Let It Go

Let me preface this post with the fact that I'm on a very high dose of estradiol, which is making me quite irritable, and more than a little nauseous (which makes me a little more irritable). No amount of Elsa singing 'Let It Go' will help, although I have the sudden urge to build a snowman. Admit it, you're still in mid-verse "the cold never bothered me anyway!" But I digress: Today's post is more introspective and less hearts and flowers than some of the others. I'm sure that the humor and whimsy will return soon, but today, my thoughts are about the tedious, unproductive nature of worry while trying to conceive.

Stop worrying. Stop thinking about it. Don't let it get to you. Ignore it. It will be what it will be. You can't change it by worrying. It's out of your control. Let it go. I've heard and said each of these things to myself many times, and yet, I find the advice hard to follow. While it's 100% true, I find no comfort in it. Somewhere deep down, I truly believe that if I work harder, try more, wish harder, hope more, and do something different than the next person, I will achieve greater success than they have. In most things in life, this really does hold true. Pregnancy, however, is not one of those things. If you could harness the power all of the hoping and wishing and praying of all of the women that have ever tried to get pregnant for more than one cycle, you could move mountains with it.

But there's a dark side to all of that hoping and wishing and praying: When the one thing that those women had their hopes and dreams set on doesn't happen, doesn't work, or happens and then tauntingly fades away, there's an emotional crash on the backside. Trying to conceive is often a very private adventure full of enthusiasm and excitement. Women daydream about what the positive test will look like, how they'll tell their partner, how their partner will react, how they'll tell their parents, whether or not they'll find out the gender, on and on. And while they're spending a great deal of time getting lost in the joy and visions of what it will be like when baby gets here, nobody entertains what it will be like when the test comes up negative or the doctor shows them an ultrasound with no heartbeat. I mean, who can blame them? You don't want to invite such terrible things to happen. Yet, a majority of the time, those things do happen.

For women trying to get pregnant in their 20s with no fertility issues, the chances of a successful pregnancy are 25%. In other words, they are 3 times more likely to see a stark, one-line negative test than the two lines they've been dreaming of. In their 30s, the likelihood drops to 20% each cycle, and by 40, there's only a 5% chance of successful pregnancy. Of the pregnancies that are achieved, about 1 in 5 will end in miscarriage in the first trimester. The odds are staggeringly pitiful.

So what makes us so punch drunk with visions of onsies and pacifiers and bottles and diaper bags? Certainly there's biology; an internal drive to procreate. But it also seems like the most bitingly painful casino game ever played. You might win big the first time you play - 'hey, my best friend did, so I probably will too.' The random reward schedule keeps you pulling that lever over and over again - 'I've lost so many times, this time HAS to be the winning one.' For women out there like me, we have somehow convinced ourselves that if we "try" hard enough, we'll overcome the odds and find success. I've beat my head against that wall 9 times in trying to conceive my own children. Come to find out, I'm totally normal - statistically speaking. But overachievers don't generally care for 'normal', thus all of the headache and heartache of my unsuccessful cycles.

When I came to the decision to be a stork, however, I was determined to leave the stress and worry to the parents. I wanted to know what it was like to just enjoy the experience of being pregnant. I am still certain that a worry-free pregnancy would be one of the greatest adventures in life, and look forward to it when it happens. Somewhere in the chaos of the hormones and the embryo transfer in August, I slipped back into the overachiever. I wished and I hoped and I tried(?) until the crash. As we embark on our second transfer next week, I am consciously aware that 'it will be what it will be', 'it's out of my control', and I need to 'stop worrying'.

While I know that I'm in a better place to handle whatever result of may come of this next transfer, I also know that it has come at a price. I haven't emailed or Skyped Ellie and Matt as much in the past three weeks as we did leading up to the first transfer. I know that they are excited and nervous, joyful and anxious, and a bundle of all of the emotions that build up in each cycle. While I'm cheering for them in the background, I recognize that I can't ride this roller-coaster with them. This isn't my trying-to-conceive road to walk anymore, and somehow, in watching their journey, I've found my way to letting it go.

