Making Plans

Well, it’s official– we have a transfer date for our embryo.

It’s still a tentative one, meaning that there is a small chance it could change slightly based on Becca’s response to the medication, but plans are in motion. Becca texted me one morning last week after she’d received a med protocol from our fertility nurse; I was doing laundry or cleaning up a mess or something equally mundane, and as soon as I saw her text with our projected date, my stomach dropped.

I don’t plan to share the date here, only to say that we are preparing for February. While there have been a number of good things to come from being open throughout these years, one of the hardest parts has been the pressure to immediately share the results– both good and bad— following our embryo transfers. So, for now at least, I’m keeping things a little vague.

In the meantime, I’ve been checking off the last things on our list: completing the order for the transfer meds, which Becca received last Wednesday; finishing the set-up of our escrow account; and purchasing an insurance policy for the cycle (a pretty standard part of surrogacy). We also read through and signed an 18-page document full of scary possibilities, however unlikely, and gave the clinic our consent to move forward.

All that was left on our end was to sign the financial forms, paperwork that my gmail account thoughtfully filtered out of my inbox and into a file labeled “promotions,” where I found it a few days later. I have been extremely fortunate to have the ability to receive treatment over my last two IVF cycles with enormous help from my insurance. That is not the norm in the US, where many don’t even have coverage for the diagnostic testing when it comes to infertility, let alone any actual treatment. But with surrogacy there is no help; everything is paid for out of pocket. My insurance cannot be used for a transfer because even though it’s my embryo, from my body, I am not able to receive it, and Becca’s insurance can’t be used because the procedure is not for her.

I saw the listed cost for the transfer for the first time when I opened the document– and yes, it’s expensive, but I expected that– what shocked me was the extra $2,500 tacked on beneath it simply labeled GC rider. Obviously it was referring to our need for a Gestational Carrier, but nothing about the transfer itself would be different from a normal IVF situation– besides a couple extra people being in the room to watch the ultrasound screen. Becca would be following the same basic schedule and protocol that I would’ve been if I had been able to receive the transfer. I reached out to my financial advisor at the clinic for clarification, hoping that it had been an oversight, or that there was at least a reasonable explanation for it.

The next day I received the following message:

The $2,500 is added on for all patients using a GC due to coordination of the cycle and additional communication/administrative work.

My initial reaction was just pure shock. Then anger. There is absolutely no reason at all for such a steep fee. If it had been an extra $500 I would have been more likely to roll my eyes and accept that this is just the way surrogacy is. But this feels downright exploitative. The “additional communication” essentially boils down to our nurse usually copying me on emails when there is an update. Already, once Becca became involved in the process, communication with me changed. It was a noticeable shift from when I was undergoing treatment before I had matched with a carrier, despite the fact that both of us are hugely invested in the outcome– it is her body, but it is also my baby.

I want to refuse to pay the added fee, purely on principle. For days now the financial consents have sat, unsigned, as part of my own silent protest. But I know that eventually I will sign them– because what choice do I have? My irreplaceable embryos are stuck there in the freezer, my doctor is out of this clinic, and we have already sunk so much into getting here. Even if I chose to move everything to a different clinic, it would cost far more than this $2500 money grab. And so, altogether, the embryo transfer alone will cost more than I paid for my entire IVF cycle, including an actual surgical procedure, anesthesia, insanely expensive hormonal injections, a dozen ultrasounds, and countless blood tests. It adds even more pressure to a situation where the pressure was already unbearable enough.

As far as actually having a date for transfer and making progress, I do feel sparks of excitement and hope… but I am also so scared. I’m afraid of the unknown, the overwhelming risk of loss, the lack of control I have over everything. Every time that excitement rises up– mostly at the thought of that moment when I first see our embryo on the live feed from the lab or can finally hold a photo of it in my hands– fear comes along to extinguish it.

