Andrew sighed. ‘Why don’t you search Google and see if any other women have gone through this at the same stage? It’s probably just spotting.’ He checked his watch. ‘Daniel will be here in half an hour, so let’s quickly have a look.’
We sat together on the bed, propped up with pillows. I flicked my index finger over the iPad screen, scanning comments on blog posts from other pregnant women who had experienced spotting and never miscarried. Together we discussed the comments, weighing up the possibilities. I continued to read the blogs while Andrew packed a bag for his overnight trip to Byron. I bit my bottom lip, glanced up at him, wishing he would stay. If we were on the brink of a possible disaster not only for me but for Jon and Justin too, I couldn’t go through that alone. Clare and her loss weighed on my thoughts. With Andrew gone, I knew that my lively, spontaneous, high-spirited children would suck from me whatever energy I had left. I grabbed my phone off the bedside table and texted my mother in the hope that she could come over and take the kids for a few hours while I let nature take its course.
Andrew zipped up his backpack, slung it over his shoulder and fixed a baseball cap on his head. ‘You’ll be fine, Shan. You read those posts. It’s common to experience some type of spotting in the first trimester. Just because you never had it with our kids doesn’t mean you’re immune. It could be because it was IVF this time?’
Doubt simmered inside me. I’d hoped he’d turn around and say, Yes, honey, I’ll stay with you. I can see you’re having a hard time and you might need some help. I don’t care about seeing that band, who are they anyway? I love you and I want to support you, and if you do lose this baby, I’ll be here for you.
In Andrew’s eyes my distress probably appeared excessive. But the weeks of nausea and chronic tiredness, scraping through each day on empty, had left me emotionally worn down, and the sense of responsibility I felt was overwhelming. I was pregnant, bleeding, and it wasn’t my baby. The thought that my body could malfunction and cost the life of another couple’s baby subsumed all other thoughts. I’d told them that I would be the one to give them such a gift. I couldn’t let them down.
My phone beeped just as a car horn honked from the driveway.
‘I’ve gotta go, babe. I’ll call you soon, okay? You’ll be fine. Your mum will help you out and I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.’ Andrew bent down, his thumbs linked around the straps on his backpack, and kissed the top of my head.
As he left the room I checked my phone. Mum assured me she would come and take the kids out for the day, and asked if I was all right.
The click of the front door confirmed I was companionless. I sank back into the pillow, lowered the phone to my lap. A phantom twinge of pain twisted in my belly and I began to shake. Could it be happening to me? I closed my eyes, suppressing an outburst of tears.
Baby JJ, stick with me. Please, stick with me.
Over an hour later, after Mum had fed, dressed the kids and taken them to the park, I lay in bed resting on two pillows as sunlight sliced through the half-closed blinds. I replayed my earlier conversation with Jon over and over in my head. I had tried my best to remain calm, to reassure him that everything was probably fine. However, each time I had gone to the toilet the bright red blood stoked the fire of doubt in my belly. My senses were on high alert. I scrutinised every pain, every possible cramp. Jon’s voice registered slight alarm but he composed himself for most of the conversation. A few minutes after I ended the call, I received a text from him. He’d checked the internet and read that it was perfectly common to have a bleed before twelve weeks. He’d even called Kate, who’d told him she’d had a similar experience.
Jon’s calming influence inspired me to pick up the iPad and scour the internet for more blog posts from other women. I read every word, every detail of their accounts, and as the hours passed, I slept on and off. I checked myself regularly, and noticed that the blood flow was easing and the minor cramping I had experienced had ceased.
As I lay confined to my self-imposed rest, I lifted my shirt to reveal my stomach, danced my fingers over my skin and concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths. Focusing on the life inside, I caressed my abdomen with loving intention. Goose bumps prickled and I closed my eyes.
Baby JJ, please stick with me. You’re wanted and you’re loved and I’ll do anything I can to bring you into this world the healthy, vital person you’re supposed to be. It’s my job to carry you to term and into the loving arms of your fathers. Stick with me, my passenger, and everything will be okay.