Hormones and Needles and Tests - Oh My!

We've put another six weeks of the stork adventure under our belt, which was full of injections, pills, and anxious waiting. Of all of the parts of the process to date, this has been the most active in a day-to-day sense. From they day we left off of the last post, I've been on a constantly changing regimen of leuprorelin (Lupron), estradiol (Estrace), and progesterone in oil (PIO).

Now I'll be the first to admit that I can be a little OCD sometimes, and I take far too much pride in accurately following directions and doing a good job. But this ever-changing menagerie of dosages and drug combinations over a 4-week period is enough to make my head spin, and my subconscious constantly wonder if I took the right medications at the right time. To calm my inner Monica Geller, I found this nifty little pill organizer on Amazon, filled it with my oral medications for the upcoming week, then put dummy markers in each appropriate slot to remind me to do an injection on that day and time. The over-achiever in me beamed with pride.

It's probably time to address the elephant in the room: "How bad are the injections... really?" The Lupron was in a small insulin syringe with a tiny little needle (the small one in the picture). As long as the needle isn't dull in any way, you really don't feel it going in, and I really didn't feel the Lupron dispersing for the most part. The tough part about the Lupron injections is watching myself stab it into the skin. Even in the last few days of doing those, I would catch myself hesitating, hovering over the pinched skin, and have to talk myself into it. So all in all, the Lupron injections weren't terrible. The Lupron side-effects, on the other hand, were not as kind. I started with 10 units per day, and within a few days I had hot flashes and a slight headache. After a week, I was in a full-on battle against the INSANE weight gain, and I was noticeably slower in my thought processes. Lupron seriously made me dumber. By the time I stepped down to 5 units, I was in a hate-hate relationship with the drug, and threw myself a little party on the last day that I had to take it. That happened to also be the first day that I took the infamous PIO.

PIO gets a bad rap in the IVF world because it comes with (comparatively) HUGE needles, has to be delivered deep into the muscle, and is in oil - not a great solution for dispersion into the muscle. I read some great tips online from other IVFers before attempting any of the PIOs, and my dear, sweet husband, Scott, watched some very helpful YouTube videos with some professional tips. As most people recommend, I warmed the oil in the syringe to help it disperse once it's injected.

Buzzy Injection Pain Blocker

I also applied ice and vibration to the injection site for about 15 minutes. Ellie and Matt purchased a Buzzy for me to help with this part, for which I love them dearly! The rest of the work is Scott's to deal with. I place myself face down, he finds the right spot on my tush/hip, delivers the medication and does a wonderful job of massaging the area with the heating pad afterward. I've concluded that this is true love; someone that is happy and willing to rub my bum to keep it from hurting me the next day. What a catch. :)

Not all injections go according to plan, or with the luxuries of home, however. Shortly after starting the PIO, Scott and I had to attend an evening dinner party out of town, and we didn't have time to stop at the hotel to do the PIO injection first. Instead, I found myself with my pants dropped in the backseat of his pickup, because, well, you gotta do what you gotta do. While slightly more painful without ice or heat, Scott still did a great job, and I didn't end up with a bruise or a lump afterward. In fact, the only lump and bruise that I've gotten from the PIO injections came at the hands of our IVF nurse immediately following the transfer. Scott wasn't able to go with me, so she did the injection before I left the clinic that night. I knew it was going badly when I felt her pinch the skin instead of pulling it taut, and again at the end when she said "Wait here and hold very still. It's bleeding quite a bit, so I'm going to grab some tissue and a band-aid." I was thinking "BLEEDING??? Scott never makes me bleed!?" As I type, some 15 days later, I can still feel the distinct lump from that injection. If ever in that situation again, I think I'll take my chances and do the PIO on myself.

