Transcript

Welcome. I'm Jessica Fein, and this is the “I Don’t Know How You Do It” podcast, where we talk to people whose lives seem unimaginable from the outside and dive into how they're able to do things that look undoable.

I'm so glad you're joining me on this journey and I hope you enjoy the conversation. Welcome back to the show. This past July, I ran an episode of “I Don't Know How You Do It” that was an excerpt from my memoir, Breath Taking, and I was so surprised that it turned out to be one of the top three most listened to episodes I've ever run.

In light of that, I'm excited to share with you another piece of the memoir, some of which made it in, most of which didn't, that feels really timely right now. If you've read the [00:01:00] book or if you've been listening to the show, you might know that my husband Rob and I had a really unconventional path to building a family.

We went through five years of fertility treatments, and somewhere along the way, completely changed our vision of how we wanted to build a family, ending up in Guatemala, where we adopted our three children. The whole issue of IVF and fertility has been so in the news, it's been such a hot point for all sides of the political spectrum, and it's something that was such a major part of my life and is so personal to me, and I know plays such a huge role for so many of you, too.

And, on top of that, my family is going to be going back to Guatemala for the first time since we brought Theo home in 2007, in just a couple of weeks. So I've been thinking a lot about that time in my life, and am excited to share with you this piece of writing about our journey to building a family.[00:02:00] 

Eleven months after Rob and I finally got married, still squeaking by as newlyweds, Two major things happened. We went on a three week vacation to Israel and Italy, and I threw away my diaphragm. In a basement apartment in my cousin's home outside of Jerusalem, we had unprotected sex for the first time.

The next morning, I was struck by the overwhelming certainty that I was pregnant, that my body was busy knitting together the genetic basics of our first child, a future concert violinist or vascular surgeon. My theoretical pregnancy put a bit of a damper on the rest of our travels, as I didn't want to push myself too hard given my expectant state.

I walked gingerly up Mount Masada, making the ascent take twice as long as it should have, and I never sampled the wines at the Tuscan vineyards we drove hours to find. So when I got my period on the plane ride home, I wasn't merely disappointed. I was genuinely surprised. My mother had four miscarriages before I was born, and my sister Nomi [00:03:00] spent most of her high risk pregnancy on bed rest.

Yet, I didn't question my fertility in the slightest. I chalked the failure up to international travel and assumed we'd have success four weeks later. That surprise disappointment repeated itself every month for the next year. For ten years before this, I experienced intense anxiety every time I was a day or two late.

Certain a rogue sperm had slipped past the diaphragm. Now I was having the same level of anxiety over not getting pregnant. The missing plus sign was a knife to the kidney every time. A gaping wound that nobody else could see. I was a planner and a pragmatist. Rob and I were healthy and in love and comfortably settled in our first house.

He had a job teaching high school English, and I worked in marketing for a large childcare company. All that was missing was our baby. What are you doing, Rob asked, watching me strain to hold my legs in the air 15 minutes after we had sex. Just helping things along. A bit of gravity to help your little guys swim in the right direction.

What are you [00:04:00] eating? He asked when he saw my plate full of beans and lentils, two of my least favorite foods. Promoting healthier ovulation, I said, scooping up a spoonful of fertility. Who are you talking to? He asked when he found me crouched on the stairs that led from our kitchen to the small backyard, whispering into the phone.

It's Rachel. I'll be there in a minute. It was the third time my sister Rachel and I spoke that day, but we still had a lot of ground to cover. I'll be there. I don't know what I'm going to do if it doesn't work this time, Jess, Rachel said. Do I not deserve to have one thing come easily to me? Of course you deserve this, I assured her.

What else could I say? You are going to get pregnant, and you are going to be the best mom in the world. I have to go have sex now, though, so I'll talk to you later. It was, I suppose, a blessing and a curse that Rachel and her husband were also having trouble getting pregnant. We intimately understood what the other was going through.

I could tell her that for a moment I thought about ramming my grocery cart right into the pregnant woman at Stop and Shop who was wearing a t shirt that read baby on board, and she'd know exactly what I meant. [00:05:00] She could describe her spotting, and together we'd try to decipher whether it could be a sign of implantation rather than her period.

But the fact that the person in the world we most wanted to get pregnant, other than ourselves, was also failing, nearly doubled our disappointment each month. Rachel was 8 years older, and for most of our lives, I'd thought of her as a slightly mysterious, glamorous template for who I might become when I grew up.

When I was 5 and she was 13, she sat Nomi and me down on the window seat in our living room, pulled out a hardcover book called Where Did I Come From?, and explained in graphic detail how babies were made. When I was 8 and she was 16, I parked myself on the stairs and watched when Richie Greenberg came to pick her up for her first date.