Five days later I sat in the reception area of Dr Harold Wright’s consulting rooms, my chosen obstetrician. It was my first appointment with him for this pregnancy but I’d dealt briefly with him when I was pregnant with Jaxon, and he’d been attentive, caring and very professional. I hoped that he’d accept my situation this time, as a surrogate to a gay couple. Friends had informed me of his staunch religious beliefs and questioned if he’d be willing to deal with such an arrangement, but I hoped for the best care possible and had decided to book my initial consultation anyway. I glanced at the large fish tank built into the wall next to me. Neon-bright tropical fish idled among aquatic plants, oblivious to the life being measured and monitored every day in the rooms nearby. I was keen to be monitored; the bleeding had ceased and the nausea and vomiting had resumed, but I was still concerned. All I wanted to hear was that heartbeat, strong and steady. I wanted Dr Wright to tell me that everything was fine, Baby JJ was thriving.
Dr Wright appeared. Tall, a whirlwind of courtesy and professionalism, he rubbed his hands together, projecting my name into the reception area as if requesting the pleasure of my company at a regal ball. I stood up and smiled.
As we sat down in his office, he remembered my face. ‘So, Shannon, this is number three?’ he said, adjusting his keyboard on the desk.
‘Yes, it’s number three in the sense that I’m pregnant for the third time, but this time I’m a surrogate.’
‘Well, aren’t you a lovely person to do such a thing.’ He sat back in his chair, his hands raised, the tips of his fingers touching. ‘So, where are the lucky couple?’
‘They’re in Sydney, so they can’t be here for all appointments, just the really important ones.’
‘Very well.’ Dr Wright grabbed a pen. ‘So, am I to relay the information from each appointment to the intended mother and father or will you do that?’
‘It’s actually a gay male couple, and I’ll be calling them after every appointment to let them know how it went.’
‘Right . . . that sounds perfect.’ He leaned forward. ‘How far along are you now?’
I sat back, handbag in my lap, explaining my gestation, the bleeding and my nausea, while he typed the information into the computer. He reassured me that spotting was common but said that if it were to happen again I needed to contact him immediately on his mobile.
After checking my blood pressure, weight and the results of the urine sample, Dr Wright listened for a heartbeat as I lay on the bed, my ears pricked, waiting for the comforting reassurance that Baby JJ was with me.
‘Ah, here it is,’ Dr Wright said, pressing the transducer into my belly.
He adjusted the screen a little further into view and a sense of wonder flooded me. There on the screen a tiny baby with arms, legs and an oversized head moved in jerks around my uterus. I didn’t know what I’d expected to see, I hadn’t dared to conjecture, but the excitement that Baby JJ was alive and kicking sent a shiver through my body.
‘A hundred and sixty-one beats per minute. That’s good. I’m happy with that,’ Dr Wright remarked as he lifted the transducer from my stomach, the image disappearing.
My spirits instantly deflated. I wanted to keep watching the life in my belly, analyse every movement, awed by the growth of a human being from an embryo the size of a poppy seed to the Brussels-sprout-sized baby that kicked within me. I didn’t yet have a belly to dote over and rub, nor did I have the sensation of those gentle kicks. The only chance t
o see Baby JJ was through an ultrasound, but it was over in a minute.
Dr Wright sent me off with a referral for more up-to-date blood tests, along with a referral for the twelve-week scan.
The next day I had lunch with fellow surrogates Allie and Renee at an indoor play centre in town. Jaxon and Keira kicked off their shoes and ran to the padded play equipment and slide. Satisfied that my children would be occupied for at least ten minutes, I turned and focused on Allie and Renee, both ripe with big, beautiful bellies and glowing complexions. Renee was the furthest along and on the countdown with only weeks to go. Allie rubbed her belly and arched her back as if it ached. Within months I’d be the same, with a bubble for a stomach and an aching back coupled with heartburn and swollen ankles.
Allie had invited along another surrogate, Marie, who just happened to be in town visiting her now six-year-old surrogate child along with the child’s fathers. I asked Marie how the men were with their daughter, how they had taken to raising her.