The surrogacy process is all about finishing one battle only to get to the next one. Strung together, these battles form what feels like a never-ending war, and moving forward is often almost as excruciating as not making progress at all. I am feeling terrifyingly battle-weary, but we still have so far to go. The burden of stress and pressure from the legal process that consumed us between August and December seems to have shattered our momentum and taken the wind out of our sails a bit.

And now we are preparing to face the biggest, most emotionally challenging battle yet.

Just breathe…

Hope and Despair

Little Alice fell
d
o
w
n
the hOle,
bumped her head
and bruised her soul

– Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

When Ross was born, we were far away from home with a very long car ride ahead of us. Somewhere on the road during our first day of driving, it finally hit me: the surrogacy process had come to an end. There were no more lawyers, no meetings with the agency or doctors, no fear that we might miss the birth or have our parentage questioned. It was a shock to realize– this experience which had consumed our lives for 574 days (plus the years of infertility before that) was now over, and we had a 3-day-old newborn bundled up in the backseat to show for it. I remember staring out the window, feeling such an enormous weight lift from my shoulders as we drove north that I sobbed with the relief of it.

Throughout the process we endured for Ross, we had often talked about whether we would be able to do this a second time. The cost was staggering — physically, financially, and emotionally. There was never a moment when we questioned whether we wanted more children (we’d always dreamed of a big family), but surrogacy had taken such a huge toll on us, both individually and as a couple, that we didn’t know how to pull it off again. The understanding that there was absolutely no way to have a second child without going back down the rabbit hole was devastating. We’d be opening ourselves up to all of the hardships and potential horrors, but this time we wouldn’t be the only ones forced to bear the weight of our decision.

By November 2015 we were ready to try again, determined to restart the process as soon as possible– and Ross hadn’t even been born yet. The plan then had been to begin another round of IVF when he was about 6 months old and transfer an embryo shortly after his first birthday. But Kyle was still in grad school, and even though we had amazing insurance benefits, it took a while longer to be able to meet the rest. Waiting was hard, and by the time Ross was 11 months old I was terrified that the window was closing. No one around us could really understand. Couldn’t we just recognize how lucky we were and be happy with one? And anyway, he was still a baby, we had “plenty of time.”

When we finally had what we needed in place to start the process, Ross was barely 18 months old, but we estimated that even if things kept moving, we wouldn’t have a baby in our arms until late 2019. With the benefit of having better access to care while Kyle was in school, I began seeing a therapist, knowing some of what we faced ahead.

Everything took longer than expected. We weren’t considered officially matched with our gestational carrier until a year and a half later. Insurance repeatedly tried to deny my IVF benefits solely because my body wouldn’t be receiving the embryo we created (*we weren’t asking them to help with a transfer or anything for our carrier, just my treatment, as they would for any other woman under their plan). The financial advisor at our clinic abruptly went on medical leave for 2 months without confirming our cost estimates, but no one would pick up our case because we were part of the “donor program” due to surrogacy. Medical records were sent to the wrong office branch, then got lost for a while. Our coordinator quit (or, I believe, was fired) and we were hastily assigned to someone new in a random office two states away. Our previous psychologist wouldn’t answer calls for weeks so we couldn’t get her clearance to move on. And so on, and so on. Over and over again we have hit nearly every bump, obstacle, and road block.

Now we are stuck on legal. Still. Today makes it 13 weeks, far longer than the 2-3 weeks the lawyer estimated… at least before he received our check (don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson the hard way). During those weeks he’s left the office for extended periods of time without any warning or progress on our contract, told us that our contract revisions had “not reached [his] inbox,” and now, most recently, he simply got “sidetracked by an urgent matter.” (Too sidetracked to even let us know). At best he’s been difficult to reach and given us almost no counsel at all on one of the most complicated and important aspects of the surrogacy process. Both our escrow company and the fertility clinic have since reached out to put our case on hold due to the circumstances. So far, the delay has cost us almost $1,000 for no real reason at all.

We’re about 812 days into our second journey, and we still haven’t even reached an embryo transfer yet.

