Issue 10: OMG we have a(nother) surrogate
Saturday August 18 2018
Our plan to spend the flight to Miami examining our new surrogate Alex’s profile started in good faith and ended in about five mini-bottles of malbec. As a result, our emotions were as high as the plane and, yes, probably somewhat unstable. At 3,000ft Alex represented the perfect dream house you were meant to find after you got gazumped on the first. So this is why we lost Laura. Alex is clearly our perfect match and obviously this was all meant to be.
She is a psychiatrist. This is fascinating for several reasons: first, as we’re later told by Dr Y, “it’s extremely rare for a physician to become a gestational surrogate”. It basically rules out the possibility she’s doing it for the money (doctors are paid well in the US), so we can only guess it must be for love. This means we can trust her to have the best intentions and hopefully take the best care. How lucky are we?
Second, psychotherapy is my secret dream vocation — after beauty journalism and hand-rearing orphaned lions . . . I find the human psyche endlessly interesting. I’m also nosy and like gossip if I’m honest, so imagine the thrill of doing a job where all those things are sated on one beautiful leather couch. Alex would probably be someone I could relate to, would want to spend time talking to, maybe even beyond the surrogacy, and maybe if I’m honest, there’s a bit of me thinking: “Free therapy.” Because, hell, by now I think we need it.
By the time we land I’ve decompressed a little and a tiny warning light is flashing behind my eyes. I throw a mental blanket over it until Mr B and I are strolling along Ocean Drive a few days later. He’s excited after our visit to Dr Y, beer in hand (he’s done his bit now — get the drinks in), and we’re talking about Alex and why she might want to be a surrogate.
It’s something I think about a lot since I don’t think I would be able to contemplate doing it myself. Maybe because I long for a child so much, the thought of carrying one inside me, then handing it to someone else is inconceivable. But that’s just me. I’ve spoken to a few friends about it and, surprisingly, it’s the ones who have their own children who can understand the appeal more.
My friend J said she would do it happily, but only for someone she really loves. This was our conversation in a Parisian cafe after the Stella McCartney show, eating €50 croissants.
J: “My brother is gay, so if he ever wanted children I would do it in a heartbeat. Obviously because I adore him, but also it would be a privilege to give him that gift.”
Me: “But could you give up the baby you’ve just given birth to? I just can’t imagine I’d be able to do it.”
J: “I didn’t either, but I think my opinion on it changed when I became a mum. I know how much I cherish it, so if I could help someone bring their child into world, I would.”
Me: “You’re a better person than me. Let me pay for the damn croissants.”
It’s hard to pin down anyone’s genuine reason for wanting to take this path. Unquestionably there is a financial incentive for some. This is where altruistic surrogacy (where no “fee” is paid to the surrogate, just reasonable expenses) comes into play, to ensure there is no chance of exploiting women who are in desperate need. It’s also where reputable agencies earn their admin fee, making sure that they look into their candidates carefully and ensure their status and stance is sound.
But Alex? Who knows. She’s the main breadwinner in her household, she works full-time in a job that we can only assume is satisfying, she has never been a surrogate before, but has her own family. Maybe she just adores being pregnant, but doesn’t want any more children. We won’t know until we “meet” her over Skype, our chance to get to know each other and mutually decide if we want to proceed.
Somewhere my warning light flickers and I say what I’ve been thinking. “I’m sure there’s some study somewhere that says therapists are usually the ones who need the most therapy.” I apologise profusely to any medical professional reading this who is capable of listening to the darkest depths of poor, tortured souls without taking it home. But it must be hard.
Apparently, for every three hours of listening to people, psychotherapists take half an hour to process it themselves with someone else.
But what if they don’t?
I think if I did that job I would need medicating. Hence why it’s only third on the list after baby lions. I repeat my usual catchphrase: “Let’s not get our hopes up too high, babe.”
Dr Y has seen Alex’s profile and seems as excited as us, but he still has to review her medical records. Let’s not forget he has already rejected Laura based on the issue of a slightly increased risk of labour complications due to multiple pregnancies. Let’s see how Alex fares.
But then I do a little self-therapising and recognise that, after all the bad news I keep receiving, I’m always expecting more. She’ll be great — she’s a super-smart medical professional for goodness’ sake. What could possibly go wrong?
I settle my nerves and keep walking with the sun on my skin and a bikini-nullifying amount of deep-fried chicken and waffle in my belly. This is what happy hope feels like.