‘They’re fantastic. They love her to bits,’ said Marie. ‘She’s a lovely little girl and they’re doing a great job with her.’
I felt a tug on my sleeve and found Keira by my side, panting, red-faced. ‘I’m thirsty, Mumma.’
I handed my daughter her water and watched her drink, smiled at the way her chubby hands clutched the bottle, how restless with playfulness she was. I placed my hand on the small of her back, content in the knowledge that she was mine. The process of surrogacy had made me reflect on how fortunate I was. I had two children, I was lucky to have the chance to love them, to guide them and watch them grow. I was eternally grateful.
The next morning, by coincidence, I ran into Marie, her surrogate child and the fathers down at the beach. It was a beautiful, sunny day for May; Andrew had gone fishing and I knew not to expect him home till dusk, so I decided that rather than sit at home feeling sick and sleepy, I’d take the kids to the beach. I trudged across the sand, carrying my children’s towels, morning tea, drinks and plastic beach toys as they ran ahead.
‘Shannon?’
Hearing my name, I twisted in the sand, to see Marie sitting on a foldout chair next to a little girl with long blonde hair. On her other side, a man leaned back in a similar chair.
‘Hello,’ I said, my gaze moving between Marie and the little girl.
‘Fancy seeing you here.’ Marie sat forward. ‘How’re you feeling today?’
I wondered if my face looked as drained as I felt. ‘Oh, you know, not the best, but it’s a nice day and the kids love the beach, so I thought I’d bring them down.’
‘We had the same idea, minus the feeling sick part. I don’t envy you at all,’ said Marie empathetically. ‘Anyway, this is Lily and her father, Ryan.’ She turned to Ryan. ‘This is Shannon, the surrogate I was telling you about last night. She’s eleven weeks pregnant for a gay male couple from Sydney.’
Ryan nodded and smiled, his eyes filled with admiration and understanding. ‘That’s great. It really is.’ His grateful gaze returned to Marie. I could see that they had a sincere, easy relationship.
Lily stared at me from where she sat beside a hole she’d dug in the sand, surrounded by a purple plastic bucket, rake and shovel and a scattering of yellow starfish moulds.
‘Hi, Lily,’ I said, my thoughts catapulted into the future, as I pictured the child I carried, six years on, at the beach with Jon and Justin, laughing and running and building sandcastles.
Grainy hands on my leg brought me back to the present, and I looked down to see Jaxon. ‘Lily, this is Jaxon,’ I said. ‘He’s going to big school next year. But you’re in big school now, Marie told me yesterday. How is it?’
Lily blushed shyly, turning to Ryan. ‘Good.’ She glanced down, patting the sand.
‘Ah, here he is,’ Ryan said, gazing down the beach.
Jaxon scurried back to Keira and her crumbling sandcastles and I noticed another man coming towards us, in a t-shirt and green board shorts, jogging over the sand in bare feet.
‘This is Dion, Lily’s other dad.’
Dion stopped, resting his hands on his hips, gently panting, as Marie introduced us.
I walked away from our meeting reassured by what I’d seen. To stand there and see, in the flesh, a little girl with her two doting fathers melted my heart, and a rush of wellbeing filled me. It reminded me that what I was doing wasn’t strange or unreasonable. It was the way of the future. Families were made up of all sorts of combinations, so why not this one? Like Marie, I was giving the gift of a baby to two people who had a great deal of love to share and might not otherwise have had the chance.
People often expressed concern about how things would pan out for me, Jon and Justin. With knotted brows and wary eyes, they mumbled things like, ‘What if it all goes south, ends badly? What then?’ I’d stare at them, my neck tight, wondering why they’d even say such a thing. In moments of weakness I sometimes let such thoughts creep in and disturb my peace. What if they just use me to get what they want? I’d read online about such things happening – relationships breaking down before and after the birth, contact diminishing to non-existent once baby was born, surrogates owed money for medical expenses. Was I immune to such an experience?
