After Watching Our Twins Die, Our Marriage Almost Didn't Make It. Here's How We Found Our Way Back.

Most days, I wake as the last of the stars fade into the sky. I make my way into the kitchen to make coffee, nearly tripping over the mewling cat twisting between my ankles. As I scratch my armpit, my thumb catches in a hole in my T-shirt. Then, I try to run my fingers through my hair, but yesterday’s gel pulls at my scalp.

Finally, my coffee is ready. Shuffling toward the living room, I squint into the light and set the French press next to my overstuffed chair. Ahhhh — an hour of pencil-to-paper journaling before I must think about waiting deadlines. Mid thought, I look up and smile at the dog curled up on her pillow. She thumps her tail.

In the room next to where I sit, my husband, Lyle, still slumbers in his equally hole-y T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Renegade snores escape his CPAP-Darth-Vader mask. Lucky for me, the tick tock of the mantel clock — passed down through the generations — blocks most of the noise.

On the weekend, without an alarm, I’m lucky to get a half hour of this quiet writing time before Lyle clomps by on his way to the bathroom. He hawks up a mambo loogie — making my gag reflex kick in. I try not to growl at the fart bomb also headed my way.

He walks back out, thrusts his hips in the direction of my cozy writing corner.

“Wanna boink?”

I’d like to say I would never scrunch up my face and reply, “The vapor following you could strangle the dog, you know.” But in all the years we’ve been married, I admit I’ve said much worse. Believe me, my prize factor has also diminished in our 20-plus years of marriage. I’ve lost and gained enough weight over the years to anger my skin; without adequate sleep, I turn into something unrecognizable, even to myself; and my own flatulence could make a room of