For most of this year, we’ve been working toward October for transfer. As the summer came to an end, it was nerve-wracking to know that we were getting ready to risk this hard-won embryo in the hopes of getting lucky a second time. To cope with the stress and fear, I allowed myself to daydream about the photo we’d receive at the procedure, a photo of this embryo that I have waited 18 long months to see. But, as the weeks passed, and then the months, with very little progress on the legal contract and virtually no control over the situation, even that became increasingly painful to think about.

This fall was brutal. After more than two years of fighting through this all-consuming process, I’ve just… hit a wall. What was once difficult and painful has become downright torturous.

In October, when we should have been preparing for a transfer, we waited instead. Ross picked out a small, medium and large pumpkin to represent our family, and I chose two tiny white pumpkins for the frozen embryos who are both a part of our family… and not.

Through November, when we didn’t make plans for Kyle’s time off because we were afraid it could hold up a potential transfer, we waited instead. This December, which had initially been planned as an option for a second embryo transfer in case the first one failed, we will still be waiting. There will be no embryo transfer in 2019.

We wait, and we wait, and we wait.

…And I haven’t even mentioned the massive potential problem with the health insurance for our carrier that is looming over us. One that has a very firm deadline of December 15. One that I have no idea how to solve.

In the meantime, I’ve reached a place where I am so emotionally drained that I don’t feel able to hope anymore. Some days we limp along, some days it feels like someone literally has their hand around my heart, squeezing it as hard as they can. It is a physical pain. For a while now I’ve sat in my therapist’s office each week and cried. When the preschool hosted a Halloween parade for the parents at the end of last month, I went home and cried. When the nurse at my doctor’s office showed me how high my blood pressure reading was during a routine appointment, I cried. Basically, if you’ve seen me recently and it looks as though I’ve been crying, it’s probably because I have.

We’ve invested an immeasurable amount of time, effort, and energy into this second journey, but throughout the last week I have questioned everything, rationally and irrationally, especially myself. I have started to wonder whether I am even deserving having someone who is willing to carry a child for me, or whether I am deserving of hoping for another in the first place.

The Second

I want to have another child. 

For so long I’ve wanted to write those words. This post has been an internal struggle for months– maybe even a year now– but each time I start to fill up another blank page, I find myself pressing ‘delete.’ I am forcing myself to keep going this time, if only to be rid of this feeling that these words are trapped inside me and I’m the only one who knows the pain they cause.

For most couples, having a second child is an expected part of life. But, when your first child was the miracle, it seems as though you’re not allowed to ask for another. Only if the first came easily is it acceptable to hurt over the absence of a second. But long before Ross was born I ached over this child too. All along I have carried the hope of having another, each day it weighs down my thoughts, but I never feel the freedom to express it. I know what the general reaction will be because I’ve already started to receive it– that I am being ungrateful, maybe even selfish. That I should consider my family already complete. That I should just accept this additional loss as the fate of my own infertility and move on. That I am asking too much.

Over the last 18 months, I have carefully packed away each outgrown baby item, knowing that no child of mine is likely to use them again, yet still praying with everything in me that I am somehow wrong. The odds are stacked so highly against us, but I can’t bring myself to let go of this last tiny ember of hope. I can’t imagine selling or giving anything away, so the baby stuff piles up in storage instead, untouched and gathering dust.

As Ross continues to grow, strangers seem to feel more entitled in asking when we are having a second child. The first time it happened Ross was barely 4-months-old and not even sitting up on his own yet. Now that he’s an active toddler we are being questioned with increasing frequency, and each time it hits me like a very familiar punch to the stomach. “You have to give him a little brother or sister. You just have to give him a sibling!” insisted a woman at the baggage check-in no less than three times as we traveled home from Thanksgiving. “And he’ll become spoiled without one anyway, you know,” she added with a smile. We get questions often enough now that I know there is never an easy answer, but the few times I’ve dared to be honest I am generally encouraged to “just adopt” (we can’t) before finally receiving the unsolicited advice that I should just be happy with one. Any response other than a fake smile makes everyone uncomfortable, and so again, I remain silent.

