Issue 29: Let's get this show on the road
Saturday December 29 2018
Progress report: it’s happening! Melissa is officially starting her medication cycle to prepare her body for embryo implantation and, man, this is exciting and weird in equal measure.
We needed to arrange and pay for delivery of the meds to her home in Chicago. Her protocol was prescribed by Dr Y and is a combination of birth control to “down regulate” her natural cycle and make sure that there’s no chance of accidental, off-schedule baby making. Then oestrogen and progesterone to thicken and optimise her womb for inviting our embryo to make itself at home.
It occurs to me that I’m now asking someone to take medication they don’t technically need for survival. Once again — because I’m overthinking this — my moral compass is pranging like a tuning fork, so I mentally rewrap it as like an alternative international interflora delivery. And to be fair, Melissa is about as excited when she receives her FedEx package as if I’d sent her a huge bunch of peonies.
“Got them! We start meds tomorrow. Bring it ON. Chad is terrified,” comes the WhatsApp message, with a photo of all the medications I remember taking when it was my turn. Except this box cost us an extra zero on the end. Why is Chad terrified? Should we be worried?
She goes on. “The progesterone is a big needle. That one’s gonna be awful.”
Can I be perfectly, horribly honest for a moment here? When I WhatsApp with Melissa and she sounds a little bit, well, negative, I have to take a deep breath and internalise what I can best describe as that top-of-head-blown-off emoji. I want to tell her to stop and think about who she’s complaining to and remember that not only do I WISH I was stabbing myself with needles to get pregnant every day, but also I know (because I’ve done it) that they really don’t hurt.
I’m quickly learning that being the IP, or Intended Parent, is an exercise in self-restraint. I have to shelve my jealousy, disregard it for the greater good. This relationship building is essential for a successful surrogacy story. It’s a two-way thing, yes, but since we’re being real, we need her more than she needs us. Therefore, it feels as though we have the onus to keep things sweet. Melissa could tell me my bum looks big in this and I’d profusely thank her and send another bunch of peonies to hammer home my chivalry.
It’s not only the most standard good advice from surrogacy advisers everywhere, it’s instinctive. We do want her to be happy because we are positively swimming in gratitude. I don’t think I’ve felt more thankful to a person I’ve never met and I doubt I will. Which is why I’m annoyed at myself for feeling annoyed. But at the same time it feels like such a delicate relationship at this early stage.
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We want to and will do everything in our power to make this woman feel good about what she’s doing for us. Comfortable, excited, committed and enthusiastic. I’m so used to being let down by now, I half-expect Melissa to change her mind and call the whole thing off because she didn’t like the tone of a text I sent. This whole concept is still so alien to me. I respect it and admire anyone who could put themselves up for carrying someone else’s baby. But I still can’t believe I’m the someone else.
Where I have to change is in realising that, just because these feelings are so present for me all the time, it doesn’t mean they are for anyone else. Why would Melissa think for a moment that her natural commentary on feeling anxious about an injection might twang a nerve in me more painful than the needle in her backside? She’s focused on her own journey as much as I am focused on mine. But still, I can’t really help it.
Instead of all of the above, I take a deep breath, count to ten and reply: “You’re going to be great, I hope you’re comfortable and confident! We certainly are cos we’re in safe hands. Maybe rub some ice on your bum first!”
The next stage is an ultrasound, which according to Morag, one of the nurses at the clinic, is to “check the baseline levels and measure the thickness of the uterus”. This is American for God knows what, but apparently we need all the measurements to be low at this point. Morag finishes with: “I have 100% faith they will be low.”
Faith, huh? Hmm. I’m not sure I want to be dealing in faith at this stage. Science and statistics yes. Practice and probability definitely. Faith? Not so much. I’m afraid to say I’ve lost lots of faith by now. I’ve turned to realism and I respond much better to facts, thanks. The fact is, Morag was right and we just got the news from Melissa’s local Obgyn that all the levels were exactly where they should be. Woohoo! This is happening! They say that, as long and painful as surrogacy or IVF can sometimes feel, once it gets going it really goes at a pace.
Tell you something else that goes at a pace — Mr B. I can only eat his dust as he does some risk analysis cost-assessment and books two tickets to Chicago at the optimal date to meet our potential bump. As much as he tries to wrap it in probability, it is obviously based in faith and hope and makes me well up a bit with cautious excitement and cuteness.
Mr B and I are holding hands on the sofa and processing this positive progress. Suddenly it hits home that we could have a three-month-old baby by this time next year. I say it out loud and we both fix a grin-grimace (a grimace?) while we separately imagine how much less sleep we will have (me) and how much less freedom we will have (him).
There’s that old realism kicking in again. Turns out it’s true that you never quite feel ready. Even if you’ve been desperate and desperately trying for the one thing that sometimes feels scary. I get it; having a baby has been such a figure of our imagination and so difficult to attain that it’s always felt more like a “what-if” than a “when”. We look at each other and smile nervously, but genuinely. Shit just got real. Who needs sleep anyway?