My journey may have ended (almost) but I will never forget the almost 6 years of treatments to get to this very moment. I will never forget the river of tears burning my cheeks or that my husband stayed.
How can I talk about just how excited I am about my baby that I’ve never met, someone else had to carry for me and who I never thought I’d have?
I can’t be part of conversations about trimesters, feeling baby move or kick for the first time. I have no frame of reference for what most women accept as a given.
I am excited. Maybe even more excited than A kid that’s about to enter the Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory. I have her names picked out, her clothes are freshly washed, she has tiny little diapers, fresh new bottles with formula and soft toys waiting for her.
What I probably wish for more than anything is that she would look at me the way my cat does, with adoring eyes. I hope her eyes are blue like mine when I’m happy, or blue-grey like mine when I’m sad. I hope she dons my signature dark curls and high cheekbones. I wouldn’t even mind if she inherits my volatile temper. Most importantly, I hope she is healthy.
Just the other day one of our neighbours in the complex started chatting to me. She finally put 2-and-2 together that when we say our baby is due in November we really meant due through surrogacy – because it is quite obvious my stomach is flat. The association then jumped to Lexa must’ve been a very unhappy baby because she no longer heard the heartbeat of the woman that carried her – and that we should consider recording the surrogate’s heartbeat for the new baby.
I know she meant well, but… I don’t want to hear it. My baby will get used to my heartbeat. She will, because it was my heart that willed her to life. Mine.