For the record, I am happy. Ross has taught me how to enjoy life again, something that once seemed like such an impossibility. He has shown me the beauty in a million little things, and I love seeing the world fresh through his eyes. Wanting another child doesn’t take away how grateful I am for him. This is a pain that is completely separate; it involves the piece that is still missing from our lives and our family, not the piece we were able to find. I know that there is meant to be another child and my fear is that I will never know that person. After all, who would be missing from your family if there was only ever one child?

Yet, even in the best of circumstances, I am always aware that there is still only one road left for us to travel– and the cost is exorbitant, the risks high. Frankly, I was far more naive when we started the surrogacy process for Ross in June 2014 than I am now, and it terrifies me to know what could be ahead of us. Having been down this road before means nothing in terms of what we can expect; each time is so different. And even if we had the ability to begin tomorrow, the soonest we’d be able to have a child is at least two years away. Two years of invasive testing, endless appointments, expensive lawyers, confusing contracts, and the pain of knowing that we are missing out on experiences we can never get back.

Again, we find ourselves at a strange standstill as we watch other families who had babies around the time Ross was born already expecting another or having welcomed a younger sibling. Everyone else seems to be making plans or feels content in knowing their family is complete. In contrast, we can do nothing. In place of options and choices, we are staring at a dead end.

I wish we had wanted to stop at one; it would be so much easier. We’d be done, I’d have surgery to get rid of it all, and I could finally move on from this phase of my life that so often revolves around my reproductive organs. It has been so many years that I don’t even remember what it was like not to think about my fertility, and I am tired of fighting for it.

But it’s that tiny —what if?— that haunts me.

The First Half

Enjoy every moment; they grow up so fast.

It’s a statement I’ve heard regularly since Ross arrived, and still, I could never have prepared myself for the breakneck speed with which a squirmy, 7-pound newborn can become an active, curious 6-month-old. Time has never moved as quickly as it does now, just as it had never before inched by as slowly as it did while we struggled to bring him into the world. The juxtaposition of these extreme perceptions has made the last several months feel even more surreal. Now half a year has somehow passed us by and all I did was blink.

We’ve had more than our share of bumps in the road since we brought our tiny baby home at the end of January (which I will write about another time), but he made it easy to transition to life as a family of three. There was never an adjustment period; it just felt like we’d found the missing piece to our puzzle. They say that you are never really ready to have your first child, but the day he was born I knew without a doubt that I could not have felt more ready. Being his mom felt natural to me, maybe because I had been dreaming of it for so long.

I just wish it wouldn’t go by so fast. By the time Ross was a month old, I was already struggling with how quickly he was changing. I love watching him grow and discover the world, but the beginning of each exciting, new stage is often bittersweet because it also means the end of another one. Every photo or video clip we’ve taken of him represents a moment that has already slipped through our fingers into the past, and the pain of knowing that we are unlikely to have a second child makes the endings that much harder to accept. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that we only have a matter of days to enjoy a phase before he’s moving on to something new; if I am constantly looking backwards, I will miss all of it, and I don’t want to spend his babyhood that way. Instead, I am doing my best to focus on today while looking forward to tomorrow and appreciating yesterday. We have had so many wonderful moments these last six months and I know there are so many more still to come!

I never stop feeling grateful for our miracle. It still hits me at random times just how lucky we are, and I feel overwhelmed all over again. I can be doing something completely mundane like folding his laundry or buying a box of diapers, and all of a sudden I will think, I can’t believe this is my life! I can’t believe I get to do this now! The grief and loss of the last several years have made me take for granted less and appreciate more during this time. I believe that the hard moments have been easier and the good moments even better because I know all too well what life is like without him and that everything– no matter how maddening or tiring or monotonous it feels at the time– is a privilege. Everything.

January:

February:

March:

April:

May:

June:

July:

Our Paddington Bear

 

 

 

Why Us?