I stayed on the stairs until she returned 3 hours later to try to get a peek of whether Richie kissed Rachel on our front porch. When I was 15, we went to visit Rachel at Northwestern. She showed us off at the library and took us to a football game and introduced us to deep dish pizza. When the three of us curled up in Rachel's twin bed that evening, Nomi and I decided that when the time came, we'd both go [00:06:00] to Northwestern too.

But now the chasm between us narrowed. We were peers and allies in our avid pursuit of motherhood. If we were going to sit on the sidelines and watch the women we knew parade by with pregnant bellies and toddlers in tow, at least we could sit there together, sharing a blanket and passing hot chocolate back and forth.

Because now it seemed all my friends were having babies. One by one I got the phone call, mustered up a passable degree of enthusiasm, Went to the baby shower, came home, and cried. And it wasn't only my friends who were getting pregnant. It seemed like I was faced with protruding bellies everywhere I went.

Every day seemed like baby day at Target and Stop and Shop and even at the gym. No matter where I was, I saw pregnant women holding their hands protectively over their bellies, as though they were carrying a particularly delicate jello mold. It wasn't just that we weren't getting pregnant. It was that everyone else in the world was.

And so at age 31, Rob and I went to see a fertility doctor who recommended intrauterine insemination, [00:07:00] IUI, a procedure in which she would use a tiny turkey baster like apparatus to insert Rob's sperm into my uterus during ovulation. We listened quietly as she talked about success rates, roughly 10%, and risks, a greater chance of conceiving twins, which frankly seemed like more of a bonus than a risk.

You've given us a lot to discuss, I said, as we got up to leave. We'll call your office when we've reached a decision. We'll By the time we reached the parking lot, we'd thoroughly discussed it. Me. We're doing this, right? Rob. Of course we are. The next day, we called the doctor's office to schedule the procedure, which would be precisely timed to my cycle.

Here's how it would work. I'd get my blood tested at regular intervals to determine exactly when I was ovulating. When the time was right, we'd go to an office in the hospital with a private room to collect the sperm, which would then be, as described in the information packet, specially washed and prepared for insemination.

How do you think the sperms are prepared? I asked Rob when we got to that part of the brochure. I think it's like they're getting ready for a special sort of school [00:08:00] dance where there are millions of males and only a single female. He said it's like a tiny locker room scene with the excited little sperms shaving and showering and dressing while one of them goes around snapping the other's tiny little sperm butts with a teeny towel.

Excellent. I laughed because I want to make sure they're looking their finest for the occasion. Since we were in the business of making a baby, I figured we might as well have fun with it. Inject as much romance as possible into the event, which was, after all, taking place in a laboratory filled with scientists wearing white coats as they worked with pipettes and microscopes.

Really, could it get any hotter? So I bought sexy lingerie, took the afternoon off work, and met Rob at the hospital. The Boston medical community now had a much bigger role in us getting pregnant than anything that happened in our bedroom. But we were completely invested in the magical, scientific absurdity of it all.

We took our place among the other poor schleps in the waiting room. A few couples clasping hands and several men reading or finding other ways to avoid making eye contact with the rest of the bunch. We all knew what was happening in the collection room we were waiting to [00:09:00] enter. There was even a red light to indicate when the room was in use.

The dimly lit room had an aura of desperation. There was an overpowering smell of disinfectant, and I shuddered, thinking about the person whose job it was to clean up between clients. After Rob and I took in the sad decor, it was time to get busy. I peeled off my hoodie to reveal my black lace bustier.

Rob mouthed, wow, and leaned in for a kiss. I started giggling. Um, that doesn't help, Rob said. I know, I know. Okay, I'm serious now. He leaned in again. I started laughing again. I was thinking about who had been in the room before us, who was waiting right outside to come next. Don't take this personally, but I think it might be quicker if you wait outside, he said.

I did in fact take it personally, but I was more relieved to be excused than insulted. I gladly took my place back in the waiting room, while Rob took care of business, so to speak. When he was done, we went downstairs to the hospital cafeteria, while the technicians prepared the sperm for the party. Rob devoured a breakfast burrito.

I ignored my [00:10:00] bagel and Diet Coke. His part was done, but mine hadn't even started. Would it be uncomfortable? Would it hurt? Would it work? An hour passed and it was time to go back to pick up our vial of sperm and take it to another part of the hospital where the insemination would take place. The technician told us to keep the sperm warm during transit.

So I tucked the vial inside my bra as we made our way through the hospital corridors and up the elevator to the next office. I clutched it surreptitiously along the route. I was so worried I wouldn't keep it warm enough or I'd spill it or drop it. I could just imagine the ingredients for our baby to be rolling down the hall.

