Not to overstate the obvious, but having a near-total stranger carry your children for nine months takes a lot of trust on the behalf of intended parents. When we started looking for our stork-fairy-godmother, we had a lot on our wish list: healthy, stable, honest, trustworthy...as well as smart, in a healthy relationship, healthy kids of her own, eats nutritiously, and because I'm a total spelling Nazi, it'd be nice if she knew how to spell basic English.
I wanted someone I could talk to, someone warm, open, positive. This last wished-for attribute ended up becoming such a thorn in my side- at least until we found Desiree. The first agency we signed with had no idea what to do with that request, so they promptly ignored it. Apparently they didn't have a box to check off for "positive", nor did they suss out other possible issues, such as a live-in fiance with an assault and battery charge against his ex-wife and a loaded gun in the house (Yeah. We turned that opportunity down). We went through a roller coaster of emotions for about 7 or 8 months as they sent us profiles of potential candidates: anticipation and hope, followed by disappointment, self-doubt, frustration, anger. So many candidates were on food stamps or government assistance that I had to take a very deep look at my own value system: am I being elitist? But I just couldn't shake the feeling that it just didn't feel right to me: that I had to put my entire family's lives in the hands of someone who lived an hour away from a hospital but didn't own a car or a computer, trust that she wasn't just doing it for the money when so clearly she was desperate for it, or that she'd feed herself properly when she and her own children were so clearly struggling just to get by.
One case worker, early in our search, said to me straight up: "You're never going to be friends with this woman. All those nice stories you read in magazines are made up. Get it out of your head." But I couldn't get it out of my head. I couldn't imagine someone doing something more meaningful for us, or giving us a more cherished and valuable gift. How could I not take this person into the depth of my heart? How on earth could I ever see this as a mere business transaction?
Swallowing a loss that could have funded a dream vacation to Africa, we switched agencies. Within weeks we found our ideal carrier in Desiree. She is everything I'd ever dreamed of: healthy and vibrant, full of life, and yes, loads of positive, can-do energy. I felt safe knowing my future children would start their lives inside her, as I know she'd take as good care of them as she has her own three gorgeous kids. (Desiree once laughingly told us, "I'll take even better care of yours than I did my own. You can break your own stuff but you can't break someone else's.") I appreciated the family's honesty: they admitted that at first Johnny thought this gestational carrier idea was far too weird, and Mama Lisa (we've been adopted) was so worried about Desiree's health and how this would affect her daughter that she wasn't fully on board until she saw our profile and read our story, and likely even then still had some questions about the whole thing until she met us in person. Both Desiree and Johnny have careers they love and feel good about, and her husband reminds me of my own. And beautifully enough, she's a 4th grade teacher. Damn, can that girl spell.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Telling our kids.
From the very beginning my biggest fear was the possibility of impacting my children with this decision. They didn't get a choice in this and I had to make sure I was protecting them. After grappling with the
decision I came to this conclusion; I want, more than anything else in this world, for my children to be good people. I want them to root for the underdog, stand up for the weak and give what they can to make the world a better place. As parents we lead by example, and what better example than to help give a family something that has given me the most happiness and purpose in this life?
We have three kids ages 6, 3 and 1. We decided that we would wait and tell them when we were ready to go public with our news. The psychologist we spoke to in New Jersey recommended a book called The Kangaroo Pouch which is a children's book
about surrogacy. The book shows how
one kangaroo makes the decision to carry a
baby kangaroo for another because they are
very sad that they are unable to carry their own. I talked (mostly with my 6 year old because my 3 year old was busy doing summersaaults and jumping off the couch....all boy) that some people can't have children of their own because they have a "broken tummy". I went on to say "Isn't that sad? We would be so sad if I couldn't have you guys. We are all done having kids, our family is complete, wouldn't it be nice if we help another couple who can't have children of their own?" My 6 year old was very receptive to this, she thought it was a great idea. I told her that the doctors would put the babies in my tummy and after my tummy grew bigger and bigger, I would have the babies and we would hand them to their parents.
I was very clear that these babies would not be their siblings and that they would not be coming home with us. I also added that they could come to the hospital and see the babies when they were born and we could maybe see them on their birthday.
My daughter made a great connection that someone else had her dad in their tummy and gave him to Grandma. My husband is adopted, so it is not exactly the same... but a great connection nonetheless.