A year ago today we saw Ross as an embryo for the first time via a live video feed from the adjacent embryology lab. Moments later he was loaded into a catheter and we held our collective breath as he was ceremoniously carried into the room for transfer. In the past twelve months, the photo of him as a microscopic ball of cells has only left our fridge temporarily between moves and an appliance upgrade. Sometimes I hold him up in front of that photo of himself and tell him how special he is, how most babies are completely unknown prior to their implantation whereas he was already so deeply loved. Sometimes I still stop to stare at it and reflect on how such a big miracle sprang from such a tiny beginning.

Why us?

It’s a question I’ve asked myself countless times over the last several years. Why did we have to suffer from infertility? Why did we have to endure so much loss? Why did we have to fight so hard for what comes naturally to everyone else?

Once Ross was here I thought I’d stop asking that question, but I haven’t. The same query still runs through my mind, but now the reasons are different: why did we get to have a child? Why was our treatment successful? Why did we get to move on when there are others who have waited longer, lost more? I still don’t have any answers, but I know that it was not because we were the most deserving. I’m sure there are many couples who are more deserving than us. We also weren’t the ones who prayed the most, cried the most, or hoped the most. We weren’t the ones who made the best choices or worked the hardest. For some reason I don’t understand, we just got lucky. And for some reason I don’t understand, others are still suffering.

Last year our embryo transfer happened to fall two days before Mother’s Day. That Sunday became part of our two week wait, and for the first time ever I felt able to make my excuses and spend the holiday struggling privately at home instead of publicly in a restaurant. For so long it had been one of the most painful days of the year, one I began to dread as the failed months and then years stacked up against us and I learned that my body would never be capable of carrying a child. Year after year I’d close my eyes before walking by the pink card aisles at Target, I’d change the channel at each emotional commercial, I’d avoid Facebook at all costs with its endless stream of mom-and-baby photos. Year after year I felt lost in the fray and forgotten in my pain.

As we waited and wondered whether we would ever be given the privilege of having a child, I promised myself I would never forget that not everyone is celebrating on this day. I would never forget that simply being a mother is an incredible gift.

This year my life is different, but I haven’t forgotten that there are so many still hurting. Maybe they are battling infertility or have lost their child(ren); maybe they have had to say goodbye to their own mothers, as Kyle has this past year. I’ve thought about each of you today. You haven’t been forgotten.

Welcome, Sweet Pea

I have probably imagined the moment I would first hold my child more than most. When I found out at 12 that my fertility was in jeopardy it changed the rest of my life. Up until then I had taken it for granted that I would be able to have children. As the oldest of four girls, I enjoyed helping out more with each one of my sisters as they joined our family. At 5-years-old I asked my mom if I could save my favorite dress for a future daughter. At 10 years old I began writing letters to my future children as part of my journal. There has never been a single moment when I questioned whether I wanted to be a mother. There was never even a moment I felt indifferent about it.

If you had asked me at 13-years-old while I was in 8th grade what I wanted most in my life, I wouldn’t have hesitated to say that it was to be able to have children. Likewise, if you had asked me at 16-years-old as I was learning to drive or 19-years-old and in the middle of my college degree, my answer would have been exactly the same. There has never been anything I’ve wanted even half as much. This desire is a part of my soul; it is something I could never have separated from my self. At times over the last few years I tried to cut it out of my heart, but I could have more easily gone without a part of my body. 

And now, my greatest dream has come true. I am a mother, and my heart has never been more full. 

Ross David, previously known as Sweet Pea, was born on January 24th at 5:19am on his due date. He weighed 7 lbs 2 oz and measured 20 inches in length. If there is a better example of a miracle out there than this child, I am unable to think of it. Ross would never have come to be through nature alone, and not just because of my inability to carry him. With sperm from September 2014 and my egg from March 2015, he was frozen for 2 months before being transferred as an embryo in May to a woman with whom he shared no biological relation. Through lots of sacrifice, love, and prayers, he grew into the baby in my arms today. From the first phone call with the fertility clinic to the birth of our son, the surrogacy process lasted 574 long days for us. Thank you to Elle and her husband who have given us the greatest gift possible. 