Did someone say "transfer"?? Ah yes, there was that exciting little event stuck in there in addition to all of the medication fun. :)  In fact, Matt and Ellie flew into town early in August to prepare for Ellie's egg retrieval. As we went through August, she had multiple visits to the clinic to check on her egg production progress, and I had two visits to ensure that the oven was fully pre-heated and ready to bake a sweet little bun. All of our appointments went great, and by the day of Ellie's retrieval, we were getting good news left and right. The RE ended up retrieving 9 eggs, 8 of which were mature, and all 8 fertilized into embryos through intracytoplasmic sperm injection (ICSI). We continued to be encouraged by day 3 when we learned that 6 of the 8 were still doing well.

On day 5 there were 5 excellent embryos, so Matt and Ellie decided to do preimplantation genetic diagnosis (PGD), and we pushed the transfer back a day to allow results to come in. On day 6, I traveled to the clinic in my lucky green shirt and my shamrock socks. I arrived with a full bladder as instructed, and was informed that the PGD results were not in yet. So I settled into the waiting room, only to find that the other woman in the waiting room was also a gestational carrier waiting for PGD results in order to transfer. We struck up quite a conversation over the 2 hours that we waited, trying to ignore the pain of the bladders that were ready to explode. Finally the results came in, showing that Matt and Ellie had 2 normal embryos from the 5 tested; 1 boy and 1 girl. We proceeded with the transfer of the best looking embryo of the two, and froze the other one. Thus began our intense wait.

Four days after the transfer I took a home pregnancy test, but nothing showed up. I retested on the fifth day after transfer and there was a faint second line - woohoo! Ellie and Matt were very encouraged to hear the news, while I was working hard to hold down my breakfast each day. Day 6 post-transfer brought the same faint second line, which made me a bit nervous. I was expecting it to get darker, but, as you all know, patience isn't my forte, so I chalked it up to being over-anxious to see progress. I tested again the next day, knowing that on the 8th day after the transfer we would have our first beta HCG blood test. The line was exactly the same as the previous two days, and as the day wore on, I felt less nausea than I had in over a week. I reported everything I knew to Ellie and Matt, so we were all cautiously optimistic going into the blood test. When the clinic called with the results of the blood test, it was only 2 mIU/ml, which is barely pregnant. If the pregnancy was viable, it should be have been above the single digits, so the clinic told me to stop all medications and allow my body to reset for a new cycle. Of course, Ellie and Matt were heartbroken, and I found myself in a combination of sad and mad at no one in particular. I was mad that we had all done so much work, did everything "right", received great news at every check point, and transferred a PGD normal embryo, only to have a failure on our hands. How does that happen!?!? The question is rhetorical of course, but that was the level of frustration that I had reached. I went home to tuck all of my medications and IVF supplies away in the closet, and found that Scott had brought me sushi, my favorite amber ale, and espresso ice cream to help me feel better. Have I mentioned that he's quite a catch? So Matt, Ellie, and I decided to Skype a few days later to discuss what happened and start to plan our next step. Based on our clinic's schedule, our options will be to transfer the one remaining frozen embryo in early October or mid-December. Regardless of which date is chosen, may the fertility odds be ever in our favor.

To Be or Not To Be

That is the question on this very important day. Today is July 23rd; the last business day before July 24th, the all-important first day of cycle medications. This is the day that all paperwork must be completed by in order to be on schedule for the transfer on August 26. For all of you out there making bets on whether it would really get done and signed in time, the final answer is.... kind of.

A full 9 days ago, I optimistically hoped it would be done in 48 hours... and then the gods laughed and laughed and laughed. It was a week of little to no news, pacing, nail biting, calendar watching stress. The nurse coordinator from the IVF clinic emailed me yesterday nervously asking if it was done yet, and I passed along the anxiety in kind to my attorney to see if she had heard anything from Ellie and Matt's attorney yet. While there was no official response, the nurse coordinator went ahead with sending the medications, and we all slept uneasily on it for another night. This morning I received a somewhat panicked email from Ellie and Matt that they had received the final version of the contract and were ready to sign it, but the one and only representative from the surrogacy agency that has to witness their signing and notarize the contract, unexpectedly went out of town and won't be back until Monday the 28th. Did I mention that dealing with this agency makes my teeth itch? Regardless, we have the finished contract in hand, and that's a win all on it's own. In the meantime, Ellie and I came up with a plan where my husband and I will sign and notarize the contract today, send it back to the attorneys this afternoon, and then Ellie and Matt will have it in their possession while waiting on the agency rep to return, allowing them to execute their portion. This was agreeable to the nurse coordinator in terms of starting the medications tomorrow and will keep us on schedule. As I said 23 days ago: coo coo cachoo, we have a completed contract... kind of.

