I’m a tough girl. After some years in the CIA’s Counterterrorism unit, serving tours in places like Afghanistan and other war-torn countries as well as time as a Special Agent with the FBI, I am one strong chick. But no amount of field training could have prepared me for infertility. Nothing can prepare you for dealing with infertility. Not the CIA, not the FBI.
I was diagnosed with adenomyosis, ovarian cysts and severe uterine fibroids. The decision was made by my OBGYN and I to undergo an emergency partial hysterectomy as my uterus was on the verge of rupturing. However, due to my age, we kept my ovaries. Most of my life, I lied to myself and to others, saying I didn’t want kids. But this was simply a cover because I knew it would be virtually impossible to have them.
We are the lucky ones. Most fertility treatments are not covered by insurance ― mine wasn’t. Having a baby wasn’t deemed a medical “need”. We are fortunate in that we could afford these treatments ― most are not, and this has to change. My husband and I began our search for a Gestational Surrogate in the spring of 2014 and were quickly matched with a second time surrogate. I never thought for a second that my egg retrieval would be one of the most difficult parts of this process. My AMH (the test that determines my egg quality) had always tested well and my ovarian cysts had been brought under control. I could not have been more wrong.
Our surrogate and I began our medications and I went in for my first check. My reproductive endocrinologist noticed a 10mm cyst and rather than cancel the cycle, he asked if I wanted it to be drained. I responded that I did, I just wanted to be able to go back to my job as a teacher immediately afterwards, so he drained the cyst without anesthesia, and I came back to school within five minutes. A few days later I came back again, the cyst was back, we decided to drain it and I went back to school again. This happened for a third time, and by the fourth time, it was finally gone. In my mind, I was thinking, “if I could make it through Special Agent training and navigate the badlands of Afghanistan, no cyst is going to stop me”. I decided not to tell my school, students, or friends about any of this. At the time, I just couldn’t “go there” emotionally with folks who may not have understood. I was scared of being judged, I was scared of failing, and I was scared of showing weakness.
Finally, the day came for my egg retrieval. 13 embryos were made, and I gave no thought to the fact that we might be left with zero in the end. We had planned to do a day five fresh embryo transfer and on day three, I received a phone call from my RE that only two remained. By the end of day four, only one remained. Needless to say, I was shocked and heartbroken. Our RE decided not to cancel the transfer, he felt that this little embryo just looked “too beautiful” and it would survive the night. That morning, our RE went into his office hours earlier than his normal time, just to tell us whether or not our embryo survived the night. I was in the middle of teaching when I stepped out to take his call. He told me our little embryo survived. I cried outside my classroom, composed myself, and walked back in. No one knew. Our transfer happened the next day and we were told that we had an 18% chance of this working. It was a chance we were willing to take.
Six weeks later, on my 36th birthday, we heard our daughter’s heartbeat. I thought the rollercoaster we were riding was finally over, but I was wrong. When our surrogate was six months pregnant, we found out that she had not been going to an OBGYN throughout the pregnancy thus far because she wanted to avoid a c-section (she had two prior, and if she had a third, she couldn’t be a surrogate again). When we asked her to go to one, she stopped talking to us for the remainder of the pregnancy. We were fortunate enough to have a wonderful attorney and surrogacy agency who communicated with her instead. But the torture of not knowing how our baby was doing was almost unbearable.
We arrived in the state our daughter was born in, two days prior to her scheduled c-section and spent that time installing our car seat into our rental car and exploring a city we had never been to. The day our daughter was born was the best day of my life. The feeling of holding our daughter was one of joy, elation, and pride but it was also clouded with animosity, anger, rage, at our surrogate.
Everyone told me to just “be happy” and to be “thankful”. I was happy and I was certainly thankful. The fact that we are one of the lucky ones to be blessed with a beautiful daughter was not lost on me. Many told me that I should “get over it and thank our surrogate for what she did for us”. It’s just not that easy, and a large part of me has always felt guilty for my feelings of anger towards her. For almost two years, I have been unable to feel truly thankful for the gift she gave us.
This Mother’s Day, I have decided to give myself a gift. It is the gift of letting go of the anger and saying a true “thank you” to our surrogate.