a reason for how I felt helped.

It didn’t always make it easier.

⸻

Adrian noticed everything.

Sometimes before I did.

“You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I was also fine yesterday.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“You fell asleep sitting up.”

“…That happened once.”

“It happened twice.”

I smiled sheepishly.

“Maybe twice.”

Without another word, he would already be reaching for the blanket folded over the sofa.

“Lie down.”

“I still have things to do.”

“They’ll still be there after your nap.”

“I don’t need a nap.”

“You just yawned.”

“I can yawn without sleeping.”

He folded his arms.

“Jude.”

I looked up at him.

He wasn’t annoyed with me.

He was worried.

Always worried.

I sighed dramatically.

“Fine.”

“I knew you’d see reason.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I surrendered.”

“I’ll accept that.”

⸻

If there was one person taking this journey as seriously as I was…

It was Adrian.

He attended every appointment he possibly could.

If work threatened to interfere, meetings were moved.

Calls were postponed.

Board members learned very quickly that medical appointments with his husband were non-negotiable.

Every blood test.

Every consultation.

Every nutritional review.

He sat beside me.

Notebook open.

Questions prepared.

Sometimes I caught the nurses smiling at him.

One even whispered to me after an appointment,

“He asks almost as many questions as the doctors.”

I laughed.

“I believe it.”

⸻

Exercise became part of our weekly routine too.

The specialist had encouraged gentle, regular movement, so Adrian decided that if I was exercising…

He was exercising.

Every evening we’d walk together.

Some days we’d stretch in the garden.

Other days we’d go to the gym for light sessions approved by my medical team.

Whenever I slowed down…

Adrian slowed down.

Whenever I wanted to stop…

He’d smile and say,

“One more minute.”

Then, when I managed that minute…

He’d grin proudly.

“I knew you could.”

⸻

Not every day was graceful.

There were mornings when I was so tired that I fell asleep at the breakfast table.

Afternoons when I came home from the hospital completely drained.

Evenings when my body simply refused to cooperate.

One particular night I sat on the kitchen floor because I suddenly felt too exhausted to keep cooking.

Adrian walked in, took one look at me, and immediately knelt beside me.

“Sweetheart?”

“I’m tired.”

“I can see that.”

“I was making dinner.”

“You were trying to.”

“I failed.”

He smiled softly.

“You didn’t fail.”

He kissed my forehead.

“You listened to your body.”

Then he helped me to my feet.

“Come on.”

“I’ll cook.”

“You’ve cooked three nights this week.”

“I know.”

“You’ll spoil me.”

“I’ve been trying to spoil you since the day I met you.”

“I noticed.”

⸻

Sometimes, though…

I caught him looking at the bottles of medication with an expression I couldn’t quite place.

Not anger.

Not frustration with me.

Frustration that I had to go through any of this at all.

One evening, after I’d taken another handful of tablets, he quietly picked up the empty glass.

“I hate seeing you feel so worn out.”

I rested my head against his shoulder.

“I know.”

“If this becomes too much…”

He hesitated.

“We can slow down.”

“There isn’t a deadline.”

I looked up at him.

“I appreciate that.”

“And if my doctors tell me I need to stop or change something, I will.”

He nodded immediately.

“Good.”

“My health comes first.”

“Always.”

He kissed my forehead.

“Always.”

There was something profoundly comforting about hearing him say it.

He wanted this journey with me.

But he wanted me even more.

Not an outcome.

Not a timeline.

Me.

⸻

Three days.

Only three days remained until our third wedding anniversary.

I smiled every time I thought about it.

Three years.

It felt impossible.

Three years of laughter.

Growth.

Healing.

Learning.

Loving.

And now…

Preparing for the possibility of becoming parents together.

The journey wasn’t glamorous.

There were no magical moments.

Just ordinary ones.

Pill organisers.

Clinic waiting rooms.

Healthy meals.

Gentle walks.

Early nights.

Hope.

Lots and lots of hope.

As I lay in bed that evening, Adrian was beside me reading through tomorrow’s appointment reminders.

He looked so serious that I couldn’t help smiling.

“What?”

He glanced over.

“You’re frowning at the calendar.”

“I’m making sure we don’t miss anything.”

“You’ve become very organised.”

“I learned from my husband.”

I laughed quietly.

“You’re doing all this for me.”

He reached over and took my hand.

“No.”

He squeezed it gently.

“I’m doing it for us.”

I looked at the man beside me—the one who had once been terrified that parenthood would change us, and who now never missed an appointment, never forgot a supplement reminder, never let me feel like I was carrying this hope alone.

The journey was harder than I’d imagined.

Some days, I was tired enough to cry.

Some days, my body felt like it belonged to the medication instead of me.

Some days, I wondered if the process would ever become easier.

But every difficult day ended the same way.

With Adrian’s hand finding mine.

With a kiss on my forehead.

With a quiet reminder that no matter how long this road became, I would never have to walk it by myself.

And somehow…

That made every difficult day feel worth enduring.

Because whether our dream arrived soon or took longer than we hoped, we were already proving something important.

We weren’t just preparing for a child.

We were learning, day by day, how to carry each other through the hard parts together.

And I thought that was a beautiful way to become a family.