You’ll be fine.
I heard a voice and felt a firm hand on my back. I trudged steadily, that hand guiding me around the corner, into the waiting room, and to the machines. I retrieved the Lifesavers and found my way to my room, grateful that my companion was right by my side. Back in my room, I turned to thank the nurse and then realized no one was there. Had someone been with me?
You didn’t do that alone.
Eleven years later, I lay in a hospital bed twenty-four hours after the birth of Mary Kate. My red blood cell count was dangerously low, and I’d had a terrible reaction to magnesium sulfate, the only medication that was controlling my alarmingly high blood pressure. Yet I felt that there was someone holding me safely as my bed seemed to spin around the room. He rubbed my head when a fierce headache stabbed me right between my eyes. I could see Him.
I was there.
I’ve realized that during each of these experiences I was in an altered state, and I used to wonder if maybe I needed to be in that state to open my senses to His presence. Either way, now I no longer doubted that He was with me. Why I couldn’t always see God’s presence was a question I couldn’t answer. Was He trying to show me that He is always there, always close at hand, but that He only reveals Himself when I’m at my most vulnerable?
I didn’t know the answer to that question until last February, when I saw Him the third time. That afternoon, as I lay in bed waiting for the results of my pregnancy test, God revealed Himself to me again. I was sick and weak with a fever and chills, and I’d drifted off to sleep with my phones on my pillow, waiting for the clinic to confirm that I was pregnant. As I dozed off, I felt Him near, but I was confused.
“Why are you here?” I asked. “I’m not sick like the other times.”
There was no answer.
“I don’t need you. I am okay with however this goes. Why are you here?”
Nothing but silence.
I woke knowing something wasn’t right. Then I heard Sean coming up the stairs to our bedroom, the door opened, and our journey began.
There were countless times during my pregnancy when I felt abandoned. I wanted to be sheltered and cared for. Despite my weaknesses and doubts, God was there. Now I realize that He revealed Himself to me in that moment because He knew I was headed for a potential spiritual disaster. If I didn’t maintain my faith, I would lose myself in sorrow. Even though I couldn’t always see Him or feel Him, He walked my path with me. The night we learned of the mistake, I couldn’t imagine surviving this heartbreak and coming out the other side okay. On that day, when it all began, He was reminding me not to lose faith.
He guided me to do the right thing. But now I needed God more than ever as I struggled to let Logan go.
Shannon had sent me a birth announcement for Logan at the same time and in the same way that she had announced him to her extended family and distant friends. This was what stabbed at my soul. I was now a bystander in his life.
When I got back downstairs, I looked at the picture of Logan in the birth announcement. He wore the outfit I had tucked into the treasure chest for him. His feet were perfect, and his fingers were long. He was too young to smile, but he was surrounded by the happy faces of his family. This was an announcement that my job was done. I had to let Logan go and try to find a way to feel good about that. I saw Logan in this beautiful picture. He was healthy, well cared for, and clearly adored by his parents. Who was to say I could love him any better than they did?
I had to accept the reality of this situation. This was things as they were, and I could not hope for more. Carefully I cut the picture from the birth announcement and placed it in the frame I’d bought.
God, I feel you now. I feel your eyes on me. I have done your will. Please be merciful and grant me peace.
SEAN
No strings attached. That was our approach to giving Logan to Paul and Shannon. I believe that a gift with conditions is not a gift at all. Throughout the pregnancy, we consistently communicated to Paul and Shannon that we would defer to them on deciding when we could see Logan. That just made sense to us. I couldn’t picture calling the Morells and announcing, “I will be at your home next Saturday to spend time with your son.” We waited to be invited when they felt it was right. Carolyn and I believed it was the proper approach. Paul and Shannon needed to determine what was best for their family. There was no road map for either of us, so Carolyn and I challenged ourselves to find compassion for Paul and Shannon in their struggle to find the best way to handle this moving forward.
On my first day back at work after the birth, my assistant Laura wanted to know when I thought I would see Logan again.
“I don’t know,” I said. “We’re happy to see him whenever they will let us. We need to leave it up to them.”
“I’m sure you’ll see him soon,” said Laura brightly.
Little did I know that many people would ask that same question.
Nearly every client I met with wanted to know, and so did everyone I bumped into at the office kitchen. Before Logan was born, people often asked if we would really want to see the baby once we had handed him over to the other family. I understood that they wanted to protect us and believed that seeing him would be a painful reminder of our loss. I think what other people really wanted to ask was, “Don’t you want to forget this ever happened?” How could we pretend this did not happen? Why would we really want to do that? A beautiful child was involved, and this had been a life-changing process.
As the days turned to weeks and then to months without seeing Logan, I often looked at the photograph of our time with him in the hospital. Carolyn had placed it in a silver frame in our living room. We are all frozen in that moment when Carolyn, myself, Drew, Ryan, and Mary Kate bonded with Logan. Relaxed, happy, and excited were the emotions running through me in that picture. The “family” picture taken during that visit will be the only one of its kind. Logan will grow and change, but our most powerful image will be the baby we held in our hands on September 25, 2009.
