Issue 36: Deep breath. Let's go again.

Saturday February 16 2019

I need a hard reset. To restore myself to the state I was in when I left the factory. All settings and data added by the loss of our surrogate, removed. I’ve felt down so much that now I’m bored of it, it’s too constant and overbearing and it makes me feel like I’m existing rather than living. So I did what any IT person worth their salt would advise if a system were down. I tried turning it off and on again.

Simple, right? Yes, our surrogate fell through. Yes, it’s heartbreaking, it’s a huge loss. But that kind of thinking isn’t helpful to anyone. Are we gonna give up? Hell no. So I try switching off that thinking (after a wailing few days and nights, obvs) and switch myself on to the positives. Melissa was not the one. We basically didn’t like each other in the end, so it would have been like we were staying together ’cos of the kid(s). Unhealthy, that.

Um, there’s another one I’m sure. I thought of it just then, but it’s gone. Damn. OK, so one positive, but that is enough to reboot and start again. I managed it after every time I peed on a negative pregnancy stick, and I can keep doing it until I, well, until I can’t keep doing it anymore. But that isn’t today, people, that isn’t today.

Weary and increasingly greying couple WLTM new oven for their bun. Smokers need not apply.

So here we are again. The Search, which in the US is not illegal. Unlike in the UK, my agency can advertise if it wants to, but maybe it doesn’t need to need to, since we have the chief executive, Zoe, on the phone and she’s telling me about a wonderful woman who is just perfect for us.

“She’s great guys, she’s been a surrogate before, lives quite close to the clinic so the travel would be easier and she loves the sound of you two, of course. Just one question, are you religious at all?”

Me: “Um, no. Well, no . . .”

Zoe: “Ah, not Christian then? Sorry guys she has stipulated that she will only work with a devout Christian couple.”

Aaand, the search continues. It’s a blow to think we are here again. Oh God, and it has 60 intended parents for every one surrogate on its books and it’s going to take so long and . . .RESET! Someone perfect is round the corner, I can feel it! And we’ll have a fantastic relationship and it’s going to be great.

The other gutting thing is that we had, in a moment that seems like madness — but was actually taking advantage of the BA sale — booked two tickets to Melissa’s home town. We’d planned it excitedly with her, who, now that I come to think of it, maybe wasn’t all that excited. But the idea was she’d hopefully be at least 12 weeks and we could go and meet her and her family properly, meet our bump, get to know the city we’d eventually be living in for a few weeks with a newborn baby. Which wasn’t meant to be, so we’ve spent the past couple of days desperately trying to change our plane tickets. Feasible, but where to go that is the same distance in air miles, is not mid-hurricane or rainy season, and has seats available? Anywhere. Because now the whole city signifies regret and that is not compatible with my happy new operating system. After much trying, turns out “anywhere else” is not available. Positive me intends to force the most fun ever out of this trip, however we manage it.

I’m at my friend Katie’s house drowning my sorrows — I mean delighting in a lovely bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape — when Mr B snaps at me for something I can’t remember (come on, nobody’s perfect) and I go outside and burst into tears. It’s bound to happen, the stress gets on top of us sometimes and we bicker, fuelled by anxiety and pressure and the injustice of it all. So OK, maybe I haven’t fully rebooted after all. Maybe Voltaire was right when he said: “Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable.” Hmm.

In the midst of escalating, gasping sobs, I feel like I can’t do this anymore — it’s too hard, I’m too tired — when I feel a tug on my trousers. It’s Freddy, my friends’ two-year-old son who has come out to find me of his own accord. He’s looking at me like he might cry too, but instead climbs on my lap, cuddles me to the best of his two-year-old ability and says, “No Sophie cry”.

I hug him back and we go inside and look at the life I’m still aiming for — the toy-strewn rug and the chaotic dinnertime and the opportunity to bring up a kid as compassionate and kind as Freddy.

So, we take our places on Inbox Watch and we wait for the now familiar “you’ve got a match” email from the agency. It could be a week, it could be months, but we’ll keep hoping and — oh, wait, my phone’s ringing. It’s Zoe again.

“Hi guys, there’s also a lovely woman who’s seen your profile and thinks you’re fantastic, but we’re still waiting to get her profile filled out and everything checked over. We’ll let you know.”

You see? Potentially someone great, just around the corner, just like I hoped. For myself, I am an optimist — it does not seem to be much use to be anything else. So said Winston Churchill but also, yes, me too. It feels better that way.