Now comes the fun (?) part. I'll be giving myself an injection of Lupron in the abdomen once per day starting tomorrow for the next 28 days. I've rationalized that it's a tiny little insulin needle, and I've built up a nice "protective layer" over my abs, so this shouldn't hurt a bit. I'll let you know how that goes. The Lupron is very important though, as it will quiet my ovaries and prevent me from releasing an egg of my own during this process. We want to be VERY sure that the only little storkie in this adventure is Ellie and Matt's! So tomorrow is day 1, the beginning of an exciting and highly anticipated stork adventure. Let's do it!

Don't Stop... Believin'...

I'm tired. Exhausted, really. It seems crazy; the process hasn't even really begun yet, but I'm totally wiped out. My work schedule has been particularly hectic in the past 6 weeks, and the paperwork of the stork adventure has continued to steadily roll in. I keep remembering how tired I get in the first trimester of pregnancy and thinking that I can't imagine adding that onto how worn out I am at this point. Luckily, the projects I have at work are dwindling down again, and we're close to the summit of Mt. Paper-manjaro, so hopefully I'll be able to catch up on some rest before I start incubating the storkie.

Here we are, two weeks since my last post, and we don't yet have a signed contract in place. That sweet, 10-day cushion that I boasted about is wearing a wee bit thin, but it looks like we're on the brink of success. Ellie, Matt and I have been through the first draft of the gestational agreement, conferences (very. long. conferences.) with our respective attorneys, and a fun little game of 'telephone' between our attorneys. I think we're lucky: We had a great foundation to our relationship before the attorneys were involved, and we worked through every contractual point that we could think of before sending it over for the attorney to draft. Still, the process has been mind-numbingly tedious. I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like for intended parents and surrogates that have had very little communication. Needless to say, we're looking forward to applying some ink to those pages and putting this part of the process behind us. I'm cautiously optimistic that we'll be doing just that in the next 48 hours. I mean, really: Have my time estimates ever been wrong during this process? Wait... nevermind, don't answer that.

Rules of Engagement

It's been quite some time since my last update, but as things go in a stork adventure, there's a lot of slow and tedious work to do be done up front. I look forward to the entries that will tell you all about how the little storkie is growing and moving, kicking up a storm, and demanding bizarre treats at all hours of the day and night. With patience we will get there, but today it's all about contracts and legal procedure.

When we left off a month ago, Ellie and Matt had sent our contractual plans to the CFO of the agency, and we all waited for a contract draft to come our way. I can't speak for Ellie and Matt, but I had a great amount of patience in the first two weeks. Early on in the process, one of the agency directors had mentioned that the typical timeline of the contract phase was 2 weeks to draft the document, and 2-4 weeks of conferring with attorneys while requested changes are made and sent to each others' attorneys for review and further conference. Seems reasonable. So by week 3 I was starting to wonder how things were going (not that I would dare to check in with the agency!). I was counting weeks and days left until July 23 - the day that the contract has to be signed and notarized by all parties, in order to do the transfer on the date scheduled in August - and trying to not get impatient. Ellie emailed me at the 3 week point with great news: The draft would be sent to her within the next 3-5 days. We both went back to our day to day activities while we waited, and we were both completely swamped at work; sufficiently distracted. Five days later, Ellie's attorney contacted her to say that it would be another 4 days before the draft would be done, so back to the distraction of work we went. Life was bustling for both Ellie and I; besides work, all of my kids were out of school and in the full swing of summer activities. We can't even sit down for 10 minutes at our house without having to run out the door to the next activity. Again, it's nice to not be hovering over my email inbox waiting for it to ping. However, when we passed the 4 week mark, and got to the (second) date that the attorney promised the draft and there was still no draft, I was starting to lose my patience. Ellie's attorney sent her a message saying that it would be done early the following week. When it finally arrived in Ellie's inbox (after 4 weeks and 5 days), I have to admit that her attorney did a great job. It was VERY thorough (75 pages!) and sufficiently accurate. After taking a few days to read it over and make comments, Ellie, Matt and I Skyped to discuss our comments and thoughts. We were all quite happy with how it turned out and had only a handful of minor changes, so they were able to send it back to their attorney at the end of last week.

