Hunger

I hunger for another journey. Another life to hold for a brief time. Another year to feel the wonder of a child growing strong. Another chance to watch the face of hope change into the face of joy and dreams fulfilled.
I question this hunger. I wonder why I feel this need to bear another woman's child. I wonder why it brings me such reward. I wonder why I want to spend my time, my strength, my resources and ask the support of my family yet again.
And then I think of the twins. I think of Isabella. I look at their families. I see faces wih big smiles. I see FAMILIES. I see love.
I know that each human being is put on this earth to lift up, help, and love everybody else. I know that the greatest joy i have i this life is in my children and in my role as their mother These are two of the very few things I know with certainty.
I know that through surrogacy, I fulfill my mission on earth and do what I am meant to do.
Why do I question this hunger?
I don't know.
Maybe it is my purpose here. Maybe it is the way I am meant to be fed in this life.
Either way, I am hungry.

I am just a vehicle

After two surrogacy journeys, one would think I would have a total understanding of my role in this amazing process.  However, tonight, as I looked at a picture of my newest surrobaby, I had a small revelation.
A few weeks ago, I visited my surrotwins.  I am a stranger to them.  Today, I looked at Isabella.  She would not know me from a stranger.  When I was pregnant with the twins, I had this idea that my surrobabies would always hold some kind of subconscious memory of me, that they would always know me.  But I was wrong. 
Today, as I looked at this precious child playing on a blanket, I realize that I played a very specific role in all of their lives, and although I am so very blessed to be able to keep in touch with them as a friend( and I love and appreciate their families beyond words for this), the role as their surrogate mother ended, and I realize exactly what my role was- I was just a vehicle.
Imagine if you will: 
You are at your home in Texas.  You receive a phone call, and find out that your mother in California  is very ill.  You have to go to her- now.  You go to the airport.  You see that there are several planes getting ready to fly to California- but they are all full.  You stop at each check-in counter to see if anyone will take you.  You explain the dire need of getting to your mom today.  Everyone says "no."  Finally, one airplane makes room for you.  That airplane takes you to California- right to your mother's door.  You are safe and sound, with your mother.
How grateful are you for that airplane?  That airplane just took you home.  That airplane just bridged a gap that was unreachable without it.  In that moment, the airplane was your salvation, the only hope you had of reaching home.  But, a month later, it is just an airplane. 
My point:  I am just a vehicle. I am a means to an end.  People always wonder why surrogates can "give up" the babies they carry.  This is the answer.  When I carry my children, I am their home, and after that, I am still their home and they are mine.  When I carry another woman's child, I am just a vehicle.  I am just taking them where they need to be because the plane they were intended to come in on is broken down. 
I am just a vehicle.  And not just any run of the mill economy size sedan either.  I am a top of the line, luxury  model SUV ( I would have liked to be a sports car, but all my passengers wouldn't fit ;)  
And if you think I am demeaning surrogacy or myself, just ask yourself- what would you do without that vehicle?

What a difficult post to write

This post is so hard to write. My eyes fill with tears as I write it. And it is such a silly thing. The moment I write this post, I move on from my journey to bring Isabella here. The moment I post this entry, she moves down the list. The moment I move on, the amazing and beautiful adventure of bringing her here falls into the realm of the surreal, the past, the completed.
Life has gone back to normal. I find joy in my children, in my husband, in my family, and in my home. I can run again. I can bend again. I can lay down with my son on his bed and be able to get back up. I can curl up and snuggle in my husband's lap.

Some days, I don't even think of Isabella. Some days, it seems like a distant dream. Some days though, it is so real I can't believe it's really over.
Some days, someone at work asks me how my baby is.
Some days, someone asks me if I'm pregnant.
Some days, someone asks if I ever see her.
Some days, I realize that three short months ago I delivered a baby.
I am grateful for my life. For my children. My husband. This world that I have worked so hard to build. This is my happiness and my joy. This is the life I always wanted. The life that I have fought for. The life that I thank God for every day.

This is what we all deserve- to live the life we want.

Whenever I say I wish I had made a better choice, or I could have done something differently in my life, my husband tells me that he doesn't. He reminds me that every choice, every happiness, every sorrow, led me to him. And I know this is true. Without every choice I have made, I would never have found him. And I know that with him is where I am meant to be.
Whenever I question the choices that led me to becoming a mother at eighteen, I remind myself that each of my children came from that choice. And I know that with them is where I am meant to be.
When I think about being a surrogate, I feel the same way. It is what I am meant to be. It is in my life plan. Just as I am a wife. Just as I am a mother. I am a surrogate. And no matter what comes in my future, it will still be a part of my soul.

