A few weeks ago we were getting ready for bed when the email we’d been waiting for came through; attached was the initial draft of the carrier contract from our lawyer. Immediately, I felt my chest tighten. I didn’t want to deal with it, I didn’t want to even think about it right before trying to sleep. I can’t stress enough how much I hate the legal part of the surrogacy process. If I had the option of going through another IVF cycle instead, I would take it every time.
The first draft of our contract is forty-two pages long– forty-two pages of harsh language and serious threats, of stripping away the humanity of surrogacy and making it feel like a transaction, of mental images of stillbirth that have haunted my dreams in the nights since. A thick printed copy floated through our house over the next several days– Kyle would read a few pages and leave it on his nightstand for later; I would pick it up and get through a bit before abandoning it on the table downstairs. We circled errors, crossed things out, and made notes in the margins. It was mentally exhausting and emotionally taxing, and again it hit me just how much we are trusting to another person.
Simply the act of reading through the entire contract proved to be a challenge. For a couple weeks now, Kyle has been out nearly every night for work, and Ross started school after almost a month of inexplicable poor sleep, night terrors, and bad dreams. We hardly had the time and barely had the energy to focus on legal, but eventually we compiled our notes, discussed the revisions, and sent back our changes to the lawyer, working on it until nearly midnight one night just to get it out of our hands.
That was almost two weeks ago. The changes should have been fairly straightforward, but we didn’t receive so much as an acknowledgment from our lawyer. In fact, the only thing we’ve heard back was his opinion that Becca’s representation was charging way too much for a contract review– a lawyer she’d only contacted because it was someone he’d recommended in the first place. The last thing he said was that he could find us representation for less… and then he stopped responding. I finally asked Kyle to call him last Wednesday to follow up, and it turns out he’d left the office until the next Monday with no answers, no warning, and no progress on our contract.
In the meantime, I’ve been struggling to find a decent surrogacy escrow company to handle the medical bill payments during a potential pregnancy. The first two places I dealt with fell through for various reasons; yesterday I finally spoke with the onboarding specialist of a third. During our first journey five years ago, our agency handled everything in house: the financial, the legal, the travel, Elle’s psych support, and all coordination. This is common, though not exactly recommended, and we didn’t know enough then to insist on keeping everything separate. Now I am in charge of all the moving pieces, building our team from scratch while being out of state with almost no recommendations or industry experience to rely on. It’s not necessarily an impossible task, but it has taken over my life.
All year I look forward to this time: pumpkin carving and apple picking and putting together a halloween costume. The fall has always been my favorite season, and all the familiar signs are around me… but this year they seem duller, more hollow somehow. Instead, it feels as if a heavy fog has moved in and settled over us, so thick it’s hard to breathe at times. The stress and frustration, the anxiety and lack of sleep have all contributed to a higher level of physical pain as I’ve tried to hold everything together without much downtime or breaks. My coping skills are shot, and there have been times recently when I have calmed and comforted Ross through a tantrum, feeling as though I am trying to reassure the both of us. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here, and you are okay.
At the heart of it all is the sickening awareness that the only reason we are dealing with this is because of me. I have somehow failed so spectacularly that no amount of medical treatment will give me the ability to carry my baby, and no matter how much I try, I still don’t know how to accept this reality. I just keep coming back to it over and over again. If you think it’s tiring to read about repeatedly, imagine how many millions of times it has bounced around in my head. There are even times, these brief moments, when I forget that it’s truly forever and catch myself hoping that there will be another chance beyond this enormous loss, that I only have to keep fighting through this moment in time. And then it hits me all over again: it’s over.
It’s really over.
Even still, it can shock me to look around and see where we are. Not just for now but for good. Sometimes I’ll come across a picture of my younger self and think, How did this happen? And when?
After another night of sleep interrupted by screaming from Ross’ bedroom, we woke up one day last week to find that he’d developed his first sickness of the season. Cuddled up on the couch that morning, Toy Story played on the television like it has countless times before. I knew this movie by heart long before Ross was born, Buzz and Woody were a part of my own childhood, and it has become even more special to me now that Ross has fallen in love with it on his own. But as an adult, watching Buzz realize that he’s not a real space ranger is gut-wrenching in a way I couldn’t grasp as a child. I’ve always felt emotional over the scene, but in that moment, I saw myself reflected back more clearly than ever before. And I couldn’t keep the tears from streaming down my face and into Ross’ hair beside me.
All the things I thought I’d be,
All the brave things I’d done
Vanished like a snowflake
With the rising of the sun
Never more to sail my ship,
Where no man has gone before
And I will go sailing no more
The moment in my childhood where I sat in a specialist’s office in Boston and heard for the first time that I may never be able to have children is carved into my soul; it changed everything. I was determined to do whatever was necessary, no matter how torturous, just to be able to carry a child. But as Kyle and I came to find out many years later, it wasn’t enough. I had failed, fallen short, missed the window entirely. There would be no, let’s try again.
This December will mark 20 years of learning to live with pain that will never go away. Everyone seems to think that this time around there is no longer loss for me in surrogacy, but so often I still feel like Buzz, laying on the floor in disbelief and trying to come to terms with reality.
Clearly, I will go sailing no more