And thank you to everyone for the texts, messages, and calls. They are so overwhelming that I can only read them a few at a time in the quiet moments at night as I try to calm down enough to sleep. We were discharged from the hospital Tuesday morning and spent last night at Elle’s before loading up the car and starting on our 4-day trip home today. There  will be more to come on his birth story and the meaning behind his name, but in the meantime we are savoring each moment. 

 

Worth the Wait: Ross David

 

 

The best day of my life

 

Struggling to Write

I’m back (again) from another mini-break. I know that I have taken to writing somewhat infrequently this summer, though it is not for a lack of thoughts or an unwillingness to share. Each day brings new experiences, some of which are wonderful and others that are painful. This process is still far from over for us and there is so much I want to write out, whether for purposes of processing or preservation. It’s important to me to be more diligent in posting regularly.

But, I am having a hard time knowing that there are others reading my posts who are still struggling with infertility, going through invasive procedures, and dealing with loss. I don’t want them to hurt because of what I’m writing, but I know that is impossible.

When I started this blog last October it was with the intention of keeping our friends and family informed throughout the complicated surrogacy process. I never expected to stumble into an amazing online community of people who are traveling similar roads. I never imagined that it would lead to me developing friendships with women around the world who can understand what Kyle and I are going through in a way that most never will. These friends and their advice, encouragement, and support has made a world of difference to me throughout the uncertainty and pain of our treatment this year. I am so grateful for each and every one of them and the impact they’ve had on our lives.

Although we get to move on to this new phase in our journey, I am often reminded of how many others are still hurting, still fighting, still waiting for their time to come. For me, they are no longer hypothetical couples “out there” dealing with infertility– they are people that I love and care about very much. I have followed their ups and downs for the better part of a year. I have prayed with them, hoped with them, cheered with them and grieved with them. The idea that my posts, my stories, and my photos might now be painful for them to read hurts deeply– not because I selfishly feel the need for them to be happy for me (which I know they absolutely are), but because I don’t want to do or say anything that could add to their pain.

I’ve thought about this issue every day since the day after we got our positive test. It weighs on my mind heavily. There is a lot that is difficult about pregnancy (especially surrogacy) after infertility, but one of the hardest aspects for me to accept is that there will always be others who are suffering. I hate that so much, and I hate feeling so powerless to do anything about it.

For those who are in the midst of it right now: you have not been forgotten.

Steady As We Go

Pregnancy after infertility? It feels a lot like this.

Late last week we had our first ultrasound with the ob/gyn at exactly 10 1/2 weeks. A few days prior to that we hit a small road bump when Elle received a call that she had tested positive for a UTI and would need to go on antibiotics as the baby was currently in danger. Despite some scary stories of side effects causing problems with fetal growth (leading to loss) and the fact that we are still in those critical early weeks, it became clear to us that the antibiotics would likely be less of a threat to the baby than the infection itself. While most women online were confident that the medication was just about as safe as it gets, I couldn’t help but feel tortured by my own thoughts and fears that perhaps this was the beginning of the end.

Needless to say, I was anxious to get to the ultrasound, and while the minutes counted down ahead of our appointment, my heart pounded in my chest.

And then the image of Sweet Pea popped up on the screen.

As perfect and beautiful as ever, the baby had grown tremendously, measuring right on track at just under 4cm. The relief that flooded through me was instantaneous (in fact, I’d prefer weekly ultrasounds for my own sanity, please). This time my Grandma was able to join us for the Skype session, and the three of us watched in awe as the baby wriggled and danced on screen for several minutes, hardly ever stopping and seemingly attempting to roll over. Even though Sweet Pea is still only about an inch and a half long, all of the major organs have already developed, and we were able to clearly see the arms and legs as well as a defined profile. We were even able to distinguish each tiny finger of the right hand while Sweet Pea moved and stretched, oblivious to his or her captive audience. It was one of the most amazing, humbling experiences of my entire life, and I have played each precious moment over again in my mind dozens of times in hopes of committing all of it to memory.