Both of the older kids (6 and 3) understand now, that I have 2 babies in my tummy and that they aren't our children, my 6 year old is very forthcoming with this information with anyone we see :-)
We will continue to answer any questions they have and reinforce the fact that we will not be bringing the babies home. I am excited for all 3 of our children to meet Sara and Jonathan this weekend when they come for the 12 week ultrasound and appointment. Can't wait!
decision I came to this conclusion; I want, more than anything else in this world, for my children to be good people. I want them to root for the underdog, stand up for the weak and give what they can to make the world a better place. As parents we lead by example, and what better example than to help give a family something that has given me the most happiness and purpose in this life?
We have three kids ages 6, 3 and 1. We decided that we would wait and tell them when we were ready to go public with our news. The psychologist we spoke to in New Jersey recommended a book called The Kangaroo Pouch which is a children's book
about surrogacy. The book shows how
one kangaroo makes the decision to carry a
baby kangaroo for another because they are
very sad that they are unable to carry their own. I talked (mostly with my 6 year old because my 3 year old was busy doing summersaaults and jumping off the couch....all boy) that some people can't have children of their own because they have a "broken tummy". I went on to say "Isn't that sad? We would be so sad if I couldn't have you guys. We are all done having kids, our family is complete, wouldn't it be nice if we help another couple who can't have children of their own?" My 6 year old was very receptive to this, she thought it was a great idea. I told her that the doctors would put the babies in my tummy and after my tummy grew bigger and bigger, I would have the babies and we would hand them to their parents.
I was very clear that these babies would not be their siblings and that they would not be coming home with us. I also added that they could come to the hospital and see the babies when they were born and we could maybe see them on their birthday.
My daughter made a great connection that someone else had her dad in their tummy and gave him to Grandma. My husband is adopted, so it is not exactly the same... but a great connection nonetheless.
Both of the older kids (6 and 3) understand now, that I have 2 babies in my tummy and that they aren't our children, my 6 year old is very forthcoming with this information with anyone we see :-)
We will continue to answer any questions they have and reinforce the fact that we will not be bringing the babies home. I am excited for all 3 of our children to meet Sara and Jonathan this weekend when they come for the 12 week ultrasound and appointment. Can't wait!
Before Desiree
On June 29th, the day before the transfer, I scooped up Desiree and her mom, Lisa, at the airport and whisked them off to Manhattan for an afternoon of sightseeing and to show off my NYC stomping grounds. As luck would have it, the moment we emerged from the parking lot I heard someone calling my name. Tony P., a talented casting director and wonderful old friend whom I've known for years, plucked me out of the crowd, and I was able to proudly introduce Desiree and Lisa to him. I mention this chance meeting because we came 'out' to him about our intended pregnancy (after he, too, mistook us for sisters). Poor Tony looked so confused, but he was too polite and stunned to ask us to explain further. So, for all you Tonys reading this, here's a brief intro of how this kind of thing works.
The elevator version is that we retrieved my eggs (via IVF), put them together with my husband's sperm, then let them grow in a petri dish for 5 days (so we knew they were viable). Then they went into deep freeze before they were thawed out a few years later once we found Desiree. Ultimately, we took the 2 strongest, healthiest embryos and had them implanted in Desiree's uterus.
My husband and I decided to embark on this process just after we got engaged almost 4 years ago. By that time I was already over 35, and we didn't want to risk that I wouldn't have enough healthy eggs left if we waited. I'd also heard horror stories of women who had undergone partial hysterectomies (as I had) and their ovaries stopped producing shortly thereafter. Fortunately, that wasn't the case with me. What did suck was that our fertility clinic was 2 hours away from where we were living at the time, and we had to get up at 5am every other day to drive 2 hours each way in order to get my blood drawn. (think: needles. Lots of them.) My husband, whom I rarely call a saint, really was one. He drove and let me sleep.
After 2 IVF cycles we had more than enough healthy embryos, so we, quite literally, put them on ice. We got married, went on honeymoon, and soon crashed back to reality: we moved, he started med school, we somehow survived our first year of marriage intact (a public thank you to my friends who unabashedly admitted that their first year wasn't idyllic, either), and then I started grad school myself. Once we finally got past the initial chaos of our new life together, we started searching for our carrier in earnest. And that is a whole other crazy story.
