Issue 15: We have a match. This is the one! Maybe. Hopefully?

Saturday September 22 2018

As with any other trend in the world today, the louder — or at least better accepted conversation around surrogacy — is in part down to Kim Kardashian. I don’t enjoy writing that down, but credit where credit is due; she talks about something and it suddenly becomes mainstream: nude cycling shorts, highlighter on the end of your nose, and having children via a surrogate. I also attribute the huge boost in my other world — the beauty industry — to her and her contoured, influential family. You can’t deny she is a smart businesswoman with an effective voice, a world-conquering support network by her side, a few gazillion in the bank, but a body that is not compatible with pregnancy. This is where we have something in common. I say common, I’m pretty sure her surrogacy journey(s) were nothing like mine. I’m convinced celebrity and money make a difference. I’d imagine Kim has people lining up to carry her baby. In reality I have no idea if this is the case, or what her process is, but I’m guessing she isn’t relying on an agency throwing her profile into the mix, wondering if a prospective surrogate will pick her over a more religious couple from their home state, say.

But I digress. We got an email. THE email. Again. “YOU HAVE A MATCH!”

Whoop. De. Doop. OK, this does a disservice to the new person. We were way more excited than this in reality, but, after all the stop-starts, the best way to convey my nervous anticipation is by playing it down. Put it this way — we are over the moon but remain tethered to earth. We don’t want to get our hopes up but then, f*** it, that in itself is a struggle. Third time lucky and we actually feel it this time.

Melissa is a mother of two. She has been a surrogate before for a Spanish woman seven years ago. She adores being pregnant, but doesn’t want any more children and her new husband is 1,000 per cent supportive.

It sounds like this was fairly quick, the time between losing Alex the psychiatrist, and finding this new person, Melissa, but, if I come clean and tell you the first part of my story wasn’t in real time, would you hold it against me? It was in fact a long and uncomfortable interlude. Every day and week and month that went by without a word was a further twist of the infertility knife. No one is getting any younger over here. We’re two years into physically trying to have our family already — about seven past our “idealistic imaginings” and we’d kind of envisaged having a toddler by the time we planned our 40th birthday celebrations. As it is we will most likely be dancing on the tables, still responsibility free. Which when I think about it isn’t the bonus it sounds like. Hmm. Maybe we’ll just stay in.

So, here we are, a new match! Dare we dream? By now we’re much more proficient at reading the profile that gets sent by the agency. We settle on the sofa with a glass of red wine and skim through it together, looking out for red flags. Previous ones have included a history of depression, multiple pregnancies and a gastric band. Melissa has had three previous deliveries by caesarean section. In my mind this shouldn’t and wouldn’t matter. I have a friend who has had four and she’s as fighting fit as they come (literally. She fights to keep fit). But Dr Y is super strict and it’s a point I’m worried he’ll get stuck on.

My friend reassured me: “My surgeon had done nine on another Lady! Four was fine for me and I was 43 with the last one, good luck.”

The next day the niggling worry was back and so we tried the agency to help ease our minds.

“Regarding their criteria Dr Fernando’s office will accept up to three caesareans. This is standard. Some clinics accept up to two.”

OK so, in theory it’s looking good. We won’t know for sure until the agency sends Melissa’s medical records and we get the OK from Dr Fernando, but he and his clinical staff are never in a hurry when it comes to comms. Do they not know about our five-year plan? That it is already two years past its sell-by date?

In the background we are following the agency on Instagram, and every new “Surrogate Linda has officially matched with Intended parents T & P” post makes us jaw-clenchingly twitchy. Like receiving countless wedding invitations while you wait for your childhood sweetheart to propose to you.

We get another email: “Hi Sophie and Mr B. CONGRATULATIONS on officially matching with Melissa! At this time, the Surrogate Acceptance fee of $5,000 is due; you can take care of this via credit card, wire transfer, or using an escrow account.”

Oh! Um. More money, but OK. So we’ve matched! He approved her! Yey! Let’s get the prosecc . . . oh, wait. Another email.

“Hi Sophie and Mr B. Sorry, I don’t know why we sent this email, you are not matched with Melissa yet, first we need to have approval from Dr Y based on her records, and then we’ll schedule the match meeting (via Skype). If that goes well and you agree you want to proceed together, you are matched.”

Put the prosecco back in the fridge. Get back into bed and resign ourselves to the fact that our agency “new match!” Instagram post is still held up in the drafts folder. But we’re moving in the right direction — more admin errors aside.

After Kim Kardashian’s surrogate gave birth to their third baby, they named her Chicago. Obscure but significant because guess where our third potential surrogate is from? Yep. The very same Windy City! It’s a clear sign and we’re picking up positivity wherever the signage points it out to us. This is a biggie, a nod from the gods (of reality TV) themselves. Melissa is our third-time-lucky knight in shining armour and we have our Skype-match meeting scheduled for next week. Put the prosecco on ice! Actually, sod it. Crack out the champagne.