And yet, the fear is never really gone. Every week I think: Next week will be better. Next week will be easier. And then we reach the next week, the next milestone, and I still don’t feel safe. I worry that at any moment someone will notice that I’ve been given this gift and come to take it away again. It doesn’t take my psych degree to recognize that I’ve developed extremely warped thoughts and feelings regarding fertility and the reproduction process. The fact that there is a sort of PTSD among many of us who have had to battle against our own bodies in order to try to have what comes naturally to everyone else is becoming increasingly clear. My concern is that the constant anxiety which dwells in the pit of my stomach will never go away.

Thankfully, we still have so much to celebrate. I try not to take a single day or even a moment for granted. I never forget that there are so many who would gladly take on my minor problems in order to watch a child of their own grow and develop week by week, even from this distance that often feels so painful to me. Little by little I am slowly starting to let myself imagine us with a baby in January. At 11+ weeks I remain too afraid to visit Pinterest for nursery ideas or to check out baby name books from the library, but I am hoping we can eventually get to that point. Perhaps by the time of our next ultrasound (a full 6 weeks from now), we will be able to relax more. It is then that we will learn the baby’s gender and finally get to attend an appointment in person. If that wasn’t hard enough to wait for as it is, I am going crazy simply at the thought of not knowing what’s happening with the baby until mid-August.

If you’d like to see the latest ultrasound photos of Sweet Pea, click here: https://inpursuitofafamily.wordpress.com/ultrasound-photos

A Leap of Faith

One year. As of yesterday, it has been one full year since we took the first step in this surrogacy process. Back then I was terrified to make the initial phone call knowing that once we started the journey it would never be the same.

Not long before I made that call, I believed we had already reached the end. We had pursued several different avenues that included treatments to help my body carry a child, surgery, other possible surrogacy options, and both domestic and international adoption. Every approach we tried or looked into came back with a resounding “no” for one reason or another, and I started to believe we would never get to fulfill our dream of becoming parents. But as much as I tried to accept that, it didn’t feel right. I knew that we were meant to keep pushing, but I didn’t know how. It seemed utterly hopeless.

That’s when a new door opened. The only problem was that it wasn’t a door I wanted to walk through. I was absolutely terrified by the thought of contacting a surrogate agency and having someone we didn’t know carry our child. What if they tried to claim the child as their own? Surrogacy laws are still so behind that this can and does happen. What if they wanted to abort our child? They would be within their legal right to do so and we would have no say. How could we ever come to trust someone that much? How much were we willing to risk? How much could we sacrifice?

In order to have the child we wanted more than anything else, we were being asked to take a huge leap of faith. I didn’t want to do it.

But, after exhausting all other options… we decided to jump.

A year ago today my life was entirely different. I was a different person then. I had never before received criticism for doing fertility treatments. I had never before experienced such an intense fear of failing at something. We had not yet met Elle. I had never injected myself in the stomach. I had never seen an embryo created from my own DNA. I had never been called a mother-to-be. And I had never heard the sound of my child’s heart beating or fallen in love with a tiny image on an ultrasound screen.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about everything we’ve been through over the last twelve long months of this surrogacy process. A year ago when we started this part of our journey we could only hope for the best even though what we were doing felt crazy and impossible. Nearly every single day since then has been spent working toward a goal that was never guaranteed. I’ve lost track of all the blood draws, the invasive tests, the bills, the legal contracts, the tears, and the appointments. Getting through this time has been the hardest thing we’ve ever had to do, but now I can look back and know that we are stronger than we thought.