It is the life I want to live.

Our journey: From beginning to end (in video)

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Our birth story- As told by me, the surrogate

I will forewarn you that this is only my perspective on the event.  And while I can tell you better than anyone else the physical aspects of Isabella's arrival, I did not have a good vantage point of the emotions of everyone else involved.  I will tell you this story to the best of my ability, however, please realize that there will be times I stop to cry, times I stop to think, and times I stop to try to remember what exactly happened.  This journey for me will end just as soon as I finish writing this, so realize how costly it is for me to write. 

Last Tuesday, at the end of another uneventful prenatal appointment, my IPs (Isabella's parents) bore a look of desperation and anxiety on their faces.  My doctor and I looked at them, he had pity and offered Friday as an induction date, and I, as opposed to inducing as I had been, looked at their faces and agreed.  I could not stand to see them waiting any longer, and, as a wise friend said, this is their pregnancy and their child, and what I do is for them.  So we set the date, and amidst tears, Isabella's parents and abuelita drove home, yet again, with an empty car seat.

Our last pic 39 weeks

On Friday morning, I woke up and got ready for my short hospital stay.  My husband kissed me as he headed off to work, and I read the "good luck mommy" message from my daughter (and here you will notice I am already tearing up).  I sent her back an "I love you baby" message, and swallowed the fear that comes with the inherent risk of delivering a child and the momentary bit of anxiety at the thought of not being here for my children ever again. 
I picked up my mom (how could she miss my fifth delivery?), and headed to the hospital. 
We arrived just late enough that we missed my doctor's 7:00 am visit, but we settled in and started monitoring the baby and learned that we had dilated to a 3 all on our own.

By 8:00 am my doctor had come back to tell me I was late ;)  We started the pitocin and  he broke my water.  That was fun.  Needless to say, I lost my socks in the flood.  This was the part of the day where I was still in a good mood, talking and joking with my mom and Isabella's mom and abuela (her father only stuck his head in the room periodically- he apparently does not do well with blood, gore, or pain).

By 10:00, we were dilated between a 6 and a 7.  My doctor told me he would be back at noon and he wanted me delivering then (he said this jokingly, but he was serious).  I told him that was my plan as well.  Just as a sidenote:  My doctor knows how quickly I deliver babies and that I have a rockstar uterus.  My husband arrived somewhere around here.

For the next hour, I tried to get as comfortable as I could with two tentacle-like cords (one to monitor contractions and one to monitor baby's heart rate) hanging from me, an IV in my left hand making it completely useless, and a blood pressure cuff that cut circulation off of my right hand every too-many minutes.  This was the part of the day where I was cranky, hurting, and mean.  I held my husband's hand.  I was, for the first time in my life, reaching for my husband to comfort me instead of my mother.  This was my ray of happiness through the dark clouds of my misery.

By 11:00, I was in PAIN.  Every contraction felt like death, and I knew there was no way I was going to survive this level of pain until 12:00.   In the meantime, I heard crying.  My IM was in tears.  She was crying because I was suffering for her- because this should have been her pain.  Had I not been in excrutiating pain, I would have told her that it would be fine, that this was my part, that it was okay (I would have been lying, but I would have said it anyway.  I figure there has to be one upside to not being able to carry your own child). 

When I told my mom, "something is coming out," I do remember looking up out of my pain induced fog to see my IM RUNNING out of the room.  It would have been funny, had I not been in agony. 

The nurse came in and said, "we are complete" (meaning dilated to a 10 and completely effaced- "complete" meaning it is time to push) just as I started pushing.  Um... okay, so the agony had actually been the baby dropping from my ribs all the way down to the exit.  Of course it felt like death!

There was no time to wait for the doctor, seeing as how my body decided it was pushing right away.  I remember the nurses throwing down the groundcovers, leg covers, and making a spectacle.  I just remember thinking, "it will end soon".  I started pushing, well, my body started pushing and I was going to help it along.  I remember the nurse counting with me and I realized that my doctor hadn't quite gotten the message in time.  Two pushes in, I heard my doctor's voice.  He counted with me through the next few pushes.  Then, he told me to stop.  Hahahaha, no.  A few more pushes, and I felt her come out.  I looked up to see her mother standing beside me, Isabella in the doctor's arms, and the pain disappear. 

At that point, I left my isolated world of delivery and let the rest of the room back into focus.  The doctor cut the cord, wrapped Isabella in a blanket, and placed her in her mother's arms.  I looked to my left and my husband kissed my head and said, "good job."  He went to get Isabella's father to come in.  I looked to my right, and I saw a family circled around their newborn daughter.  Her mother turned and brought her over to me.  She held her beside me and I was able to touch her round, chubby cheek.  She was perfect. 

