Issue 12: Another one bites the dust
Saturday September 01 2018
That wildly optimistic moment didn’t last long. Mr B shakes me out of my jet-lagged sleep (we landed back home last night after our Miami clinic visit. I have no idea what time zone I’m in at the moment).
“We lost Alex.”
“Hah. Imagine.” I roll back over.
“No. For real. Dr Fernando has rejected her.”
I’m awake. It’s amazing what shocking news will do. We went to sleep ecstatic, with everything slotted neatly into happy place, and we’ve woken up to this bombshell. Dr Fernando, our doctor at the Miami clinic, had been about as excited as we were when we told him about Alex, the psychiatrist, who chose us to be her Intended Parents. “It’s very rare to have a physician be a surrogate. You’re lucky. If all goes well we could even schedule an embryo transfer before the end of the year, blah blah blah.”
We felt he’d double-check her medical records and pass her with bells on, and, if I’m honest, I had started to make plans about where we’d live when she gave birth. (We are expected to remain in the country for at least three weeks before the postnatal checks and baby passport come through.) We were way too hasty, and lo, the bad news I’ve almost come to expect arrived in our metaphorical inbox.
Turns out I was right about psychiatrists potentially being the ones to worry about. Alex has various wobbles on her medical records that mean Dr Fernando can’t see her being able to deal with the emotional complexities of carrying a baby for someone else. Yeah, fair point doc. It would be difficult to ensure Alex, acting as a surrogate, would be motivated to properly maintain a healthy pregnancy. Who knows? We were willing (read desperate) to trust in the kindness of psychiatric strangers, but our super-strict doctor was not.
We begged him to reconsider — surely if she feels up to the process then she’s going to be OK? — but we have to put our trust somewhere and, yes, a medical fertility professional with huge success rates probably knows best. But essentially we’d put our hope where our heads should be and all rationality went out the window. Of course Dr Fernando is right and we’ve got to go with his decision, but it’s a tough pill to swallow.
It’s getting a little difficult to believe this is happening. I had the same thing with chemo. I’d sit on my couch with my mum and, mid-conversation, she’d look at my bald head and say: “God, I can’t believe this is happening to you.” And I’d say: “God, I can’t believe this is me we’re even talking about. And I’m bald. It’s like I’m watching a film of someone else’s life and am shocked every time I catch my reflection in the mirror.”
So to be told I’m infertile is, frankly, incredible. To try to get pregnant with donor eggs, um. WTF? To be using a surrogate to have my baby using donor eggs? Me? Haha, no way. Me? Sensible, bespectacled, hard-working, shopaholic, normal me? Incomprehensible. But for this — our relief model — to be peppered with bad luck too? Seriously, people. You’re having a laugh. Only it’s not funny.
Three months in, two surrogates down, hopes and dreams on ice, the longer the process takes the more it costs in insurance, flights, phone calls. Granted, we haven’t invested any money in the actual surrogate (we haven’t managed to get to “medical clearance” stage yet, which is where the serious spending starts). In my mind I thought we’d follow a clear timeline: a surrogate would pick us and we’d head down that path. We’d pass the medical, we’d pass through the legal negotiations, we’d make some embryos (still nothing on that front, btw) and we’d get pregnant. But at the moment we feel like Sonic the Hedgehog, starting on level one and falling down the first gap in the floor. Repeatedly.
Seems I’ve stumbled across my most unwanted natural mantra: “It’s. Not. Fair.” I don’t want to attend my own pity party. I don’t want to give up and stop feeling proactive and succumb to “it’s not fair”. But, man, when are we gonna catch a break?
My eyes spill over and I’m crying. There’s only one thing for it. Face the music and bounce out of bed and be grateful for all the wonderful things I have in my life. Today is a new day! My luck will come! Only . . . sod that. I can’t muster it up. Instead I pretend this isn’t happening to me and go back to sleep. Please let there be good news round the corner — it’s about bloody time.