the borrowed belly

Facebook caption:

“So this is happening.

But it’s not Kevin’s. (Yes, he knows.)

And here’s the kicker: It’s not mine either. (Yes, I know.)

I’m a surrogate for friends, who can’t wait to meet their daughter in April. (Jacoby and Emme are pretty darn excited, too.)”

That’s how I came out as a surrogate six years ago, on Facebook. The cute little belly shot proved I I was seventeen weeks and feeling great. And the great was magnified for the three of us after the journey we’ d been on over the previous two years: four IVF cycles (hormones, injections, blood tests, ultrasounds, transfers, two-week waits, pregnancy tests, more pregnancy tests, and then a few more pregnancy tests for good measure—close to 100 in all!); two miscarriages; a failed transfer; agonizing months of whys and what ifs and maybe we shoulds; endless appointments and tears and dreams.

It was time to exhale, to appreciate the rainbow that was suddenly stretching across the sky.

Yet as I exhaled, I couldn’t help but ask why. Why did I feel punished somehow for doing something so beautifully, so wholly unpunishable? Why had I had to endure the pain of three transfers and no babies? Why would this time end any differently? Was the universe actually willing me to fail at the kindest thing I’d ever done?

And…could I ever really exhale after the luck we’d had so far?