It was my first official responsibility as a parent, and I didn't want to blow it. The actual procedure took a couple of minutes and was much less dramatic than the lead up had been. When it was all done, we left the hospital and returned home, where I promptly put on my pajamas and crawled into bed. I decided to coddle myself and my baby to be to create the most peaceful and hospitable incubator an embryo had ever known.

Do you think it's too soon to take a pregnancy [00:11:00] test? I asked Rob. Sweetie heart, it's been two hours. Yes, I think it's too soon. That answer didn't work for me, so I called Rachel, three friends, and my mother, and asked each of them. They all sided with Rob. Our follow up appointment wasn't for another two weeks.

Two weeks during which I was quite possibly in the early stages of growing a baby. Two weeks during which I could discuss my pregnancy with Rachel, calculate the birth date, make lists of baby names. Two weeks to use every ounce of self control, not to go to CVS and buy a pregnancy test. When the two weeks were up, we returned to the doctor for an official pregnancy test, where we learned that the IUI had failed.

We repeated the process 11 more times over the next year and a half. We each tried to minimize our time away from work, so Rob did his share first, and I showed up a couple of hours later to be inseminated before dashing back to the office. No sexy lingerie, no holding hands. The disappointment wasn't surprising anymore.

This wasn't meant to be our baby, we told each other. It will happen when the time is [00:12:00] right, but other times it was impossible to muster up the optimism. This was supposed to be our baby, I cried. Is it ever going to happen for us? We craved the feeling of hopefulness we'd had when we first started trying to get pregnant and then felt again when we began with the IUIs.

Jess, will you just call Dr. Kaufman already, Rachel urged. She and her husband had moved on to IVF and Rob and I were tracking just a few months behind them. Maybe they'll give us a two for one deal. I started the IVF medications as soon as the doctors gave us the green light. I needed to take pills to slow down my cycle so that I could take more pills to deliberately speed it up.

Next came the shots. There were two kinds, subcutaneous and intramuscular. The subcutaneous ones were less offensive in that the needle was small and thin. Still, I drew up the medicine and hesitated, pausing way too long before inserting the needle into my thigh or stomach. I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut, alternating injection sites because my body became bruised from the repeated jabbing.

But those shots were nothing compared [00:13:00] to the intramuscular ones, which had to be given in my butt with a much longer needle. Since I literally couldn't stab myself in the back, Rob had to do it for me. It was awkward and painful and inconvenient since the shot needed to be given at an exact time of day prescribed by the doctor.

At first, we made sure to be home for the shots. I grasped the edge of a table, lifted my shirt up and scooched my pants down a bit, waiting for Rob to count to three, before he jabbed me in for the thick, gelatinous medicine to make its way into my body. But life went on, and in time, it wasn't always realistic to be home when I needed to get the shot.

By the end of our IVF foray, Rob had given me the injection everywhere, from the synagogue basement during Yom Kippur services to the women's bathroom in a fancy restaurant. He'd even done it in sync with the rhythm of a shimmying Amtrak train en route from Boston to New York. Remember the scene in Risky Business where Tom Cruise and the prostitute turned business manager turned lover wait for all the passengers to depart a train late at night so they can have sex?

Remember how it was kind of squirmy but also kind of hot? [00:14:00] This was the polar opposite of that. But a couple weeks later when we watched on a screen as two healthy embryos were placed in my uterus by the doctor, the shots seemed like a small price to pay for the baby or two that were undoubtedly on their way.

Now we had a data supported scientific reason to believe I was growing a baby. No strenuous exercise, no wine, no unnecessary stress. And, as it turned out, no pregnancy. We had to take a month off before we could give it another try, but as soon as we could, we started the whole process over again, and then again, and again.

I decided to try acupuncture as a complement to the IVF, figuring I'd blend the finest of Eastern and Western medicine to increase my chances of success. I typed in acupuncture, infertility, and Boston. I chose the one whose ad said she had a 100 percent success rate in helping women get pregnant. So now, while I was giving myself subcutaneous shots and Rob was giving me intramuscular shots, I was also getting needles stuck into my entire body once a week by the acupuncturist.

I felt like a human pincushion. The good [00:15:00] news was that the acupuncturist did give Rachel and me a sister's discount. Four rounds of IVF later and another year passed, Rachel and I bursted right through that acupuncturist's record of 100 percent success. Was it possible that my stress about not getting pregnant was keeping me from getting pregnant?