I envisioned ten years down the road, driving to a ball field and parking my car in a spot where I could watch Logan play from a distance. Maybe I would catch him smiling, or interacting with his friends, or walking away from the game with his parents describing a play he’d made, or crying about a tough loss. The other image I have is of Carolyn and me sneaking into a church on Logan’s wedding day to watch with pride as he gets married. I see us doing these things in a manner that draws no attention to us but honors our love for him. Seeing him in person participating in his life would be a thrill. There would be satisfaction in those moments, a satisfaction that Carolyn and I would share and treasure.
I hoped that time and reflection would give me perspective on this. Carolyn and I had no idea how our relationship with Logan would unfold or how it was supposed to unfold. I drew inspiration from a picture I once saw of Mother Teresa in an orphanage in which she has her arms stretched to welcome the children. I was confident that Carolyn and I would always be ready, with our arms open, to welcome Logan at any time we were blessed with a visit.
I have one other vision I treasure that comes to me when I think of Logan’s future and our relationship with him. I have imagined a day eighteen years from now when we hear a knock on the door. We answer, and a handsome young man stands in front of us and simply says, “Thank you for giving me life.” If he grows up with gratitude in his heart, we could ask for nothing more. Godspeed, Logan.
CAROLYN
By the time Thanksgiving rolled around and we still had no firm plans to see Logan, Sean started joking about showing up at the Morells’ house with a turkey. Needless to say, I didn’t think this was such good idea. As Christmas neared, I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever see him. Shortly before Christmas, we finally set a date. The Morells would bring their whole family to visit on December 29, just about three months after he was born.
It was a sunny day, and the landscape of northwest Ohio was blanketed with snow. I ran around mak
ing sure everything was perfect. I cleaned the playroom, dusted off some of MK’s old baby toys, and straightened our tired and very dry Christmas tree.
As I rearranged ornaments that had fallen from the brittle branches, I came across the impression of Logan’s foot that our nurse had made for us in the delivery room and moved it to a more prominent place on the tree. I wondered how big his feet were now.
The Morells were supposed to arrive at 3:00 P.M., but they were running a little late. It was nerve-racking for Sean and me to wait for Logan’s arrival. By 3:15, Sean was peering out our bedroom window with the excitement of a child awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus. Three-thirty came and went, and then 3:45 and 4:00.
At 4:00 Sean decided to change his luck and went downstairs to look out different windows. Soon he was pacing the family room, worrying that they’d been in a car accident or had decided not to come. I was perched on the couch in the living room, staring out the window for the first sign of Shannon’s van. We couldn’t even be in the same room. Like Sean, I was nervous to see my Little Man. I was afraid of falling apart. You won’t do that. I was frightened that he wouldn’t come to me. He’s not old enough to have a fear of strangers. I was petrified that the Morells wouldn’t show. They’d never do that. I knew they were getting closer. Could I feel him?
“They’re here! They’re here!” Sean yelled and sprinted to my side.
I saw Shannon’s car come around the curve of our road and creep down our street until they made the turn into our driveway.
“You okay?” Sean said.
“I’m fine. I’ll be cool. No worries,” I said.
When I opened the door, I saw Paul holding the most beautiful baby boy, bundled head to toe under a blanket in his car seat. Paul came in and placed the carrier on the kitchen counter as Shannon guided the twins into our home. Paul uncovered Logan and pulled his hat off. My Little Man had huge chunky cheeks, a belly that looked well fed, and the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen on a baby.
His eyes are crystal clear blue!
I had an answer.
I didn’t want to look too desperate. I understood that this couldn’t be comfortable for Paul and Shannon. I followed Shannon into the family room, and we all sat down while Paul remained behind to change Logan’s diaper. We made chitchat about the drive, until Paul walked in holding Logan. He came right to me with his son. I stood up and reached out, and without any hesitation, Paul placed Logan right into my arms.
If I could have stopped time, I would have. I wrapped my arms around Logan’s chubby little body and instinctively pulled him to my chest. I imagined a puzzle piece snapping into place in that moment. As though the rest of my lungs had just been inflated. His head instinctively tucked in under my chin, and I lowered my face and kissed him gently on his head.
“Hi, sweetie,” I said. I caught Sean’s eye. He was watching me carefully, but with love and pride. Later he said I looked as though I was trying to download every feature of Logan’s face to update my brain files. I smiled back. We were reading one another’s minds.
Sean and I handed him off to one another, politely fighting over who was getting a fair “turn” at snuggling with the baby. The twins played with MK. Drew and Ryan both took turns doting over Logan. At one moment, Mary Kate walked by, smiled at Logan, and murmured “baby”—a far different response than she’d had in September. We’d all grown a little.
At one point, Logan needed a new diaper, and I offered to change him. I took him back to the changing table in our laundry room, and Sean followed me as if he was coming to help. I laid Logan down, and he looked up and smiled and cooed.
“What a happy child.”
“You want to make a run for it?” Sean quipped.