As of today, we're in great shape to finish the contract in time for our target transfer date in August. My attorney should be receiving the completed contract today or tomorrow, we'll have a conference call to review it on Monday, and coo coo cachoo: we'll have a completed contract! This, a full 10 days before we are scheduled to start meds for the transfer. And you were worried that our 9 week lead time wouldn't be enough. Pssshh, we just like living that close to the edge.

So it's time to roll up our sleeves and get to work on the really exciting part of this adventure. Let's make some scientific magic happen! We need to get everything prepped with an impressive, month-long medication protocol involving lupron, estrogen, and progesterone. The countdown is on: 24 days to the first injection. Did I mention that I'm needle-phobic?? I'll be back to let you all know how this goes.

The Nightmare on Agency Street

What a very interesting few weeks it has been since my last check in here. After many more emails and Skype conversations with Ellie and Matt, I can confirm that they are outstanding people, and will be wonderful parents. I really look forward to the opportunities that we have to talk and catch up on how things are going in each other's lives. We are all starting to do the mental projections of time, how pregnant we will be when the next holiday rolls around, or what we'll do the next time that they come to town. It's all very exciting. What's not so exciting is all of the tedious red-tape that has transpired in the past few weeks, and we are very much looking forward to that part being over. As I left off of my last post, I surmised that we would have navigated the jungle of paperwork and be looking at some dates on the calendar for the IVF transfer. The great news is that we have a target transfer date - August 26. I'm thrilled about this, and even have my calendar of medications that will be introduced, ramped up, phased out, etc. as we approach the transfer date. I met with the parents' reproductive endocrinologist (RE) last Friday, contributed 5 vials of blood and a cup of urine, did an ultrasound of my uterus, and went on a magic school bus ride into my uterus to ensure that baby will find the accommodations acceptable. The RE determined that my uterine lining was a little over 10 mm, which is fantastic given that we were shooting for 8 mm or more. Moments after cheering about exceeding our lining goal, the full force of the 20 ml of saline that was injected into my uterus hit me. As the wickedly funny RE noted: That can be a real humdinger. I'm here to confirm his assessment: It was, indeed, a real humdinger. But, alas, everything went splendidly and looked great for the incubation of stork baby. Great news for our goals and the timeline that we have planned. We'll spend the next several weeks finishing up the contract, and I should start the first medication on July 24.

The less pleasant news comes from the jungle of paperwork, and the agency on the other side of that jungle. As you may recall from my previous entries, I started out on this adventure with an agency I really liked, and ventured into some independent communications in order to find the best possible match. When I found that match in Ellie and Matt, I had to make a decision between sticking with the agency that I had been working with or going over to the agency that Ellie and Matt had contracted. I felt like it was asking too much of them to switch to my agency, given the amount of money that they already had invested in deposits and fees with their agency. So as I dove into that jungle of paperwork, part of the enormity of it was in catching up on the information and documentation that they normally would have had pre-match, had I been working with them from the beginning. Although there was a lot of paperwork, Ellie and I had hoped that it would move quickly because the match had already been made, and a lot of the agency's work had been done for them. We would later find out that it did not come as a relief to them to do less matching work, but more of an insult, as you'll see.

