OK, let’s be real. I haven’t been real about this surrogacy thing, on the blog. I’ve been real about it at the Young Adult group at Callanish, and I’ve been real with close friends on the odd walk around the sea wall or on those occasions when you’re riding your bike by your friend’s house late at night, and they happen to be home, and you have a spontaneous curb side chat and never take off your helmet. But we had to break the news before I was real. News is broken. We all know its about to be awesome in our house, with two tiny baby girls to cover in kisses. So. Let’s be real.
Two weeks ago, I sat in the waiting room. I waited. While a technician did the ultrasound of my babies on our surrogate. It felt wrong to be in the waiting room. “But that’s what the fathers do,” the secretary explained. Fuck that. I’m not the father. But I waited quietly. Forever, it seemed. Far enough that I might have been miles away, as an old Brit took measurements of my babies in someone else’s belly. Because of course, the secretary explained again, “that’s what the fathers do.” Newsflash. I’m not a father. And it does make me wonder, what about the partners that are also mothers? I’m not the father, I’m the mother. And those are my babies. And I should have been there, for the entire ultrasound. I don’t give a single sh*t about the technician doing their job, taking measurements, not needing other people in the room. They’re my babies. Mine. And I should not have been in the waiting room.
I couldn’t pull it together that day to advocate, but I knew it wasn’t right. I could feel it in the pit of my belly. It felt horribly wrong, horribly unreal, horribly impossible to wait in the waiting room while someone else had an ultrasound that to check the measurements of my babies. I just couldn’t articulate it until tonight, until someone sat across from me in that sacred space that is Callanish, and shared exactly this experience, shared exactly this anger, shared exactly this alienation, this invisibility, this impossibility. You bet I’ll be calling that facility tomorrow, to help them learn from this experience. Object lesson, for the hospital staff. But that feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one that burns with the sensation of something being terribly out of place? That feeling isn’t only one that lurks during ultrasounds. That feeling is one that has pervaded the last twenty weeks. Knowing I can pour myself a glass of wine without any concern for my babies’ developing brains and bodies is absolutely unnerving. Heartwrenching. Full of ache. It cannot feel right, because it isn’t right. They should be inside my body. My breasts should be intact. My ovaries should be functional. My body should be their safe place for growth.
That woman tonight, that other woman who has two girls by surrogacy, both born post-cancer? “I have always trusted my gut,” she explained, “but with the surrogacy, I couldn’t. There was never a gut-feeling that this was OK, because fundamentally, it wasn’t.” Of course not. How can your body send you a feeling of OK, when what should be OK in your body is so not OK it’s not in your body? Having my babies inside someone else’s body cannot make me feel, ever, OK. It can only make me feel like my babies should be inside my body, and they are not. That ache, that horribly unsettling feeling? I’m pretty certain it’s here to stay, until our little girls are in my arms, until they are mine to take care, just as they should be right now.
Right now, it seems like everyone is pregnant. Friends all around me have bellies busting through their t-shirts. They have ultra-sounds and they leave their husbands and wives in the waiting room until the technician is done with her “job” and ready to play show and tell. They order sprite instead of champagne. Sometimes they tell me how hard their pregnancies are. How awful they feel. I want to receive their words with care and comfort. I think I can hold the space with love and listening. I hope I do. I certainly try. But you know what really gets me? What really shatters me is when they tell me how lucky I am. How I wouldn’t want to feel as horribly as they do. How I shouldn’t want to be pregnant. How I’m so fortunate. It makes me feel invisible. It makes my heart ache. It makes me shut my mouth. It makes the heartache worse. It makes me defensive. It makes me scream, DO YOU KNOW I AM DOING THIS BECAUSE I HAD CANCER, AND THE HORMONES WOULD KILL ME, AND THEN THE BABIES WOULDN’T HAVE A MOTHER?
It makes me want to shut down communication. It makes me call my cancer friends in tears. It makes me rush to Callanish, and it makes the words of anger and sadness and confusion and frustration pour out by the bucket. It makes me feel like the wedge between us grows, exponentially. What I wish they would say instead, is that they have no idea what it would be like, to have their developing baby outside their body. What I wish they would say instead, is that they are listening to what I am saying, and they don’t know what to say at all. What I wish they would say instead, is that they hear me, even if they cannot relate. Tonight, the pregnant facilitator of the Young Adult group looked me in the eye and said, “I have no idea what it would feel like to have my baby outside my body.” My eyes filled not because I was sad, because I finally felt visible. Heard. Seen. She doesn’t understand, but that’s not the point. I don’t want her to understand. What I wanted from her, and what she did so gracefully, was to centre herself in her own experience- which made me visible. What I wanted from her was to hear her talk from her place of knowing, and for her to acknowledge what she could feel, and how she could know- and also, what she can’t know in her body. She didn’t tell me how I should feel, what I wasn’t missing, or how her experience should or could narrate, explain, or justify my own. And in doing so, she made space for me, too, made space for the unknown, my unknown, together next to hers. Not the same as, but next to. Listening to. Knowing with. Space for. Enough. It’s all I could ask for. It’s all I could want. It’s all I need. Not the same as, but next to. Listening to. Knowing with. Space for. Enough.
I wonder why we have such an urge to narrate each others’ experiences. To compare what is worse. To tell others how it is. To use our own experiences to provide judgements and shoulds. To educate about someone else’s experience, while only knowing from our own. Sometimes I think education itself is an inherently violent practice, and this is why- for the hurtful possibility that telling someone else how to know something, how to be, from outside that someone’s body is just so violent. It is not about sympathy. It is not about comparing. It is not about you telling me how it is for me from your vantage point. It is about listening. Silence pregnant with listening, so much listening that there’s only silence. Caring. Listening hard. Listening to our inside voices.
And my inside voice? It’s time to be the fierce advocate I know how to be. It’s time to be full of fire. I will call the hospital tomorrow, the one where our dear surrogate had her eighteen week ultrasound. It won’t make a difference for me, but it will make a difference for someone else, I hope, in the future. It’s time to be the fierce advocate I know how to be, for our baby girls. It’s time to write into the birth plan what I know we need for them, it’s time to draw boundaries and make commitments and shape futures, because I am a fierce mama. She told me so, the other young woman with babies by surrogate after cancer. She told me making those decisions, doing what I need, asking for the absolute- that’s not being a bad mother, she said. That’s just the opposite- that’s being the fierce and hopeful mother you have to be, the one you already are.