Issue 08: The cost of surrogacy

Saturday August 4 2018

While we wait, still, for the name of our new surrogate to arrive in our inbox (the most highly anticipated email in the history of correspondence), there is time to think about the logistics — arguably the most controversial part. It’s an understatement to say that talking about money in relation to having a baby this way feels repulsive. It’s uncomfortable and ugly, but it’s also important and — much like the gender pay gap or infertility — something we should probably talk about to shine a light.

There is a common conception that only rich people do surrogacy. The further we go on this journey, we realise this would be a handy financial status to possess but, unfortunately, it does not apply to us. I’m a journalist, for goodness’ sake. However, we managed to buy (and doggedly do up) a house in a good place at a good time, and so we have equity. In a way we are trading our future for our future. Swings and roundabouts.

When we first started considering this route, we’d already racked up a pretty hefty bill for (unsuccessful) Russian IVF, which we’ve had to mentally write off. What a waste. The equivalent of what Carrie Bradshaw spent on her Manolo Blahniks, in fact (“I’ve spent $40,000 on shoes and I have no place to live? I will literally be the old woman who lived in her shoes!”). I can relate.

We did our due diligence and started again with the financial planning. Internet research will tell you that the average cost of surrogacy varies from country to country, with America being the most expensive. Having weighed up the risks and still stinging from our Russian false-economy decision and all we had lost thus far, we chose the US — it may be the country that costs the most money, but it has the best odds. At this point, it seems the only sensible option.

According to research, surrogacy in the UK costs about £30,000. Technically there is no surrogate fee, only reasonable expenses that are pre-agreed in writing. That would be anything from travel costs to maternity clothes to childcare for existing kids, and averages about £12,000 to £15,000 (plus the cost of the fertility treatment and life insurance). This is known as “altruistic surrogacy”. “Commercial surrogacy” (I hate that phrase), on the other hand, includes an additional “express agreed compensation figure” for the surrogate and is legal in many countries, including Ukraine, India, Thailand, and, yes, America (but not in all states). When you take the American medical costs into consideration it’s about three or four times the cost of surrogacy in the UK and we’re told by our agency that we’re looking at a top-end scenario of about £100,000. If all goes well first-time round and we don’t hit any bumps in the road, it should turn out to be a bit less.

What we soon discovered was that this would be the Easyjet business model and the “extras” would add a further 50 per cent to the projected worst-case scenario before we even started. I get the sense that while we are inputting every painful extra into a spreadsheet, which we peer at through our fingers every so often, many couples don’t concern themselves with the periphery payments too much. They’re the kind who don’t look at the price tags before they buy their Balenciaga.

But we’re doing it. We’re financially invested and even more so emotionally. I have to rationalise that, as heartbreakingly, frustratingly, agonisingly upsetting as it is to have to squander our future security on something that most people can get for free, it will be the best and most worthwhile money we’ve ever spent.

I have been selling all of my beloved shoes online and we now play the lottery by weekly direct debit. Who knows, it could be us. (It would be really helpful if it could please be us. Are you there, God? It’s me, Sophie).

While I try not to dwell on the spine-chilling bank balance, in the background I can’t help but flinch at the kind of conversation I overhear a lot in my office (of which 95 per cent are women). One friend fell pregnant, sent an email round and then accepted the queue of colleagues waiting to congratulate her. I tried successfully to block it out for a while, until the last colleague approached from another floor, with a typically droll monotone: “Yay, you have ovaries and they work.” The pregnant friend replied, screwing up her nose: “I know, it’s so weird to be congratulated on doing the easiest thing in the world.”

Objection, your honour.