We spent the first couple of weeks pulling basic items together like the application, consent forms for medical records release, an agency-surrogate agreement, information for background checks for my husband and I, and setting up the psychological evaluation. As the days passed, I checked in regularly with the co-director of the agency to ensure that everything was progressing in order to stay on target for the August transfer that we were shooting for. I was a little nervous when I found out after a couple of check-ins that the medical records hadn't been requested, and that they were expecting me to request them. But once I found out, I jumped on it, and got the requests faxed over to the clinics and hospitals.  I was also assigned a surrogate coordinator who contacted me to welcome me to the agency family. She was very sweet and bubbly, however, in her second email she made a statement alluding to a situation with my intended parents that didn't have a positive outcome. I was very uneasy about her sharing the information that I thought should come to me from Ellie and Matt, if they chose to share. I decided to avoid any further communication with her, as it seemed like it would only be filled with drama. At a later point in time, in one of our Skype calls, Ellie and Matt did share with me what had happened, and it certainly was not as big of a deal as was alluded to in the email. So we continued to move forward with our to-do list.

My husband and I had a great conversation with the psychologist that did the evaluation, and then we waited. About a week later, I checked in with the co-director to see if all of the records were in, the psychological evaluation results were in, and the background checks were complete. She said that everything was going fine. After another week passed, I got a call from one of the clinics that they hadn't sent my records yet, but were going to the next business day, so I checked in again to see where each of those items were in the process. The co-director responded that everything was fine and that I didn't need to worry about it, but I was a bit nervous about our timeline, given that one of the medical records hadn't been sent yet. I emailed back to say that I was frustrated because I hoping for a status update for each of the items to ensure that we stay on track for our timeline, and that a phone call may help to clear the air. I did receive a phone call, but it did not bring the progress that I was hoping for. She was defensive and demanding, so we came to a common ground and found a quick end to the conversation. The next morning I received an email from the surrogate coordinator that I hadn't heard from in weeks, asking how I was doing with all of the waiting that is involved in surrogacy. Her email was quite obviously prompted by the co-director, so I was frank in my response, saying that everything seemed to be moving along well, and that my only obstacle was in getting information from the co-director. Little did I know what a storm of anger and hatred that would incite!

The tone of the emails from the co-directors of the agency.

The next morning I received an ugly email from the co-director stating that she had removed the coordinator from my case and that she would be doing all of the communicating with me, then she proceeded to chastise me for asking questions and telling the coordinator that she was not responding to the questions that I had previously asked. She suggested another phone call involving the other co-director and the CFO, which looked to me like a verbal flogging was headed my way. Now I'm not one to try to rock the boat, and in general, I work hard to make peace, even in the most difficult of communications, but I'm also not one to tolerate being talked down to or treated badly. So in my response, I noted that I didn't appreciate the tone of her email, that I found it unprofessional, and that I would be glad to have a conference call so long as it was focused on a positive and productive outcome and didn't further deteriorate the working relationship. After several scheduling emails were exchanged, the other co-director sent me an ugly email about my lack of availability and being, in her opinion, overly involved in the process. She included several thinly-veiled threats of refusing to allow me to work with Ellie and Matt. All throughout this flare up of negativity, I was in regular communication with Ellie and Matt, who were completely shocked. They were also confused because the agency was giving them very limited information as to what was transpiring. I forwarded the last email to them, copied the co-director and simply stated that I thought that it would be a good idea for all of us to discuss this together and openly to improve communications. I was met with an immediate response from the co-director stating that I had been terminated from their program. This came as quite a shock and surprise to Ellie and Matt, who were beyond frustrated and exhausted at this point. They wanted to find a way to move forward with me and the agency, and I suggested that we modify our communications such that I didn't want to be in contact with either of the co-directors. Some communication occurred between them and the agency, and I received an email from the co-director stating that Ellie and Matt wanted to continue working with me, so the agency would need a HIPAA authorization form signed in order to move forward.