Was I too wound up for the little needles to hit their mark and do their thing? I decided to sign up for a mind body class for women struggling with infertility. The instructor, Ruth, spoken in a hypnotic voice as she taught us how to breathe. Breathe in through your nose for four counts. Breathe out for six.

Breathe in four, breathe out six. I'd like you to pick a mantra to repeat while you're breathing. Try, um, when you breathe in, she suggested, sah, when you breathe out, um, sah, um, sah. It sounded so peaceful when she said it, so relaxing. Later that night, I woke up in a cold sweat, my mind racing. Was my concept for the brochure copy at work good, or did it totally suck?

Should I get Rob a dog for his [00:16:00] birthday? Or is that too much for us right now? Why did I eat the second bowl of frozen yogurt? Hm sa, hm sa, hm sa. I repeated quickly, over and over. It didn't work. I got out of bed and ate another bowl of frozen yogurt. During the next session, our partners were invited to join us.

Let's learn to communicate from our souls, Ruth began. I'd like you to all find a private corner of the room. Sit across from your partner and maintain eye contact without speaking. We'll do this for 15 minutes, and then I'll ask you to tell each other what went on for you during that time. Fifteen minutes later, I told Rob what had gone on for me was that I needed to pee.

He told me he had grading to get done. We left the mind body clinic with our souls in agreement that this wasn't for us. What now? We asked. Are we done? There is another option, the doctor said. Since your embryos are strong, you could consider using a gestational carrier. You'll go through all the initial steps of IVF, but when it comes time for the embryo transfer, we'll use another woman's uterus, someone who has had babies before and whom you [00:17:00] hire to carry your baby for you.

It sounded kind of awesome. What do you think, I asked Rob, as we got into the car? I think it's totally bizarre, he said. This wasn't the resounding enthusiasm I'd hoped for. Totally bizarre in a good way, though, right? We'd be essentially renting space in somebody else's body, he answered. How can we trust that she wouldn't drink or do drugs or endanger our baby?

We're talking about a total stranger. It feels really uncomfortable and risky. I'd need a bit of time to think about it, he said. We were quiet for the rest of the car ride. Have you thought about it? I asked, as we walked into our house, annoying, even myself. How about I get a day or two? Turns out I didn't need to wait a day for his answer.

I'm on board as long as we can find somebody we think is totally responsible and not even a little bit crazy, he said, that night when we got into bed. Sounds like a plan, I said, snuggling into him, relief, anxiety, and hopefulness settling in for the night. Making a baby had somehow gone from hot sex in the Middle East to meticulously scheduled intercourse back in [00:18:00] Boston, and then from a seedy sperm collection room to being shot in the ass to a business transaction.

As it turns out, finding and hiring someone to carry your baby wasn't as simple at that time as posting an ad on Craigslist or mentioning it casually on Facebook. The first thing we needed to do was find a lawyer who specialized in reproductive issues. The fertility clinic gave us a list of names, and the very next day I started making calls.

I hear you represent people who carry other people's babies for them. Can you tell me how that works? I whispered into the phone, not wanting my colleague on the other side of my thin office wall to hear. We hired the third lawyer I called. She explains that for a not insignificant fee, she would provide us with potential matches and we'd go on a series of blind dates to find someone who seemed responsible and healthy, and not even a little bit crazy, whom we would hire to carry our baby.

Within a week, she sent us several detailed profiles, photos of candidates and their essays about why they wanted to carry someone else's child. As soon as the package arrived, we [00:19:00] dashed off to our favorite restaurant. There, over falafel and shish kebab, we perused the files and debated who would make the best incubator for our baby.

None of them wrote that they were in it for the money, though it went without saying that was part of the equation. We rejected the first few candidates outright. There was the one who wrote she was looking for a career change, and there was one who thought helping a childless couple would be, quote, redemptive.

We wanted someone with the soul of Maria von Trapp and the body of Gabby Reese. What about her, I asked, sliding a picture of someone who looked like she could have played high school volleyball across the table. I think her eyes look kinda crazy. How about this one? Rob handed me a file. No, she looks like she's 40.

I think that's actually considered geriatric when it comes to pregnancy. Wait, check this out, I said, holding up a picture of a couple with four kids and a golden retriever standing in front of a brick fireplace. Posed with their brood, the couple, Kathy and Mike, looked like an ad for Land's End. And also for fertility.

I called the attorney the next day, and she arranged for Kathy and Mike to come meet [00:20:00] us in Boston, so we could see if we were a good fit. Imagine going on a first date, where you had to decide by the end of the meal whether you could trust the person sitting across the table, not only with your life, but with the life of your child.

