I had big news that I was finally ready to tell. I sat my kids down and I told them the news.
“I’m hoping to have a baby.”
My four-year-old daughter’s jaw dropped. My 9-year-old son’s brow furrowed.
“Right now?” my daughter asked.
“Really?” my son asked.
“I am. I’m hoping to have a baby, but I hope to have that baby for someone else.”
Further explanation is needed at this point.
You see, for some time I’ve wanted to do this thing. And some months ago I decided it was time to act.
I am becoming a surrogate.
When my son was two years old, his father and I decided it was time to try for baby number two. Not having had any issue getting pregnant the first time around, I was naïve to think it would be just as easy the second time around.
I was sorely mistaken.
For a year, we tried on our own with no success. 18 months in, we decided to bring it to the attention of my family physician, who promptly referred us to an infertility specialist.
Wait? What? How? How could I possibly need to see an infertility specialist? I felt like a broken thing. I felt inadequate and strangely apologetic.
Through the specialist, we were both tested. We passed every test. We were young and healthy. Physically, biologically, there was nothing wrong with either of us, nothing preventing us from conceiving. For some infuriatingly unknown reason, it just wasn’t happening.
After two failed attempts at artificial insemination, we stopped. We stopped seeking medical assistance. We stopped watching the calendar. We stopped focusing so vigorously on completing our family. We knew we had time on our side. We knew if it were meant to be, it would be.
It was three months later, after a full three years of trying to get pregnant, I stood in shock at the positive pregnancy test in my hands.
We had done it.
And nine months after that, I was reveling in the beauty of my brand-new baby girl. I was beaming at the sight of her big brother fully embracing his new role. My world felt whole and complete. My dreams had come true.
And in that same moment, the shadows of my defeating journey through infertility crept back. The pain I’d felt through those three years of struggle still stung me. I couldn’t help but think of those couples that might never feel what I was feeling in that moment, those deserving people who wanted nothing more than to be parents but couldn’t.
Since the birth of my daughter, I’ve wanted to help. I’ve wanted to give a couple their dreams. I’ve wanted to help complete someone else’s family. I can do this by becoming a surrogate.
And, after months of applications and interviews, background checks and home checks, medical record reviews and doctor’s appointments, it’s really begun. I’ve been matched with the intended parents and we are steadily working towards an embryo transfer.
Admittedly, there’s something about this process that feels selfish. I’ve never been one to follow my dreams. There have been things in my life I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about that I never actually acted on, mostly out of fear. These lost and unfulfilled dreams have turned into regrets.
This was one dream I did not want to regret. There’s a sense of pride for finally acting upon a dream of mine, especially one that is so much bigger than me, one I can fully endorse and pour my heart and soul into. My dream of being a surrogate is one I hope my kids will be proud of someday.
While there are so many unknowns and uncontrollable possibilities still lying ahead in wait, I have hope that good things are bound to happen.
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