They took her over to the scale and my precious surrobaby weighed in at a whopping 9.8 pounds!  No wonder it hurt so badly to get her out.

Isabella was born at 11:26 am.  Start to finish:  3 hours, 26 minutes.  No pain meds, no tearing, no surgery.  I am amazed and grateful.

We all stayed in the room for a while longer.  I got to touch her gooey black curls, rub her skin under my fingers, hold her long baby fingers in my hand, and feel her warmth.  More importantly, I got to close my eyes and listen as her parents cooed to her, spoke to her softly in Spanish, and cried tears of joy. 

I had kept my promise to her mother- there were only "happy tears."

Later, I learned that they called my doctor to come to the hospital just as I started pushing.  A moment later they called and told him to run.  He did.  And he made it in the nick of time.

Later, I learned that Isabella's father had walked all the way down the hallway because he heard her me yelling, "get her out of me!" and it had scared him.

Later, I learned that the reason the doctor told me to stop pushing was because the cord had wrapped around her neck.

Later, I learned that her mother cried the entire time I was pushing.

Isabella and I both left the hospital the next day.  In the interim, I was able to hold her, to watch my children gaze upon her, to let my daughter rock her, to watch my husband coo to her.  I was able to look at her ten long toes, to run my fingers through her perfect black mohawk, and to watch her parents change her and feed her together because neither one wanted to let her go.  I was able to watch her parents become parents.  I was able to see their hope become their reality.   

Before I left, I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her. 

Before I left, I embraced her parents and told them I would not cry.

Before I left, I did not cry.

Saturday afternoon, when I was home, I received a text message.  It was from Isabella's mother.  It read something like this:  "I left the hospital today in a wheelchair.  This time, with a living child in my arms."
My IM drove home with an occupied car seat.

I cried.

And now, I try to look back on the last few days.  I know I have left out important things.  I know that my memory of events is cloudy and incorrect.  But I know that what happened was a miracle and that my role in this child's life was meant to be. 

I look back over the last year I have known Isabella's family.  We set a goal.  We would replace the sorrow of my IPs losing their first born child with a living child.  We would replace the tears of grief with happy tears.  These were our goals.

My IPs have a living child.

My IPs have only happy tears.

My mission is accomplished.

My goal is reached.

My journey has ended.

But Isabella and her family are just beginning theirs...

The Day After

Yesterday, at 8:00 am, we induced labor with Isabella.  At 11:26am, she was born into the arms of my doctor who had run in the door just in time.  Her mother and grandmother watched her arrival, and stood by my side as the doctor cut the cord and wiped her face.  She was placed into the arms of her mother as her father came in the room.  There were mere moments between her exit from the warmth of my womb until her placement into the loving arms of her mother.  I watched her mother and father hold her, somehow together, as the tears flowed down their cheeks.  My heart almost burst with the beauty I had been priveleged to see.  Isabella, their living miracle, is nine pounds, eight ounces of perfect, chubby, pink baby.  She is the answer  to prayer.  She is the doorway to happiness.  She is beautiful and has the awesomest black mohawk I have ever seen ;) 
I held her today, and told her I loved her, and kissed her forehead.  I left her where she belongs, and came home to my children where I belong. 

I am overwrought with emotion today.  My hormones are changing, my uterus is cramping, and my organs are trying to figure out where they should be.  I feel good.  I am waiting for the milk to come in so I can enjoy a few days of smelling like cabbage and stuffing my bra with frozen peas (it is totally fun).

I am as happy as can be.  Isabella is perfect.  She is in the arms of her family

I am home with my family.  Isabella is with her family.  My heart is full of love.  My mind is full of peace.  A living miracle has arrived on the earth- what greater cause to rejoice could there be?

Tomorrow

Isabella will be born tomorrow. The only word that comes to mind is:  bittersweet. 

Sweet because my goal to bring her parents' dream to reality will be reached.  Sweet because her parents will hold their living miracle in her arms.  Sweet because I will have fulfilled my promise to her mother that she will only cry "happy tears" from now on.  Sweet because her big sister will be watching down from Heaven and know her parents are finally happy.  Sweet because I will get to see the beauty of a family grow.

Bitter because my part in this journey is over.  Bitter because I have fallen in love with this child and her family.  Bitter because I love, love, love surrogacy and it is ending.

Tomorrow is the day.  I will smile, and I will be brave.  I will complete this journey with a heart full of love, the same way I began it.