If Kathy was going to grow our baby for us, we had to be confident that she didn't smoke, or drink excessively, or work in the asbestos removal business. Kathy and Mike were not people we'd necessarily be friends with. They were way more salt of the earth than we were. They didn't laugh easily or watch the same movies we did.

We were fairly sure we were on opposite sides of the political spectrum. We had little in common with the obvious exception of being involved in this bizarre baby making adventure. But they were kind and proud of their family and genuinely seemed to want to make a difference by helping us. At one point Kathy reached across the table and took my hand.

Being a mother has been the greatest gift of my life. We're going to help you be one too. It was corny, but also irresistible. Kathy was cleared medically and psychologically, [00:21:00] and a few months later I began taking the shots again to prepare my body for egg retrieval. When it came time for Kathy and Mike to return to Boston for the embryo transfer, Kathy told me they'd feel most connected to us if they stayed in our home.

Frankly, that was a bit more connection than we were looking for. We preferred to think of Kathy's uterus as somewhat separate from Kathy. A substitution for my uterus, not a substitution for me. And honestly, who the hell was Mike in this whole operation anyway? But we were beholden to them. After all, if everything worked out as we were hoping and paying for, they'd be giving our baby a home for nine months.

It felt a bit selfish to say no. So we reluctantly agreed to play house for a few days. Kathy and Mike were scheduled to arrive at five in the evening. I asked my mother to get there by two, and we spent the next couple of hours cooking a feast. I wanted Kathy and Mike to see how domestic I was. To think our home was comfortable and inviting, and that I was bursting with maternal prowess.

I was afraid they might change their minds if they knew I was a [00:22:00] bad cook or found our house lacking in any way. And I needed my parents to be there with us, to offset the strangers in the room with the people closest to me. Even though my parents divorced when I was five, they came together for special family occasions, and this dinner qualified.

I had pre game conversations with each of them. Do not bring up politics or religion, I said. Who, moi, my mother responded. My mother was a fiery, indomitable, intense intellectual. She laughed easily and said shit on a goddamn fucking stick when she was frustrated. Her name was Zelda, and she was everything you might imagine someone named Zelda would be.

Her huge personality burst out of her five foot two frame. She was the exclamation point at the end of the alphabet, overflowing with vim and vigor. Never mind the fact that, embarrassed by her name, she preferred to be called Bonnie in public. She was Zelda through and through. I adored everything about my mother.

I just didn't want everything to be on display on this particular occasion. [00:23:00] So I think what I was hoping for was that she'd be a bit more Bonnie and slightly less Zelda when she met Pathy and Mike. What are you so worried about, my father asked when I told him which topics were off the table. What I'm worried about is that you'll talk about politics just like you did when you met Rob's parents even though I begged you not to.

My father too was an intellectual. He started his career as a political science professor at MIT and for the last several decades made a living writing and speaking about politics in general and American Jews in particular. Asking him not to talk about religion or politics at a dinner party was like inviting Baryshnikov to the stage and asking him not to dance.

Neither of my parents was particularly adept at taking the backseat conversationally, and with politics and religion off the table, they were quite likely to be rendered speechless. But I was okay with that. It was their solid presence I needed that night, not their big personalities. The meal itself turned out to be a success, since I had little to do with the actual food preparation.

All was going smoothly on [00:24:00] the conversational front at first, too. But somewhere in between the salad and the sloppy chicken, we started talking about Kathy and Mike's drive to Boston. The end. It would have been better if we could have driven around New York instead of through it, Kathy started. The traffic was crazy.

We spent over an hour in a complete standstill. Everything about New York is a mess, Mike chimed in, and it doesn't help that Hillary Clinton is now their senator. Honestly, I'd be happy if I never hear her name again. Shit, I thought. I looked at my mother across the table, beseeching her with my eyes not to engage.

I saw her biting her cheek, trying not to let loose about her love for Hillary. Not to share that I recently gave her the new Hillary Clinton coffee table book for Hanukkah. Hold it in, Mom, I said to her without talking. Are you kidding me? She replied silently. How can you expect me to be quiet when they're insulting Hilary?

Do it for me, Mom, my eyes replied. I need this to go well. I need them to like us. Our silent conversation about Hilary was interrupted when Kathy dug into her purse and pulled out a gift [00:25:00] for me. I was going to wait until tomorrow to give this to you, but now seems like as good a time as any. She awkwardly reached across the table and handed me a small jewelry box.

I wondered for a split second if the fact that she was going to carry a baby for me meant she thought she ought to propose to me too. I opened the box and pulled out a gold necklace with a pendant of a mother holding her baby. More Talbots than anthropology, it wasn't even remotely something I could imagine wearing, but it was a beautiful gesture, breaking the tension and reminding all of us why we were together.

