Issue 35: Dear John

Saturday February 09 2019

I was distractedly pushing my starter around my plate at a work dinner when I got the text I had been dreading from Jane, our co-ordinator. Our surrogate, Melissa, had messaged her (not us) the results of the latest ultrasound scan, and it wasn’t good news. The fluid that had collected in her uterus had returned, but with a vengeance, meaning a pregnancy would be impossible, and therefore it was the end of the road for our surrogacy journey together.

If a Dear John letter tells someone who is romantically interested in you that it’s over, a Dear Melissa one is necessary only when a) there is no romance involved, and b) your heart is already broken because of circumstances beyond your control that mean the end of your relationship. But you’d like to formalise it for the sake of posterity, so here goes.

Dear Melissa,

I wished very, very hard that I wouldn’t have to write this letter. (I don’t actually have to, but it’s an exercise for me, so go with it, OK?) But . . . it’s over. It’s not you, it’s not me either, it’s the dreaded return of the f***ing uterine fluid that has complicated things beyond repair.

I don’t know what to say, so I’ll just . . . I’m sorry. For me and Mr B first, obviously. I mean, seriously! SERIOUSLY? We have come so far! We were so close and we’ve had so much bad luck, and we’ve rinsed our entire life savings and then some, and when does it stop? When is it our turn to catch a break? Because I think someone forgot to tell the person handing them out that we’ve been waiting in the breaks line quite a while now. Are we in the wrong queue?

Second, I’m sorry for you and Chad too. I know that you wanted to do this amazing thing. I’m so very sorry that your body is not compatible with pregnancy at the moment — something we finally have in common, in fact — you must be so upset at this news, in a different way to us, yes, but I wish we could console each other nonetheless. We want so badly to let you know it’s not your fault, we don’t blame you for a second, but you won’t let us.

Finding out it’s game over is the most devastating blow at this point — when we thought we were finally on our way — and I don’t know how I’ll be able to deal with it yet. So, for now, I’m focusing on this because it’s by far the lesser evil. So Melissa, what went wrong?

Until a few weeks ago we were doing great, had a frequent and friendly rapport, and you would have shared this sad final scan with us directly. So if I compare it to a scenario I can relate to (because this present one is unprecedented), have we been ghosted? I have spent hours and hours assuming your stance, wondering if I would have started disengaging at the first sign of difficulty.

I can only assume you went into self-preservation mode. “If this goes wrong, I’d rather cut ties now so I don’t get any closer to these people who it might not work out with.” I understand that completely. I’ve ghosted a few boyfriends in the past, who I suspected might dump me before I could dump them, only this wasn’t about you or me, it was about medicine. Medicine dumped us! Both at the same time! But . . . let me say this because it’s what I’m thinking; it’s worse for us. Dr Y assures us that you’re healthy and happy. We on the other hand are heartbroken and hopeless.

I think a new surrogacy relationship is like a bunch of strangers trying to do a dance without knowing the choreography. How can you nail it if you don’t talk about what’s going wrong and then practise making it better? We’ve got four left feet between us. My bad is super-sensitivity. After years of accumulative bad luck I’m an extra-emotional over-reactor, so my heightened response to your behaviour is probably a bit unfair on you, a happy mum with a complete family whose approach to bad news is appropriate for your surrogacy journey, even if it isn’t for ours.

Only this is my perspective, my heartbreak and my journal, so it’s time I said some of the things I haven’t been able to until now.

This might be unfair, but I suspect in the end that, on a scale of altruistic to commercial, you leant more heavily towards the commercial. I started to realise that when the expenses began escalating. It can happen in the States, or anywhere else they do commercial surrogacy. I would be utterly naive not to think there is financial motivation involved, but I also assume that to have the guts, patience and heart to do this amazing thing for someone, it can’t be the only motivation.

Maybe we all dodged a bullet. In the end, the way you made us feel (unconsciously, I’m sure) was not sustainable for another nine months. I couldn’t bear a cloud of negativity or doubt over what will be such a precious pregnancy.

So I guess we’ll go back to limbo status and wait for someone else to come along and pick up the pieces. The thought of doing everything all over again feels insurmountable. And yes, like a traditional break-up, I never think I can face the beginning part again; it’s so awkward and incremental, and in this case involves lawyers at the beginning rather than the end. But new relationships happen and sometimes they even work out for the best.

For now I’m not sure how to recover from being in this scenario at this point. Or how to end this letter or make myself feel better, so I guess I’ll just revert to hope again. But only after I’ve drunk. I should make the most of child-free hangovers while I still can, eh? So cheers, dear Melissa. It’s definitely been emotional.