I laughed, shook my head, picked Logan up, and walked back into the family room and handed him to Shannon for his bottle.
As she fed him, I watched. She was fastidious with him. The burp cloth was tucked under his chin to prevent formula dribble, which I knew would make my mom happy. He was clearly adored by his mommy and daddy, and he was dressed to the nines in a pair of brown corduroy overalls and matching socks, which I loved. When I noticed his feet, I looked to his footprint that hung on our tree.
He is growing.
Shannon cuddled him to her while he ate, and then he settled in on her shoulder for a snooze.
He fits with her. He belongs to her.
Before I knew it, it was approaching nine o’clock, time for them to go. We all said our good-byes, and Sean and I thanked them again and again for bringing Logan for this visit. I watched Paul strap Logan into his car seat. Once again, he placed Logan on the counter. He asked me to watch Logan while they loaded the twins into the car. I stuck my face in the seat and got nose to nose with my Little Man.
“Bye-bye, sweetie. Mama loves you. Don’t ever forget that. Know that in your heart, Little Man.” I kissed him gently on the forehead.
Paul came back in to carry Logan to the car. As I watched them pull out of the driveway and off into the darkness, I surprised myself. I wasn’t overcome with grief. I felt more of a relief from the emptiness in my heart.
I lay in bed that night with a feeling of gratitude that I hadn’t felt before. Not only was I grateful to Paul and Shannon for allowing us a visit, but I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the insights that the visit had allowed.
I saw what we had done. Paul and Shannon loved their son. He was healthy and happy. Their lives were better because of Logan. He was a gift that they obviously treasured. I understood that now.
I was also overwhelmed with a sense of comprehension. I got it now.
Your job was to give this gift. Now your role is to stand back and watch Logan grow from afar.
All of the grief, pain, and tears were worth it because of this child. And even though we may never be part of his life, he will always be part of ours. The pain of his loss may never leave us, but it will eventually be conquered by love.
Sean and I will walk on, searching for answers that we may never have. We will overturn stones and move mountains to channel our grief in a more productive direction, and the strength to do this will come from love—the love we have for one another, and the love we have for our children. All four of them.
I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer to Logan.
Your birth was a blessing. Your life is a gift. And your mama and daddy love you very, very much. I’ve seen it with my own eyes and felt it with my own heart, so I know it is true. Sleep tight, Little One. Godspeed.
EPILOGUE
A Letter to Logan
September 24, 2010
Dear Logan,
It’s hard to imagine that this time last year I was in the operating room, waiting eagerly for you to take your first breath. The moment you were born was one of the most joyous of my life. I will never forget how happy I was when I heard your first cry, and how relieved I was when Sean held your sweet face to mine and the nurse told me that you were perfectly healthy. It was in that moment that I knew you would never leave my heart. And you haven’t.
It amazes me how often I think of you. In the first moments of my day, when I’m reviewing my “to-do” list, you creep in to my thoughts. I say a prayer for you then, hoping that the day brings you peace, happiness and health; that your minutes are full of fun, love and adventure; and that maybe—just maybe—today will be a day that we get a message about your progress.
As I tackle the routine of my day, you are with me. Sometimes when I’m packing lunches for our boys, I wonder what you like to eat. When I’m playing with MK, I wonder who is playing with you. I imagine how happy MK would have been to have you for a little brother. You two would have had great fun together. Those moments are sad for me, but I’m getting better at turning away from them. I don’t have it mastered yet, but I hope someday the “what ifs” won’t haunt me as often.
Amazingly, you’ve helped me through some tough times this past year. In January when the transfer of our two remaining embryos
was unsuccessful and our chance to expand our family with our remaining embryos was lost, I relied on the thought of you to remind myself that some good came out of this. I know your parents and family love you very much and that they are happy that you are with them. We take solace in that.
Sean and I had a decision to make after our failed transfer. Do we try again? It was around then that we saw you for the second time, on national television. When we watched you that morning, sitting in your daddy’s lap as your mommy gushed about how much you were loved, our yearning for another child overwhelmed us. Seeing you, inspired us. I have no idea whether our new doctor, and subsequent treatments will result in a child for our family, but we are grateful that you gave us the strength to move forward.
We still struggle. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I see Sean sitting on the side of the bed staring out the window. I never ask what he is thinking. I already know. You see, night time is when we miss you the most. Sometimes, by staring up at the starry night, we comfort ourselves with the thought that that we are admiring the same sky that blankets you. Granted, the sky is vast, and you are far, far away, but it is one way that we feel connected to you. Right now, we’ll take any connection with you we can have.
Sometimes I feel guilty for thinking of you so much. I know there are people who think it would be best if I could forget about you. Maybe it would be, but I can’t. I have always understood the reason you are not being raised in our family. The hard part is that that logic has never translated to my heart. I know now I wasn’t cut out to be a gestational carrier. I just couldn’t disconnect the way I needed to. I guess that is why it is so important that women who do become surrogates carefully consider their decision. I understand now what a difficult thing this is to do.
Inconceivable Page 26