The gift said to me, you're going to be a mother. You might be getting there in a roundabout way, but it's going to happen. You will be just as much of a mom as all those pregnant women in Target and Stop and Shop. I absolutely loved it. The next morning, Rob, Mike, Kathy, and I went to the hospital for the embryo transfer.

I proudly wore the necklace while I held Kathy's hand and watched the doctor insert two healthy embryos into her uterus. The following day, Kathy and Mike headed back to [00:26:00] Philadelphia. I hugged Kathy tightly, wanting the little embryos to sense my embrace, to know how much we wanted them to thrive. Drive safely.

You're carrying precious cargo, I said. We'll call you when we get there, Mama, Kathy replied. I was at work two weeks later when I saw the unknown caller ID on my phone. I knew that unknown meant it was the doctor's office, so I closed the door and picked up. This is Dr. Weinfeld. And I knew. She didn't have to say anything else.

Her voice said it all. I'm calling with the results of your pregnancy test. Even though my stomach was in my toes, I noted the sensitivity in her choice of using the word, your. I'm so sorry, but the test came back negative. I have no idea what she said after that. I called Rob, and then I called Kathy.

Kathy started bawling, and I consoled her. My loss, her tears, my sympathy. It's okay. I know you did everything you could. It wasn't meant to be. We can try again, I said. But really what I was saying was, are you kidding me? We can't even get somebody else [00:27:00] pregnant? But I was wearing the necklace. I don't know if I can do this again.

I was so tired. Tired of the shots and the doctors, and of mustering hope and feeling like a crashing failure. We'd already come to terms with the fact that I wasn't going to carry and give birth to our child. Was it really that important that our baby be ours biologically? But if all this failure was due to me, was it fair to Rob not to keep trying?

I decided to broach the subject carefully and gently. Putting together an exhaustive list of the benefits of moving to adoption. Sweetie, I'm tired, I began. I know you're tired. It's 8 o'clock and we're in bed. No, I'm tired, I tried again. I'm tired of all of it. I'm tired of trying so hard. I'm tired of feeling so bad.

I think we should start considering adoption. I've been thinking Yes, I think so too, he said. Before I can even get to the first item on my 12 point list. But wait, I have a list, I said. Don't you want to hear the list? I would love nothing more than to hear your list, Rob [00:28:00] smiled. But Dr. Weinfeld did say a younger carrier might work.

I stared at the ceiling. There was something strangely seductive about fertility treatments, each time offering the possibility of magic. I thought about our neighbor's secretary who tried for six years and got pregnant on IVF. I worried we'd regret it if we quit. What if we pursued both paths simultaneously and gave ourselves up to fate?

I sat up in bed and turned to Rob. What if we do both? I love that, he said. Can we go to sleep now? Already halfway there. One way or another, I could now be certain that I would be a mother by age 35. It was five years later than I originally planned. But it was within sight. With that, I dove in. For years, we'd been at the mercy of doctors and medications and strangers in whom we'd had to invest so much, literally and figuratively.

So little of it was in our control. But with the decision to adopt, it felt like we were taking things back into our own hands. [00:29:00] I liked plans. And I liked plans I could control even more. So I began researching adoption agencies. We both felt a strong pull to international over domestic adoption, and we started to fall in love with the idea of raising a multicultural family.

After all, Rob and I ourselves were a bit of a multicultural mix, and that formula had worked out pretty well for us thus far. I made a detailed spreadsheet with every variable about the way things worked in each country, evaluating things like how old the babies typically were when the adoptions were finalized, length of the process from start to finish, whether the babies were in orphanages or foster care.

We went to information nights, where we sipped soda from plastic cups and ate sugar cookies while we walked around the room studying posters of children born in different parts of the world. We crossed one country off the list because I read an article that said there was a higher incidence of fetal alcohol syndrome there.

We nixed another because the wait time for a baby was two years. The illusion that we had some control here was [00:30:00] powerful. Never mind the fact that we were preparing to intertwine ourselves for eternity with someone born in another part of the world to a woman we were unlikely ever to meet. We felt, at last, like we were in charge.

Soon Guatemala emerged as the place with the most pluses and the fewest minuses in our country's scorecard, and that path started beckoning to us. We were running on parallel tracks now, newly energized by what we no longer thought of as baby making, but as family building. I even began parking in the expectant mother parking space at the mall, hoping someone would have the gall to challenge my rightful claim to that status.

In just a few weeks, the lawyer had a new gestational carrier candidate for us. Her name was Melissa, and she was 22. Young, fertile, and geographically proximate. She seemed perfect. The next Sunday morning, Rob and I met Melissa and her husband for breakfast at a rest stop off the highway. How long did it take you to get here, we asked, trying to ease into the conversation.

