Issue 55: The Blind Date

Saturday June 29 2019

I’m still in the emotional fallout of the confirmed loss of that tentative “pregnancy” (at this super-early stage it’s more commonly referred to as just a chemical pregnancy). It was only this morning, after all. My dad, bless him, stopped work and got on a train to come and take me for a consolatory coffee/lunch near my work. Even though I said, “No, no, I’m fine,” he did it anyway, and it’s exactly what I needed, which he knows, of course; he’s my dad.

When I say coffee I mean large glass of red, hold the lunch. He’s trying to make me eat, but I just want to drink. This is becoming a worrying trend. Thank goodness I have a phobia of being too drunk (control freak; not too compatible with toxin overuse — or surrogacy for that matter), otherwise I might have turned to a 100 per cent liquid diet a long time ago.

With only one precious embryo left and an agonising quandary over whether to try again with “all signs point to no” Lydia — whom we have grown to love and trust — or take the doctors’ advice and start thinking about finding someone else, again, my dad and I hash out what to do with my escalating panic. I over-exaggerate, as I’m prone to do in the company of my problem-solving parents. “It’s never going to happen for us. I’ll just have to get a dog. Mr B doesn’t like dogs. He’ll probably leave me. I’ll die alone.” My dad says that he wishes he could be my surrogate — the sweet, silly sausage — but it does spark a little memory.

Since more and more people have got to know about my story, through this column and through social media and friends of friends, I’ve had a steady flow of amazingly supportive direct messages. These have ranged from “You’re so strong” (thank you, I’m not always sure I am, but I so appreciate this sentiment) to “I’d be your surrogate/egg donor if it doesn’t work out.”

The latter is, of course, much less common, and I’m never sure how to answer. Every time I get one I well up; it’s such a selfless thing to do in the UK, where payment is not an option and therefore not a motivating factor. Why would these women want to help a stranger so much? It blows me away. I want to respond with “YES PLEASE, RESCUE ME!” but I choose variations on the “what an amazing thing to offer” theme, then reassure them it’s all going to be OK and let them know they’re angels.

Which I really believe to be true. Having had a few offers retracted over the years, I know what a huge decision this is for someone and their whole family, and I carefully assume they’re probably caught up in my story, wanting to reach out and emotionally driven to help, but not yet sure about what it all entails. Proceed with caution, is my general advice. Know exactly what you’re offering, speak to your families about it if you’re really serious, think about the emotional impact. And, above all, don’t ever feel guilty if you don’t think you could do it. (Cos I don’t think I could!)

There was one that stuck out, though. A woman called Rebecca, who wrote a very heartfelt but totally pragmatic message. Much the way I think I would offer my womb to a stranger, should I be that way inclined. “I’ve wanted to be a surrogate for a long time, but never got off my arse and done anything about it.” And, “My pregnancy would be your pregnancy. If I can ever play a part in that it would be my honour.”

She even followed up to make sure I’d received it a few days later, showing me she was, in fact, serious, and highlighting her standout-ness.

I replied at the time to say I was struggling to know how to express my gratitude for such a beautiful thought, but essentially we are committed to the US until it either goes right or we run out of attempts.

Now, nearing the end of my glass, I found her old message and showed my dad. He was so touched by her words he couldn’t finish reading it. “For Christ’s sake, Sophie, meet the bloody woman! She’s an angel!” (I’d already told her that).

So, fuelled by heartbreak and red wine, I messaged her back, although it’s now many months later.

“Hi Rebecca. I don’t know where you are in the world but I’m wondering if you’d like to meet for a coffee and a chat? Mr B and I have been thinking a lot about your wonderful messages and, if it still stands, I think it would be nice to meet. Let me know.”

The message status is “Seen” after a few minutes, but two hours later I still didn’t have a response. “See?” I messaged Dad, “she changed her mind. I should just get a dog.” But she hadn’t at all.

“Hi, I’m so sorry that you’re in the situation of having to come back to me and I’m sure you’re probably checking your phone every two seconds to see if I’ve replied so don’t want to keep you waiting.”

(I look over my shoulder. How does she know?)

“The offer very much still stands. In the spirit of research I’m even listening to a podcast on surrogacy on my way home from work and it’s just solidifying my feelings of really wanting to be able to help!”

You see? Angel.

Mr B feels the same as me: “Proceed with caution.” First, it feels a bit like we’re cheating on Lydia. The doctor has advised us to separate science from emotion, but that’s frankly ridiculous because how can this not be an emotional journey? We literally fell in love with Lydia, but I get what he’s saying. We can’t just risk our last chance to avoid hurting her feelings. Man, this is tricky territory. For the millionth time I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe I’m concerned with protecting another woman’s heart when it comes to making our baby. How bizarre.

We reason the following. Every time this doesn’t work it costs us a lot of money. First there is the compensation to Lydia. We compensate her for each new transfer and then we compensate her for it not working. Plus the medicine, flights, appointments etc. That’s compensation on top of the costs of facilitating all of those things. As such we’ve run out of money. Shit. It’s scary to write down, but if it works, we’ve already spent Lydia’s final fee on trying to get to a place where we need to pay Lydia a final fee. We would find it, we’d have to, but frankly, shit.

Second, in theory we’re talking about doing this in the UK again. The place where surrogacy laws are so outdated that Brits are driven to places like America to escape them. Still, at this totally unexpected point of repeated failure, the thought of doing it here and all the benefits that entails — not having to travel for the birth, being present for all the appointments, basically not being far removed from the entire pregnancy experience — well, it suddenly feels like the antidote.

So, we offer her some dates to maybe meet for a coffee and that is how we find ourselves, after work the very next day (she is as opposed to procrastinating as Mr B) sitting in a saké bar in central London waiting for our blind date. What is happening? Where is this even going? I don’t know, but weirdly I’m not nervous. I order a large glass of red and we wait to meet Rebecca.