Issue 13: A stranger is trying to determine our suitability as parents

Saturday September 08 2018

In the background, the Egg Donor train is slowly pulling into the station. Well, it’s being held outside while we wait for a platform to become available, but things are happening in the meantime. Not anything momentous — such as embryo-making, say — but steps towards it.

First, we get one of the many regular emails asking permission to “access the escrow to pay for so and so and so and so”. The escrow is a sort of holding account in the US that we put money into, and everyone in the surrogacy programme and their dog takes money out of. This time it’s to pay for the psychiatric analysis for egg donor No 436. Obviously this is an incredibly important part of the process; our child will comprise half of this person’s genetic make-up, and her mental state of health is something that we need to focus on as much as her physical. It’s something we really need to focus on in general, worldwide, forever and always, but in this scenario it’s a particularly important consideration for all those involved.

In the UK, to even begin talking about using an egg donor, you must have counselling. Mr B and I did it before we started on our Russian IVF escapades — one session of half an hour with a kind nurse at Hammersmith Hospital, where our initial treatment was happening, who talked to us about any questions we might have and how we intended to educate our child about its making. We also had a Skype session with her Russian counterpart. We didn’t feel we needed it — by that stage we were so invested in the idea of me being able to carry our child that we were positively buzzing with excitement at the idea. Bring it on!

We don’t have any history of diagnosed mental illness between us. I sometimes suffer from severe panic attacks — and , yes, this is somewhat anxiety-inducing — but that type of counselling is more “you need to work through the logistics and what they mean to you”. Truth be told, we work through it as a couple every night when we should be trying to sleep. I am a talker, an over-sharer. I’m lucky that I am able to spew my worries on to someone who understands and forgives them because, if I’m honest, they’re sometimes things like this:

“Babe. Wake up. I’m feeling really severely grossed out. It’s the thought of mixing your sperm with some stranger, and then growing her baby in my body. It’s repulsive. Oh God. Why do I find it so repulsive? Maybe I don’t want to do it? But I want to do it! But it’s gross.”

Him: “Well, first of all it’s not her baby, it’s our baby. And second, I know you, and you will not find this gross in precisely three days. Go to sleep, you have work tomorrow.”

He’s right, of course. Except it was more like two days. The repulsion transformed into elation and I was beside myself at the wonder of someone else’s DNA mixing with my husband’s and growing in my belly.

Granted, I’ll probably need counselling to deal with the longer-term repercussions of none of this working out — I don’t think two days will do that — but we’ll get to that in time.

Once you sign up for surrogacy, in the US at least, counselling doesn’t seem to come into the equation (so far). This is the land of therapy, for goodness’ sake, but the only thing that is compulsory is our own psychiatric analysis. Yes, really.

“Hi, Sophie, do we have permission to access the escrow to pay for your Skype psych analysis with Elena? It’s $500 and you’re scheduled for Monday.”

Wait, hang on — I’m confused. We just paid for this for donor 436, so do they mean for us? It must just be how Americans say “counselling”, surely.

It’s Monday evening, and Mr B and I are sitting nervously in our kitchen waiting for Elena to pop up on the laptop. She is a Spanish therapist living in Miami and her tiny dog is barking in the background of her living room.

She points to me. “OK, we start with she.”

Yes, let’s go! Mental clarity and relieving emotional offload here we come.

“She. Tell me about her mother.”

Oh, um, my mother? Well, she’s bloody wonderful. Sorry, why do you want to know about my mother?

“She ever abuse? Father? Ever abuse?”

God, no! Honestly, my parents are the most supportive, stable and secure unit a child could wish for. I will do my best to emulate them exactly when my time comes.

“OK, he [points to husband]. Ever been raped? Abused?”

What is this? No! Can we talk about our feelings now?

“You ever take drugs? Ever had depressed or tried to suicide?”

It went on like this, with the odd moment of understanding, where I realised that she was trying to determine our suitability as parents, but I became angrier and angrier as the call continued. Why were we even being analysed in the first place? Were we applying for some kind of licence? Mr B mentioned that his dad left at 15 and essentially he had to bring himself up — amazingly, I might add. I kicked him under the table. Will we lose points? The moment she asked about his mother, and Mr B broke down in tears, explaining that his mum had recently passed away, Elena looked blank, nodded, and went back to me.

It seemed that counselling was not the object in this scenario. I’m now thinking that we need counselling to process our feelings about this conversation. Mr B certainly needs some arnica from the bruises on his thigh that I pinched in frustration, while not showing a flicker of emotion on my face. We had to pass this test!

We did pass — of course we did, we love and respect each other, we have a loving home, we already care for our three beloved cats as if they’re our children — but, seriously? I understand that the clinic, the surrogacy agency and Elena don’t know us from Adam and Eve, but they definitely had children without being given the third degree, so having to do this because of my medical shortcomings burns.

I can’t help but wonder: what would have happened if one of us had been abused or arrested or any of the other qualifiers? Would we have failed? Would we have been given a refund, struck off, prohibited from parenthood due to past trauma? Because that’s not fair to us or any one of the wonderful parents who have varying degrees of darker pasts. In what world does an imperfect upbringing disqualify you from motherhood? In which case, why were we even being “analysed” in the first place — and paying $500 for the honour?

To decompress, I visit my real-life therapy friend. She’s the fertility acupuncturist Emma Cannon. I met her — when else? — when I was having fertility treatment. My doctor referred me, saying: “We make each other’s results better.” Sold! After one session I came back, lay down on our kitchen couch and told Mr B: “I wish she was my friend.”

I don’t know why and I don’t think I’ve said that about anyone before. She just made me feel better. I think she exists on a special spiritual plane where people laugh at their own earnestness, have a strong penchant for Chloe and say “f***” when it’s appropriate and necessary. That’s my kind of woman. I must be hers too, because by some kind of kismet here we are, a year later, firm friends and near-neighbours.

She sticks needles in the tops of my feet — my anger points — while I lie in her summer house and feel the stress ebb out of the top of my head. I don’t know how or why it works, but with or without needles, we definitely need great people to support our minds.

Whenever I imagine a future with my child, it’s always with them sharing the space too. Elena is nothing but a blip in my cyberspace. Emma, Mr B, my amazing parents and all of the supportive people who cheer us on every step of the way — they’re here to stay. This kid is going to have a lot of middle names . . .