But she had little time for [00:31:00] niceties. I love kids, she told us over waffles and oatmeal, and I love being pregnant, but I have two kids and I don't want any more. She told us about her daughters and about the daycare she ran out of her home. She talked about her goal to move to a new house where each of her daughters could have her own room and her five year plan to go back to school and expand her business.

We sat and listened to her and wondered how it was possible that she seemed so much older than us. Melissa was a tougher negotiator than Kathy had been. She wanted lost wages for the days she'd be at medical appointments, a fund for maternity clothes, and travel reimbursement on top of the significant sum she'd get for conceiving and carrying to term.

So we borrowed some money from my father and began preparing my body for egg retrieval yet again. Meanwhile, we were working on the requirements to begin the adoption process. There were birth certificates to be found, financial records to retrieve, employment histories to verify. Most intimidating was the personal information paperwork we needed to complete.

One night, Rob and I got a bottle of wine. Ordered Chinese food and dug in. Please share [00:32:00] why you wish to adopt a child, the first question read. Should we mention the unsuccessful fertility treatments? I asked Rob. What if they think we're looking at adoption as the booby prize? Maybe we should say we both dreamed of adopting from the time we were kids ourselves.

It felt like a test, and I was afraid we were going to fail. How about we say we're eager to extend the love and respect we have for each other to a child whom we'll welcome into our home with all the joy every baby deserves, Rob offered. Yes, I said, leaning awkwardly across the table to kiss him. The next set of questions asked about the child we wanted to adopt, age, gender, and then what medical conditions we'd be, quote, open to.

There were check off boxes next to a dozen debilities we'd heard of and a few we hadn't. HIV, blindness, deafness. The list went on and on. We looked at each other. I didn't want to answer first. What if we didn't see eye to eye? Would Rob think less of me when I told him I didn't want to accept any of these conditions?

After a minute Rob started. I'm fine with any of these truly. I've always thought I'd be good with a special needs child. I think those kids [00:33:00] are somehow closer to God. Oh shit. I didn't even think Rob believed in God and now I had to confess that he was a better person than I was. I took a gulp of wine. I don't know.

I just don't think I want that. I studied the chicken and broccoli on my plate for a minute before looking up. Is that horrible? Maybe you're right, he said, taking a bite of mushu. I'd like to be that good of a person, but it would probably be overwhelming. What's the next question? We had to describe ourselves and describe each other and write about our marriage.

It was like a college application on steroids. We had to have a home study where a social worker came to see where we lived. Our house has never been more pristine than it was the day of that home study. God forbid our counter was too cluttered or our wine rack too full for the social worker to think we were worthy parent material.

We were spending so much time playing the perfect parents to be. We needed the social worker to approve us. We needed Melissa to believe in us. We were trying to prove ourselves over and over again in every realm. Was it really possible that some people just had sex and got to be parents as a bonus? On the outside, we looked like people who were busy with work and exercise and family and friends.

You [00:34:00] We did our jobs well and went to the gym and had dinner parties and saw movies. But what we really were doing was waiting. Waiting for the egg retrieval and for the embryos to grow. Waiting to be matched with a baby in Guatemala. Then, after two months of waiting, it came time for our embryos to be transferred to Melissa.

After two more weeks of waiting, I got a call from an unknown caller while at work. Hi, this is Patty calling from Dr. Weinfeld's office. I'm calling to let you know that your pregnancy test came back positive. I was sure I had misheard. This embryo transfer was our 25th trying to make a baby medical procedure, and this was our first piece of good news.

My heart started pounding and I became a bit disoriented. I asked her to repeat what she'd said. Your test came back positive. We'll need you and Melissa to come in for an appointment in a few weeks. I'd been imagining this call for years, and yet I couldn't fully comprehend what she was saying. So you're telling me Melissa is pregnant?

I quietly asked. That's right, congratulations, my new favorite person in the world replied. I left work immediately [00:35:00] and drove to Baby Gap where I intended to exercise every bit of self restraint to buy just one item of clothing. For years, I averted my gaze every time I walked by the store in the mall next to my office.

Now I proudly walked in and bought the cutest thing I could find, a teeny tiny pair of denim baby overalls. I got home before Rob and sat on our front stoop waiting for him. I wanted to deliver the news in person, so I forced myself not to call him. And I knew I shouldn't tell anyone else before I told Rob, so I stopped myself from calling anybody other than my mother, my father, and Rachel, telling myself they didn't really count as anyone else.