I’d shake my head, take a deep breath and squash the thought dead. No, Jon and Justin weren’t like that. The boys were in it for the long run and they made that clear in our first meeting; they wanted my family to be a part of their lives, just as Marie was part of her surrogate family. Before my eyes I saw the relationship working in the way I hoped ours would work post-birth and beyond. I was comforted by that knowledge in ways I knew deep down I needed, no matter how much I told myself I didn’t.
17
Trouble in paradise
I don’t know why morning sickness is called that – morning sickness. As soon as I stirred from sleep, I’d be off, racing to the bathroom, a precautionary hand over my mouth. Nauseous all day and into the night, sometimes I’d have no choice but to vomit as I stood in the kitchen, interrupting my dinner preparation. I’d only just make it to the sink, swivelling around from the opposite bench just in time.
The days drifted by and I seemed to drift through them, not quite the person I used to be. I barely made it to eight o’clock each night before my eyelids grew heavy and my head swayed on my neck, desperate for sleep. Andrew and I rarely saw each other for quality time. If we weren’t attending to the kids, he was working long hours and I was sleeping, nauseous or vomiting.
Naturally, this began to affect our relationship. We’d always been so good together, so happy. If we ever had a disagreement, it was over trivial things, ridiculous situations that we’d end up ribbing each other over and laughing about. We weren’t one of those couples who had huge arguments, yelling and screaming. We’d gone through our fifteen years together, including ten years of marriage, blissfully happy. Some of our friends even told us they modelled their relationships on our marriage, they wanted what we had, and that made me feel as though Andrew and I could withstand anything. So the day Andrew confronted me, it was an enormous shock.
That morning, I moved slowly around the kitchen, dragging my feet between the fridge and the bench, having just thrown up in the sink. As hard as it was to move, I knew I had to quickly fill my belly with something substantial and carb-laden to fend off another attack. It would tide me over for an hour and allow me to organise the kids’ breakfast and get them ready for the day ahead.
As I stood at the bench, Andrew came up behind me, slipping his arms around my waist and kissing my neck. It wasn’t his fault but the press of his hands on my stomach made me gag.
‘Don’t, I need to eat something right now otherwise I’ll be sick again,’ I said, squirming away from his embrace.
His shoulders slumped. ‘What’s wrong with you? We’re never together anymore. There’s no time for me.’ Tears filled Andrew’s eyes, his lips curled in frustration. ‘Don’t you love me anymore, don’t you want me?’
I hu
nched over as if I’d been punched in the stomach, tears stinging my eyes. Andrew had never spoken to me like this before. But it was true: it had been weeks since we’d been intimate, let alone cuddling or nattering to each other about life. My days seemed to revolve around the surrogacy, messages to Jon and Justin, appointments and tests, and my head wasn’t at home with my husband, it was with Baby JJ, the boys, focused on the future and my responsibilities towards them. Even my writing had suffered. I’d been working on a novel for over three years on and off but now I couldn’t touch it, couldn’t bring myself to sit down and delve into the world of my characters. I was too focused on the surrogacy and my pregnancy.
‘Of course I do, I just . . . I’ve got so much on my plate at the moment and I’m barely functioning. I’m sick every morning and it doesn’t end there, it goes all day. Plus I’m tired. I can’t tell you how much I want to just crawl into bed and sleep.’ I dug my teeth into my bottom lip. Couldn’t he see how hard it was for me, what I had to go through?
‘It’s as if you don’t even want me anymore. I cuddle you in bed and you roll over, push me away. You don’t want to be with me. How do you think that makes me feel?’ Andrew slapped his hand to his chest, his face red. ‘I feel second best, like I don’t matter. Like you don’t want to be married to me.’
I huffed, skulking towards the lounge room, checking on the kids as they watched cartoons, hoping the music drowned out our raised voices.
‘So what are you saying exactly?’ I spun around, stepping closer. ‘What do you want me to do? I can’t help that I’m like this. It’s part of the pregnancy. It’s not my choice to be this way. I just have to get through it. I need your support, I need you to have my back, not be in my face about having sex with you. Do you want a divorce? Is that what you’re saying?’ As soon as I’d said it, I regretted it – damn pregnancy hormones.
Labour of Love Page 14