The elevator version is that we retrieved my eggs (via IVF), put them together with my husband's sperm, then let them grow in a petri dish for 5 days (so we knew they were viable). Then they went into deep freeze before they were thawed out a few years later once we found Desiree. Ultimately, we took the 2 strongest, healthiest embryos and had them implanted in Desiree's uterus.
My husband and I decided to embark on this process just after we got engaged almost 4 years ago. By that time I was already over 35, and we didn't want to risk that I wouldn't have enough healthy eggs left if we waited. I'd also heard horror stories of women who had undergone partial hysterectomies (as I had) and their ovaries stopped producing shortly thereafter. Fortunately, that wasn't the case with me. What did suck was that our fertility clinic was 2 hours away from where we were living at the time, and we had to get up at 5am every other day to drive 2 hours each way in order to get my blood drawn. (think: needles. Lots of them.) My husband, whom I rarely call a saint, really was one. He drove and let me sleep.
After 2 IVF cycles we had more than enough healthy embryos, so we, quite literally, put them on ice. We got married, went on honeymoon, and soon crashed back to reality: we moved, he started med school, we somehow survived our first year of marriage intact (a public thank you to my friends who unabashedly admitted that their first year wasn't idyllic, either), and then I started grad school myself. Once we finally got past the initial chaos of our new life together, we started searching for our carrier in earnest. And that is a whole other crazy story.
Friday, August 16, 2013
The Intended Parents- Part One
My surrogacy story began almost 12 years ago, well before I met my husband. I had come alone to New York City barely out of my teens, wide eyed and petrified, but determined to 'make it' regardless. By my late 20's, I was a voiceover artist living the dream, replete with a penthouse apartment overlooking the Empire State Building. Little did I know years later that same building would help solidify a precious relationship, and signify the very beginning of my family.
I'd just returned from my first foray into Burning Man, an avant-guard art festival held yearly in the Nevada desert, when tragedy struck and the towers came down. It was a hollow, horrific time in my beloved city, streets emptied of tourists, the rest of us shell-shocked and heart broken.
Back in the desert I'd noticed a strange discomfort in my lower abdomen, and sensed I'd needed to get it checked out. But Burning Man's medical tent was unable to help me, and because my doctor's office was mere blocks from the twin towers, it too was shut down. But eventually my physician reopened her practice temporarily in Chelsea, and I was finally able to get in.
Three years earlier, I had discovered an abnormally large fibroid tumor, and had it surgically removed. It was benign, but cells in the muscle wall of my uterus were questionably malignant. Because of my age, we decided to keep an eye on it via MRI's. The new tumor had doubled in size since my last scan; a sure sign of cancer. I scheduled another operation, with the promise from my oncologist that he wouldn't remove my womb.
He kept that promise, temporarily. In this second surgery, the cancer had spread to my small bowel, and this time pathology reports clearly showed malignancy. My uterus had to go. I prolonged the inevitable for a few months, grappling with its implications: no periods, no pregnancy, no babies. And worse: Cancer.
I spent months contemplating and trying alternative methods: from fasting to raw food (I was already mostly vegan) to yoga, meditation, acupuncture, shamans and healers. Eventually, however, I realized I wasn't quite as alternative as I'd thought. I had a pivotal moment that December, just a few short months after 9/11 and mere weeks after my second surgery. I was alone in a taxi heading up to a friend's apartment when I found myself stopped at a light. I stared up at the magnificence of the Rockefeller Christmas tree looming ahead of me: resplendent and beautiful, a shiny, glittering symbol of life. I thought of friends of friends who never made it out of the towers: the agonizing last phone calls they'd made to tell their family they loved them. In that moment I knew my best option was to remove the uterus and get on with my life; that although I'd lose this part of me, I was still alive, something no New Yorker could ever take for granted again.
I knew someone in California who had friends who couldn't carry a child; a 19 year old neighbor of theirs, who didn't want kids of her own, agreed to carry for them. She delivered their baby in front of a crowd of close friends and family in a communal hot tub. Days before my final surgery, I flew out West to meet them. Although I couldn't quite see myself living communally, it did help me grasp that perhaps someday, with help from a very special spirit, I, too, might be able to have children of my own. Life would indeed go on.
I'd just returned from my first foray into Burning Man, an avant-guard art festival held yearly in the Nevada desert, when tragedy struck and the towers came down. It was a hollow, horrific time in my beloved city, streets emptied of tourists, the rest of us shell-shocked and heart broken.