At this point, I had zero trust in these women, and now she wanted me to sign a form stating that they would have full access to all of my medical information, past, present and future, and that the information gathered could be re-disclosed at will. I was pretty sure that the co-director was getting ready for an awesome witch hunt to find a way to prevent this process from going forward. I decided that I would make a couple of minor changes to the form that would limit the scope of the authorization to the medical situation at hand. I emailed the co-director to ask how she wanted changes made, and she responded by demanding to know what changes I wanted to make and why. In the mean time, she communicated to Ellie and Matt that she would no longer work with them if they continued to use me as their surrogate. As this was the day before my appointment with the RE, it was uncertain whether or not the medical check was actually going to happen. I made the decision to complete the authorization form without limitations in Ellie and Matt's names only, allowing them free access to the information, and sent it in. They were in financial discussions with the agency and emerged to tell me that they had found a way to move forward, and to plan on attending the appointment with the RE. As of last Friday, when I saw the RE, he relayed that he had received an email from the agency stating that they were no longer working with me, Ellie or Matt. He reassured me that we would be fine in working toward the August transfer, regardless of the agency's involvement, which was a huge relief for me as well as for Ellie and Matt.

In the 6 days that have passed since that appointment, I have been working closely with Ellie and Matt to finish the details of the contract, and they have passed them along to the CFO at the agency. It appears that the agency is working with Ellie and Matt to complete the legal and financial aspects of the process, and I've been able to remove myself from their line of fire. I hope that they continue to work toward the goal that Ellie and Matt have put in front of them and paid them for, and I'm truly optimistic that the worst of it is behind us. My final thought on the agency from hell is this: I now have an even greater appreciation for the kindness of the agency that I started with, and hope to work with them again in the future.

There are many stories of unfathomably terrible experiences in surrogacy, of which, this pales in comparison. For that reason, I fully expect to see much greater legal regulation of surrogacy in the not too distant future. Surrogacy is becoming more common in the U.S. and abroad, and is a relatively unregulated market here with an overabundance of financial transactions closely tied to emotional decision-making: A recipe for disaster. I wouldn't be surprised to see the U.S. adopt legislation similar to Canada that prevents surrogates from receiving money or gifts outside of intended parents paying for directly related pregnancy and delivery expenses. From an ethics standpoint, I think it's likely necessary to keep the surrogacy market from entering a tailspin of ugly experiences with money and greed at the core of the motivation.

Parents and Paperwork

Happy Easter! It was a wonderful and relaxing holiday in our home. It's been a few weeks since my last blog post, and as I promised, a parent decision has been made. After taking some time to consider all of the potential parents and communicating with them openly, the decision became very clear. The future parents, Ellie and Matt, are an international couple that, incidentally, share commonalities with me such as age, education, career and life ambitions. They have a wonderful sense of humor, and are open to the fun and excitement that lie ahead. Unfortunately, infertility can be fraught with devastation and disappointment to the point of creating anxiety-riddled pessimism in people that, otherwise, have very happy-go-lucky personalities. I consider myself extraordinarily lucky to have connected with a great set of future parents that are glowing with a beautiful inner light of optimism, eagerness, and enthusiasm. After weeks of emailing and a fantastic Skype conversation, I am elated to to be sharing this experience with them. I can't wait for the moment when the obstetrician hands them their goo-covered bundle of joy, and they realize that all of their efforts have culminated in this one moment of sheer bliss. To be honest, that's exactly what motivated to me to become a stork in the first place.

So here we are, at the precipice of a truly awe-inspiring, life altering experience, and it starts just like any other major undertaking: with paperwork. There are about 7,359 different forms to fill out or signatures to be gathered. Medical records from previous pregnancies and deliveries must be compiled and reviewed, an extensive questionnaire must be completed to assess my lifestyle and ideological viewpoints, and a background check and psychological evaluation must be completed (for good reason: If you're looking for some jaw-dropping, head-shaking, dumbfounding type of entertainment, check out some of the online advertisements and forum discussions regarding surrogacy). Once all of that information is pulled together and properly appraised, the IVF clinic will need additional paperwork to establish me as a patient, and then they'll schedule an appointment to collect copious amounts of blood and get a good long look at my girl bits. Upon clearing all of the red tape, we'll do some legal paperwork, and get down to the business of making a miracle happen. Hopefully, by my next update, we will have sorted through the jungle of documents, and have penciled out some dates for making the scientific magic happen.