Here are some of the biggest highs & lows of this past year with links to the corresponding blog posts:

Day 1 (June 30): Called the fertility clinic to make an appointment
Day 24 (July 23): Met the fertility doctor and began our medical screening
Day 71 (September 8): Cleared to begin searching for a surrogate agency and gestational carrier
Day 120 (October 27): First meeting with the surrogate agency we chose
Day 141 (November 17): Officially matched with Elle!
Day 169 (December 15): Met Elle and her husband in-person for the first time and began the process of her medical screening
Day 201 (January 16): Achieved both legal and medical approval to move forward with our cycle
Day 236 (February 20): Officially began our IVF cycle
Day 250 (March 6): 27 eggs collected became 17 embryos
Day 255 (March 11): Lost 15 of our embryos, transferred one and froze one
Day 268 (March 24): Negative transfer results
Day 313 (May 8): Transferred our only frozen embryo
Day 325 (May 20): Positive transfer results!
Day 340 (June 4): Our first ultrasound: saw the baby and heard the heartbeat for the first time.

The first step was one of the hardest, but I am so grateful that we decided to take that leap of faith.

Congratulations, You’ve Graduated

Following our 8-week ultrasound last week, Elle and I received phone calls from our fertility nurse saying…

We’ve officially graduated from the care of the fertility clinic.

I have listened to the voicemail several times, but it still seems too good to be true. Of course, we aren’t out of the woods yet, but we have now been transferred to a regular obstetrician and will be monitored like a normal pregnancy. I am no longer a current patient of our fertility clinic.

As someone who has lived with chronic illness since I was little more than a child, I have never really been able to “graduate” from any doctor’s care. This is new territory for me! And in all honesty, it feels a little strange, like we are stepping out into the unknown. I feel completely out of my depth leaving the infertility world I know so well and heading into the pregnancy world where I don’t feel like I belong. There is also a large part of me that feels like a fraud here– maybe because I had stopped believing this would ever happen or maybe just because I am not physically carrying the baby.

Yesterday we had our first appointment at the new office. Since we were only scheduled for a preliminary meeting with the nurse practitioner and there were no plans for another ultrasound, Elle and I planned to conduct it over the phone. For the most part it went well, both of us asked and answered questions, and we were able to begin mapping out some of the upcoming appointments. Toward the end, Elle asked if we could hear the heartbeat and without any warning she was even given an unofficial peek at Sweet Pea! She snapped a couple quick pictures for us, and I am amazed that we have already seen the baby four times now (including as an embryo) when many have not yet seen their little ones at this stage. We will get another opportunity next week at our first “normal” ultrasound.

Now that we’ve had our first appointment, Elle was able to sign some paperwork that will allow us to speak to the doctor directly. This is something that our surrogate agency had recommended last year, so we had been hoping it would be possible. It was also important to Elle since it will give us the ability to deal with any questions or concerns we have over the baby without being required to go through her and therefore allows us to be more involved in the pregnancy. I’m not sure that we will ever need to contact the doctor ourselves, but it is nice to have this piece in place as well as to be recognized as an integral part of this process.

When prenatal testing was brought up at our ultrasound last week I realized that I can’t continue to take the pregnancy one day at a time, which I had been doing in an effort to protect myself from potential loss. Not only do I want to be prepared going into each phase of the pregnancy, but because of our situation, it is so important for everyone to be on the same page concerning each new step. Back in November, prior to signing our surrogacy agreement, we talked about many issues regarding a hypothetical pregnancy and beyond. Kyle and I had long ago decided to forego any invasive prenatal testing, but I wanted to be clear on our reasoning so Elle is able to communicate our wishes if we are unable to be present. We are very thankful that Elle has graciously stepped aside in order for us to make these important decisions on the baby’s health, but as it is still her body, we also want to be respectful of that.

Tomorrow is our 10-week milestone. Had we kept our journey and treatment private, we would still not have announced our pregnancy to our friends and family at this point. I am both a little surprised and very relieved to have almost reached double-digits, but I have found that much of the past pain has remained. Even though I never expected that we would receive a positive test only to walk off into the sunset without a care in the world, the extent of the ripple effect of damage that infertility has caused in our lives has caught me off guard. I am hoping that these feelings will start to ease up soon.

To see the unofficial 9-week ultrasound photos of Sweet Pea, click here: https://inpursuitofafamily.wordpress.com/ultrasound-photos/