We sat in the waiting room, Keira rummaging through the bucket of odd plastic blocks, building towers on the coffee table. She’d knock them over, laughing as the blocks tumbled to the carpet. I leaned forward, straining over my belly, and scooped up the mess.
‘Keira,’ I whispered, ‘can you try to be a little less noisy?’ I glanced over at the woman sitting across from us, a magazine resting on her basketball-like belly, an eyebrow arched as she eyed my daughter.
Keira’s arms fell like dead weights by her side as she rolled her eyes. ‘When can we see Dr Brown Bear?’
‘Soon,’ I hushed, putting a fistful of blocks back into the container.
Ten minutes later, after Keira had picked up every magazine from the coffee table, smeared her grubby hands on the fish tank, squishing her nose to the glass in the search for Nemo, and filled up two plastic cups from the water dispenser, Dr Wright, aka Dr Brown Bear, entered the reception room. ‘Shannon?’
I stood up, grabbing Keira’s hand, guiding her away from the fish tank.
Dr Brown Bear glanced down at Keira, eyebrows raised in a comical mix of delight and wariness. ‘And who is this?’
‘Keira!’ she shouted, squeezing her buttocks together, back arched, belly poking out.
‘Well, hello, Keira, would you like to come with me?’
We followed Dr Wright into his office while Keira asked him questions. ‘Dr Brown Bear, do you have lollies or lollipops? What is that, Dr Brown Bear? Do you live here?’
Dr Wright sat down, chuckling, and grabbed my file, and I lifted Keira onto a seat before sitting down next to her. ‘Now, Keira, you must be quiet for a little bit so I can talk with Dr Brown Bear – I mean Dr Wright,’ I said, shaking my head before glancing up as the doctor laughed.
She squirmed on her seat, hopping off, climbing back on – her three-year-old body eager to move, wriggle and play. Dr Wright took my blood pressure and went over the glucose tolerance test results.
‘You’re all clear for gestational diabetes, which is great news, and blood pressure is spot on.’ He pushed back, rolling his chair away from the desk. ‘Now let’s have a look at the baby, see how things are travelling there.’
‘It’s a girl,’ I said, sitting on the bed before lying back and lifting my shirt. I glared at Keira as she spotted a jar of lollies on the windowsill.
‘Oh yes, I do remember seeing that on the results for your last scan. Lovely. I bet the boys are as pleased as punch.’ Dr Wright grinned, squeezing gel on my belly, rolling the transducer over the area to spread it out.
‘Ah, what’re you doing to my mummy?’ Keira said, her voice small with unease. ‘Don’t hurt my mummy.’ She stepped in between Dr Wright and the bed, resting her hand protectively on my leg.
My heart squeezed at the sight – so many sides to my little girl, she revealed them slowly. She was like me and Andrew, drawing quirks from us both. But she was her own entity, strong, independent, burning bright like the sun, giving us light and warmth. Drawn to her from the moment she lay in my arms, I was lucky enough to be her Mother Earth.
‘I won’t hurt your mummy,’ Dr Wright said comfortingly. ‘We’re going to have a look at Baby JJ in her tummy. Do you want to see?’
I rubbed Keira’s hand, her cautious gaze following Dr Wright as he took measurements and monitored the heartbeat.
‘She’s measuring about twenty-four weeks in size but you’re twenty-six, right?’
I glanced at him, slightly alarmed. ‘Yes, I’m twenty-six weeks and two days.’ I swallowed, aware of how tense my body had become. Surely Baby JJ was fine, the size not an issue – I had done everything I could to help her to thrive.
‘Okay.’ He paused. ‘That’s fine, she’s just on the smallish side. Nothing to be concerned about now, but I’ll monitor that over the coming months.’
It felt odd to be questioned on the size of a baby that grew inside me. There had never been any concern over the size of my babies, both of whom had been huge, but again I was reminded that my genes had had no input in the making of Baby JJ – I was merely the caretaker.
