When someone asks “How are you doing?”

Over the past few weeks I’ve been for the most part, silent. It’s totally not me and not how I typically swat away life’s sour lemons. I’ve watched Chris steadily move through the many stages of grief. His denial that this was actually happening, that our second surrogacy had failed and the past 11 months of planning were for not.  Then I watched as the anger set in. He took longer runs then usual and there was a mist of underlying negativity that surrounded his normally positive mindset.  Now, he has transitioned into the bargaining stage… mostly with me. More on that in a few.  For me, I’ve felt as though my feet have been cemented in one place as I watch everything fly past me at warp speed.

Here’s the thing. I am a mother, an infertile one, but wow I am a mother to one wild and giggly 3 year old. Surrogacy is such a beautiful gift and she is living proof of this.  Over the past month I have done everything possible to make sure she is completely unaffected, shielded even, by all of this. We play together, I hold a beaming smile of enjoyment in her presence, we watch movies in her teepee, I unequivocally give her 100%.  She has absolutely no clue that I am grieving right now. Regularly she encounters pregnant friends and family of ours and that little brain of hers is computing and asking the questions that innocently toss a dagger into my heart. She doesn’t understand that when she asks why I don’t have a baby in my belly, that I cannot give that to her. I just simply tell her my belly is broken and she was an answered prayer. That seems to stop the barrage of questions temporarily.  

You see, one thing I didn’t expect was the balance of being a mom and being real in my own swirly, dark and stormy emotions during this time would be a struggle. It’s temporary, as “this too shall pass”  but it is there. I tell myself, keep her life as it was, innocent of the grief and disappointment I am feeling at this moment. So when I drop her off at her daily summer camp, I hug her tightly and soak in that smile. Then I hop back in the car, allow my mind go down the “what could I have done differently?” paths, and I cry. In those late nights when Chris and Jellybean have gone to bed, I quietly sob so no one sees that I am upset. Those are those brief moments I have that I can be real.

Prior to Jellybean, when we were hit with a blow of yet another failed IVF or something of chaos like Chris’s brain tumor, I could more openly deal with my grief. Typically it would involve me curled up in the classic fetal position of sorrow, wine and sea tissues. After I got it all out, I would pull up my big girl pants chest high and run with reckless abandon to the next option we had. You know, the whole dust yourself off concept. I think since I am now a mother, one that knows all too well what that metallic taste of failure by infertility is, it is harder to allow yourself to cope with this, all the while safeguarding that my daughter’s life is not impacted in any way.

My body has not just let down my husband and me, it has also robbed my child of a sibling. I am the common denominator here. It’s the endless hope, desperation and damn human will that made me a mom. But how much longer can I continue on the pursuit of what feels impossible right now?

Chris is in the bargaining stage. He wants to discuss next steps. He is hoping to grapple on some kind of option. I am just.not.there.yet. Really, with 3 embryos in waiting, in my late 30s and a bank account flirting with a red line.  I am running short on options. Every time I start running down a new hopeful path in my mind, it abruptly stops. Maybe it is my psyche protecting itself right now in its on protective bubble. I tell him and myself again that I am just not there yet.

Many people have asked me “How are you doing?” I quickly answer “OK”. But I’m really not. 

When Chris asks me, “when are we going to talk about this?” I tell him the same thing I told him the day prior and the few days before that, “I am not ready.”

When someone tells me in response to everything that has happened, “hey I would carry for you if I hadn’t {insert blank reason}”, or “I’ll be a surrogate for you.” I want you to mean it. Not just say it because it feels like the right thing to say at the heat of the moment. I just can’t handle another dangly hopeful baby carrot that will end up becoming a vapor of smoke.  That is true not only for us, but for an offer that someone would make to anyone.  Being a surrogate is such a beautiful and incredible gift, but it is a commitment nonetheless and an offer to be a surrogate must be something that you commit to fully, especially once that pen has hit the paper.

For those who have said “well at least you have a child.”  Stop. Just Stop.  We are very much aware we have her, what a blessing she is and the steep mountain climb it took to bring her here is still vivid in our minds.

For those who said, “How can I support you?” Thank you. Best question ever. You already answered your question by checking in on us. Thank you for the messages, the check-ins and those “just being with us” moments. They truly mean the world to us.

This storm will pass, they always do. I will be stronger. For now, I am standing upright and that’s progress. One thing I do know, is I want off of this ride. I am tired of not living because we need to save up for another IVF, medication, transfer, adoption, surgery, surrogacy… I want to walk out of the shadows for a moment of this journey and feel the sun hit my face, enjoy my family and the not mourn what can’t be. I’m not sure what the next steps are but for now I want to take the first step towards living in the light.

 

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