He Held My Hand at Every Single Scan

People talk a lot about what the woman goes through in IVF, and rightly so. But I want to write about my husband, because nobody warns you that the man standing quietly in the corner is going through his own quiet storm, and that the way he loves you through it can become the thing you remember most.

Rohan took the early appointment slot every single time so he would not have to choose between work and me. The clinic opened at seven; we would leave the house at half past five, share one flask of coffee in the car, and he would always, always reach across the gearstick to hold my hand at the red lights.

In the scan room he had a job he gave himself. While the doctor moved the probe and I held my breath, he held my hand and watched my face, not the screen. "I can read the news on your face faster than the machine," he used to say. When the numbers were low, he would not let go. He would just hold tighter.

There was one morning the follicle count was disappointing and I broke down in the car afterward. He did not say it would be fine, because he is not a man who lies. He just pulled over near a tea stall, bought two cutting chais, and sat with me in silence until I was ready. Sometimes love is not words. Sometimes it is a paper cup of tea and a man who will wait.

I used to feel guilty that he had to carry so much of this with no body to show for it, no injections, no scans of his own. Once I said this aloud and he looked genuinely confused. "You think holding your hand is nothing?" he said. "It is the most important thing I have ever done."

Our treatment is ongoing. I do not have a tidy ending to give you. But whatever happens, I already know I did not do any of this alone. He held my hand at every single scan. In a marriage, that is everything.