It seems the doctor is being super, extra ultra-cautious and questioning Lydia’s history of drug use. DRUGS! We were thinking: “Argh! Crystal meth? Fentanyl?”
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There is no part of me that thinks I could endure an entire pregnancy and all the miracles and intricacies (and hormones, let’s not forget hormones) it throws up, and then hand a baby over at the end.
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As soon as I get into bed I get a text from Lydia on our WhatsApp group: “I GOT THE EMAIL! OMG I’M CLEARED!”
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So this is what we were told the timeline would be. It also serves a handy summary of the story so far.
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It would be weird if I weren’t suffering from anxiety apparently, but my difference is that I pretend I’m not, and that, my friends, does not a healthy mind make.
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The doctor signs off by telling us that some women’s lining never gets thick enough, but it’s rare. Rare seems to be our top trump infertility card, so needless to say we are beside ourselves.
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Wait, what? Actual transfer, actually happening? Apparently yes, and with bells on. Whether the acupuncture helped we will never know, but in my heart I think it has.
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Anticipation is THE WORST. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. This so-called 2WW is an absolute killer, and I think it’s accumulative.
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“I expected it to work. We don’t have any reason to think it wouldn’t.” (This I assume is supposed to make us feel better, but it doesn’t.)
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There are many life triggers for that particular sadness, and unfortunately being middle-aged (gah!) with lots of fertile friends means I’m exposed to them with increasing regularity.
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How nice this past three weeks has been. How uncomplicated and normal — as far as engaging a surrogate in another continent to IVF on your behalf can be anyway.
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Now what? We were stuck. Basically tricked into a surrogacy journey we were never going to be able to complete.
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“Don’t you know how important this email will be? Don’t you know how elated or devastated it’s about to make me?!?”
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In the midst of all my worries I’m worrying about the embarrassment of delivering yet more bad news to my family, to my friends, to you readers, and to every person ailed by infertility
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My dad says that he wishes he could be my surrogate — the sweet, silly sausage — but it does spark a little memory.
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I spot a yellow leather jacket from across the street and have a feeling it’s her. “Rebecca! Hi, it’s Sophie. Are you nervous? Don’t be nervous.
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I suspected something might be rotten in paradise, but still, not quite this. “So, um, I’m getting a divorce.”
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Lydia is our fourth — I’ll say it again — fourth surrogate. We’ve doubled our debt, seen the second half of our thirties out. We can’t bear the thought of starting from scratch
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“I have decided that we will not do an embryo transfer into a surrogate from the UK where surrogacy is not even considered. Therefore I see no reason to talk to the potential candidate over a Skype.”
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Lydia is justifiably unsuitable and now — I hate hate HATE to say it — she’s becoming a bit narky. She wants to know why (the hell) we are worried about her suitability.
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