Issue 23: The Medical
Saturday November 17 2018
Now we’re talking. Melissa is on a plane to Miami to have her medical so she can be (fingers crossed) medically cleared and we can get on to the legal bit. How many people does it take to get a surrogate a medical? Ten, apparently: three to book the hotel and flights, two of us to cover the costs, one doctor to do it, three to schedule and confirm an appointment at long bloody last and one to get on a plane and attend it. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but I’m suffering too much FOMO to find it.
The medical stuff, ironically, is what brings my situation home for me. I’m well aware that I’m enjoying not being poked and prodded and feeling the dentist-like fear before any and every invasive scan. (These things are manageable, but unpleasant. Perhaps made worse when you’ve spent months building a rapport with your doctor, whom you like very much, but who is now intimately acquainted with your uterus and, well you know, there’s only one way in there.) But any amount of awkwardness and discomfort would have been worth it for the end goal, and because I’ve been through everything Melissa is about to embark on — medically speaking — I’m getting weirdly jealous.
The point of the medical is not only to make sure that Melissa is able to carry a baby, but to discover how to make her uterus the best for the job. She has been “psychologically cleared”, which has been the biggest and most important hurdle. We are dealing with a highly emotive and complex issue here. Surrogates are paid in the US, but it’s vitally important, for the good and caring clinics anyway, that their motivation is sound, that they are in the right frame of mind going into it — and that they’ll be able to cope well afterwards too. This is a medical event and we all have a duty of care. This last one is something that I’m particularly glad about. I often worry about how my actions might have affected other people; the mother of all affecting actions, if you’ll excuse the pun.
Until now the only indication that Melissa is “fit for the job” is that she put her hand up and volunteered. She also has two children of her own and acted as a surrogate seven years ago, but, as I very well know, our bodies can throw a spanner in the works quietly and when you least expect it. I’m not counting Melissa’s chickens just yet.
I already know what her appointment will look like since I’ve been there. An ultrasound to take a big-picture look at her uterus and lining, then a hysteroscopy, a procedure using a tiny camera to take a much closer look inside the womb to check for abnormalities or underlying issues. Finally, a ton of blood tests for hormone levels, STD’s, any other kind of Ds and then she’s done.
Melissa is anxious to get going. She informs us on our WhatsApp group. “I’m waiting for my appointment now, but I slept in a desk chair last night because the hotel was so terribly dirty. I am a very sleepy girl today.”
This message just added “guilty” to “jealousy” in my emotional cauldron. We didn’t choose the hotel (the agency did), but still. She’s there because of us, and we want this to be a positive experience for everyone.
Two hours later we get another message. “An update. I’m still waiting. Apparently they needed Chad to come too, but no one told us. I have to be back at the airport for my flight home in 2.5 hours at the very latest. I’m a mess right now.”
Now I’m jealous, guilty, mortified and angry. I’d say a bit of a mess too. The realisation that we have zero control hits me again. My first instinct is to march into the clinic and demand some attention, some explanation. But I’m a million miles away so I have to sit down and put my fist in my mouth. Is this going to fall at the first hurdle?
Melissa goes quiet for a bit, so we assume she’s finally having her appointment, and Mr B and I sit and try to conjure up good news by staring hard at the phone screen. She messages again.
“That was a rather rough appt as far as ‘exams’ go. He said I have a cyst on my ovary, which he has to try to shrink, so I have another appointment in 4-6 weeks to see if it’s OK to proceed.”
Gah! A medical obstacle, another delay, a possibility Melissa might be rejected. Despite our current “sunk in disappointment” status, we put on our optimism masks and get straight back on to WhatsApp.
“OK Melissa, that’s great! You’re on your way home, cysts are totally normal and it’ll resolve really soon, please try not to worry. Are you OK?”
“Very uncomfortable and will be for a few days, but that’s all part of the pregnancy process.”
We sign off with more sympathetic and encouraging platitudes and I don’t say what I’m really thinking.
“Lucky you.”