Rob pulled up about 30 minutes later, surprised that I was home before he was. He got out of the car quickly. I stood up, took his hand, and let him inside. I smiled and handed him the overalls, which I'd wrapped in tissue paper. He slowly removed the paper looking at me quizzically and held them up in front of him.

Eyebrows raised, he held my gaze as I broke into a huge smile. Does this mean, wait, did you hear from Melissa? And then, somewhat reminiscent of a cheesy Hallmark movie, I started laughing as the tears streamed [00:36:00] down my face. He joined me and we embraced for what felt like the next three hours. But then the spell was broken.

We should probably call the social worker in the morning, I said, quietly. He didn't respond. Here we were, five years after the night I threw away my diaphragm in Israel, getting the news we'd been dreaming of ever since. But our dream had grown. We were trying to wrap our heads around Melissa's pregnancy, euphoric and giddy and scared to believe it was true.

But there was something else tugging at us. It wasn't just that we'd come to terms with adopting, we'd become committed to it. We felt so powerfully connected to the parentless children in Guatemala whose pictures we'd seen, because we felt like we were childless parents. We now had a biological child on the way, but that didn't erase the pull we felt to adopt.

We probably don't need to call her just yet, Rob said. No, let's not call her, I agreed. We'd always known we wanted more than one child. Why not keep the ball in motion on the adoption front? If things had gone according to plan, we'd have at least two kids by then anyway. We felt perfectly prepared to go from no [00:37:00] kids to a full house as soon as possible.

A few weeks later, we met Melissa at the fertility clinic for our first ultrasound. She looked exactly the same as she did the last time we saw her. I was expecting a glow, a beam that went directly from her stomach to my heart. But there she was, wearing her sweatpants and earbuds, looking utterly ordinary, despite the treasure she was carrying in her belly.

The technician came into the waiting room and called Melissa's name. Melissa, Rob, and I all stood up, but Melissa quickly pulled me aside. I'd be more comfortable if Rob waited outside of the room, she said. I hated that idea, but what was I gonna say? It was all of our pregnancy, but it was Melissa's feet that would be in the stirrups.

So I told Rob what Melissa said, he sat back down, and Melissa and I walked into the exam room as though the two of us were the parents to be. Melissa undressed and lay on the table. I held her hand as the technician squirted jelly on her belly and began rubbing the probe over her abdomen. Melissa and I stared at the screen in front of us.

She was somewhat of a pro, but I was trying to make sense of the black waves and white blobs. The technician was [00:38:00] eerily quiet. It seemed like it was taking forever to find exactly whatever it was she was looking for. I'm going to need to get the doctor, she said. I'll be back in just a minute. Melissa and I didn't talk to each other while we waited for the doctor.

I was thinking about Rob out in the waiting room, wishing it was his hand I was holding. A few minutes and a lifetime later, the technician returned with the doctor, who introduced herself. I'm just going to take a look here, she said. I'm so sorry, ladies. It looks like the fetal pole measurement isn't where we'd like it to be.

She rubbed the probe around some more and added, We're not seeing a heartbeat. I might have been able to trick myself into thinking a fetal pole didn't really matter since I'd never heard the term before, but I knew full well that no heartbeat probably meant no more pregnancy. We can't be 100 percent sure at this point, but most likely what we're seeing here is a non viable pregnancy.

Why don't you get dressed and we can talk in my office? I hurried out of the room and back to Rob, whose face fell when he saw mine. I explained what had happened, what hadn't. We joined Melissa in the doctor's office and learned about non viable [00:39:00] pregnancies. Most likely, Melissa would need a DNC to clean out her uterus, and then, after a bit of time had passed, and if we were all up for it, we could try again.

That was it. We returned a week later to confirm that the pregnancy was done, but we knew after that day in the exam room that we were done, too. Strangely, the devastation this time didn't hit as hard as it had earlier on in the process. It wasn't only that we'd become used to the failure and the bad news, it was also that we knew there were children somewhere in another part of the world who were waiting for us.

We'd had enough of the doctor's appointments and the shots and the rollercoaster of hope and disappointment. We knew our babies would be born in Guatemala. 

I'd love to know what you think of this episode. You can email me through my website at Jessicafeinstories.com, or connect with me on Instagram or Facebook.

Let me know what you think and tell me if you'd like to hear more of these personal essays. Also, you are probably thinking [00:40:00] about holiday gifts right now and Breath Taking would be a great gift to give to somebody or some buddies in your life. You can get it wherever you love to get your books. It's available in print, in audio, in ebook.

And finally, if you know somebody that might get something out of this episode, take a second to share it with them. Thank you so much for listening. I know how many choices are out there, and I do not take it for granted that you are spending your time listening to the show. I hope you have a great day, and I will talk to you next time.