The Choices We Make. Karma Brown
them grow... It left me weak with anxiety and despair.
I couldn’t explain how, but I knew—I knew, deep inside—that my body would never carry a baby to term. And I couldn’t handle one more negative pregnancy test or chemical pregnancy. Sure, we could also get donor eggs, fertilize them with Ben’s sperm to make embryos and then find a gestational surrogate, but the cost to do that would be astronomical. And we’d already spent thousands of dollars to get to this point—surfing for surrogates on date night.
“So she’s only willing to be a traditional surrogate, which is perfect for us.” Ben nodded again, and I smiled at him before looking back at the screen. I was nervous, so much more invested in this than I cared to admit.
“Married, healthy, two kids, good BMI, no family disease, had a recent psychiatric evaluation...” At that Ben raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. “Huh. Okay. Says she would prefer a Christian, traditional couple, and wants a relationship after the birth.” I chewed a stray cuticle, trying to decide how I felt about that. The Christian thing didn’t worry me, even though Ben and I were not religious, but a relationship after the baby was born?
“I guess that’s not so different from adoption,” Ben said, shrugging. “What do you think about that?” I knew he wasn’t keen on doing a surrogacy, but I loved him for appeasing my need to look at all the options.
“Let’s go to the next one,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. I was weeks off the fertility medications now, so I couldn’t blame the tears that sprang to my eyes on that anymore. What I wished I could say was that I loathed every second of this, no matter what I had said about the popcorn and fun. I wanted to have my own baby, not pay someone else to have one for us.
I hated that I’d dragged Ben into this sad mess, where we were spending our Saturday night reading surrogate classified ads and pretending it was something we wanted to do. I was worried that I couldn’t make myself talk to Ben about how much adoption scared me. How I preferred the idea of surrogacy because the baby would at least be genetically linked to one of us. But most of all, and the thing I hadn’t said aloud to anyone, ever?
I was deeply ashamed to be an infertile woman. I despised my body for failing me, failing Ben and our marriage, on the most basic of things.
Pushing that shame and sadness down, I read the next few ads out loud. They all sounded similar enough that by the end of the two pages it was hard to remember one from another. The popcorn sat heavily in my stomach, and I regretted putting so much butter on it. I shut the laptop forcefully and turned on the television.
Ben shifted so he faced me. “What are you doing?”
“I think you’re right. I don’t think this is a good idea.” I flicked through the channels. “What do you want to watch?”
He took the remote from my hand and turned the television off. “Maybe we should talk about option C.”
“What’s option C?” I asked.
Ben swallowed hard but kept his eyes on mine. “Not having kids.”
I stared at him, unsure what to say. We had talked briefly about the possibility of not having a family, but for me it was never a real option. But looking at his face I saw the concern, and worry, and realized all of this had taken as much out of him as it had me. So because I loved him more than I hated the idea of never having a child, I said, “Okay, let’s talk about option C.”
And the truth was option C had some decent stuff going for it. Travel. Financial freedom. Flexibility. The ability to be selfish. Saturday morning sleep-ins and late Sunday brunches. Glass coffee tables with supersharp corners, white couches and expensive throw pillows.
So while I brainstormed and wrote down the top ten places I’d like to travel with Ben, and he sketched out and calculated how much it might cost to design us a dream home overlooking the ocean, my heart wasn’t in it.
Option C meant there would never be a baby.
I hated option C.
* * *
Around three o’clock in the morning, unable to sleep, I crept out of our bedroom and went downstairs to the kitchen. Bowl of Cherry Garcia ice cream in one hand and my laptop in another, I sat at the kitchen table and fired up the computer. I left the lights off, eating the cherry-and-chocolate ice cream by the laptop’s glow, and went back through the ads Ben and I had browsed earlier.
I stopped at the one of the woman who preferred a Christian couple and wanted a relationship after the baby was born. Something about her had stuck with me, perhaps because she was one of the only ones to not romanticize the experience. There were no adjectives like wonderful or incredible peppered throughout, and I liked how up front she was about what she wanted out of the contract, money aside.
Tapping my spoon gently against the sides of my now-empty bowl, I tried to imagine what it would be like to have another woman carry a baby for me—a baby I had no genetic link to. My mind filled with a million questions and concerns, like how we would pay for it, and how our friends and family would react, and how I could be certain the surrogate wouldn’t change her mind in the end and fight us to keep the baby. And if I would love a baby that wasn’t mine as much as one I gave birth to.
Ben and I had agreed to put the surrogacy idea on the back burner. He preferred the idea of adoption, worried about the astronomical costs and complications—both emotional and logistical—that came with surrogacy, and as a last resort, option C. With a sigh I shut the laptop and took my bowl over to the sink. While I rinsed it I imagined rinsing out baby bottles after midnight feedings, and the pain in my belly was so intense I doubled over the sink, dropping the ice-cream bowl—the loud clang as it hit the stainless-steel tub echoing through the kitchen.
“Fuck it,” I said, drying my hands and opening the laptop again.
Scanning the ad I found the contact information, and before I could even think about what I was doing, I typed her an email. With my finger over the enter key, poised to hit Send, I realized I was shaking. I told myself I wasn’t committing to anything. It was just an email, and Ben didn’t even need to know about it because nothing would likely come of it.
I hit Return, saw the confirmation my email had been sent and then went back to bed.
KATE
My cell phone rang, the familiar bars of Michael Jackson’s “Pretty Young Thing” filling the silence of the kitchen. Hannah. I jumped, a hand to my chest, only then realizing I was still holding the butter knife I’d been spreading the peanut butter with.
“Shit,” I said, glancing down at my previously white shirt. There was a large peanut-butter stain right in the middle of my chest. Why did I even bother trying to wear clean shirts, and a white one at that? I ran my finger over the excess peanut butter and licked it off, answering my phone.
“Hey, you,” I said. “How goes it?” I tucked the phone in the crook of my neck and, glancing at the large clock on the wall, swore under my breath and quickly cut the crusts off the bread. My head was still pounding, despite the migraine medication I’d taken at four in the morning, but at least the tingling in my neck and arms was gone and my stomach had settled.
“Hey, are you going to be around for a bit after the girls go to school?” Hannah sounded weird. Out of breath. Like she had a secret she couldn’t wait to let burst out of her mouth.
“It’s a migraine morning, so David’s taking them. You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, good. Okay, I’ll be by in about forty minutes. Want a latte or maybe a tea for your head?”
“Coffee, definitely,” I replied. “I haven’t had a chance to make any yet. That’s probably why my head is still pounding.”
“For the last time, set your coffee timer. It will change your life, promise.”
“So