Back in the desert I'd noticed a strange discomfort in my lower abdomen, and sensed I'd needed to get it checked out. But Burning Man's medical tent was unable to help me, and because my doctor's office was mere blocks from the twin towers, it too was shut down. But eventually my physician reopened her practice temporarily in Chelsea, and I was finally able to get in.
Three years earlier, I had discovered an abnormally large fibroid tumor, and had it surgically removed. It was benign, but cells in the muscle wall of my uterus were questionably malignant. Because of my age, we decided to keep an eye on it via MRI's. The new tumor had doubled in size since my last scan; a sure sign of cancer. I scheduled another operation, with the promise from my oncologist that he wouldn't remove my womb.
He kept that promise, temporarily. In this second surgery, the cancer had spread to my small bowel, and this time pathology reports clearly showed malignancy. My uterus had to go. I prolonged the inevitable for a few months, grappling with its implications: no periods, no pregnancy, no babies. And worse: Cancer.
I spent months contemplating and trying alternative methods: from fasting to raw food (I was already mostly vegan) to yoga, meditation, acupuncture, shamans and healers. Eventually, however, I realized I wasn't quite as alternative as I'd thought. I had a pivotal moment that December, just a few short months after 9/11 and mere weeks after my second surgery. I was alone in a taxi heading up to a friend's apartment when I found myself stopped at a light. I stared up at the magnificence of the Rockefeller Christmas tree looming ahead of me: resplendent and beautiful, a shiny, glittering symbol of life. I thought of friends of friends who never made it out of the towers: the agonizing last phone calls they'd made to tell their family they loved them. In that moment I knew my best option was to remove the uterus and get on with my life; that although I'd lose this part of me, I was still alive, something no New Yorker could ever take for granted again.
I knew someone in California who had friends who couldn't carry a child; a 19 year old neighbor of theirs, who didn't want kids of her own, agreed to carry for them. She delivered their baby in front of a crowd of close friends and family in a communal hot tub. Days before my final surgery, I flew out West to meet them. Although I couldn't quite see myself living communally, it did help me grasp that perhaps someday, with help from a very special spirit, I, too, might be able to have children of my own. Life would indeed go on.
Monday, August 5, 2013
8 Weeks and Counting
We got to check on the little peanuts again last week. They are growing and their heartbeats are even stronger. We have one more week of monitoring and then I will be released to my own OB. I'm excited for this because it means I will also be done with my progesterone shots...yay!
When we began the process I had to begin with shots of lupron each day in my stomach, the lupron put my ovaries to sleep for a bit to make sure I didn't release my own egg. I also began taking estrodial (an estrogen supplement) daily to compensate for what my body wasn't making on its own.
Right before the transfer I stopped the lupron, continued the estrodial and started the dreaded progesterone shots. These are an intramuscular injection in the rear :-). After the first 2 nights of shots I decided I needed to do them myself (deep rooted control issues I'm sure lol). After almost 8 weeks of these shots my butt is very sore and I'm ready to be done.
I have started to really feel pregnant this week, I'm exhausted and feel the need to eat right away in the morning to ease my stomach. No real morning sickness yet, thankfully, I hope that continues. Sara has offered to send food lol, love her!
Can't wait for my ultrasound this week to see how the babies are growing. The shots are completely worth it...but I sure won't miss them when I'm done. If my progesterone and estrogen levels are high enough this week, it means my body is recognizing itself as pregnant and that is the goal!!!!
When we began the process I had to begin with shots of lupron each day in my stomach, the lupron put my ovaries to sleep for a bit to make sure I didn't release my own egg. I also began taking estrodial (an estrogen supplement) daily to compensate for what my body wasn't making on its own.
Right before the transfer I stopped the lupron, continued the estrodial and started the dreaded progesterone shots. These are an intramuscular injection in the rear :-). After the first 2 nights of shots I decided I needed to do them myself (deep rooted control issues I'm sure lol). After almost 8 weeks of these shots my butt is very sore and I'm ready to be done.
I have started to really feel pregnant this week, I'm exhausted and feel the need to eat right away in the morning to ease my stomach. No real morning sickness yet, thankfully, I hope that continues. Sara has offered to send food lol, love her!
Can't wait for my ultrasound this week to see how the babies are growing. The shots are completely worth it...but I sure won't miss them when I'm done. If my progesterone and estrogen levels are high enough this week, it means my body is recognizing itself as pregnant and that is the goal!!!!
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