Worried, I needed more confirmation. ‘So everything’s okay? I can call Jon and Justin and tell them it’s fine?’
‘Of course,’ Dr Wright said, wiping the gel off my tummy with a tissue. ‘No need to be concerned, ultrasounds can be out by a week or two either side. Let’s measure your fundal height now to be sure.’
Dr Wright pressed on my upper belly, locating the top of my uterus with one hand, using a tape measure at the top of my pubic bone and lining it up over my belly button, approximating a measurement for fundal height. ‘Twenty-six centimetres, so that equates to twenty-six weeks.’
I nodded, my body relaxing, reassured by his nonchalant expression.
‘What are those?’ Keira asked the question she’d been holding onto for several minutes. She pointed to the jar of colourful individually wrapped lollies that sat on the windowsill.
‘Oh.’ Dr Wright looked to me for approval. ‘They’re lollies for good girls and boys. Has Keira been a good girl, Mummy?’
I grinned, watching my daughter do a half-curtsey. ‘Yes, I think she has.’
Every muscle in Keira’s body stiffened as she rose to her tippy-toes, clapping her hands. ‘Yay!’ she squealed, stepping next to Dr Wright, awaiting her treat, hands twiddling.
‘How about you take one home for Jaxon too? He might be sad if he finds out you got a treat and he didn’t,’ Dr Wright said, lifting the lid from the jar.
Keira held out her hand, her other hand stuck behind her back, as if to appear less greedy. ‘Thank you, Dr Brown Bear.’ She beamed up at him.
‘You’re welcome. Now, Shannon, I want you to get a full count of iron done at pathology. We did an iron blood test when you had your glucose tolerance test and you were a little low, so I want to get that all checked out.’ Dr Wright handed me the blood count referral form and I stood to leave.
‘Bye, Dr Brown Bear. Bye.’ Keira popped the unwrapped lolly into her mouth, handing me Jaxon’s lolly to put in my bag.
‘Bye, Keira. You be good for your mummy,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, Shannon. Take care of yourself, won’t you.’
I finally reached the car with Keira – it always took longer to get anywhere with her little legs. I strapped her into the booster seat as she sucked her lolly, one cheek bulging. I sat in the car, wound the windows down. Grabbing my phone from my bag, I rang Jon to tell him about my appointment and the size of Baby JJ.
‘All her stats were healthy so I don’t think there’s any cause for concern, and Dr Wright wasn’t worried,’ I said, turning to look at Keira, who grinned, pulling the lolly out of her mouth; I guessed it wasn’t the first time, as her fingers were sticky. ‘It was so nice to see her again, moving around. I’ve been feeling flutters and I could see her move and feel the corresponding kick.’
‘That’s great. I wish I could’ve seen her,’ Jon said wistfully.
I fell quiet for a moment, sad again about the distance between us. Then we said our goodbyes, me competing with my daughter to be heard as Keira yelled, ‘Bye, Jon. Bye, Jon. Bye!’
Twenty-seven weeks pregnant, I lay in bed, ready for sleep, my weary eyes scanning the last paragraph of a chapter of Jenn’s latest novel. My phone vibrated on the bedside table. I reached over and picked it up, tilting the screen. A message from Jon.
Just letting you know we stumbled upon Insight on SBS tonight and it’s all about surrogacy. You might find it interesting.
I checked the time on my phone and lay back on my pillow – should I bother watching it? Don’t do it! a voice warned in my mind. I threw off the blankets, grabbed a pair of socks from my drawer, struggling past my belly to pull them on.
‘What are you doing?’ Andrew said, glancing up from his magazine.
I regained my breath, straightening my back. ‘Insight’s on and it’s all about surrogacy.’ I ran out of the room, imagining Andrew’s elaborate eye roll.
Locating the remote, I flicked on the television. Curiosity burned inside me, crawling like fire ants under my skin. I was genuinely interested to see whether it would be a fair discussion of surrogacy. Insight was a reputable program and always presented the facts, showing both sides of any issue in a compelling manner.
As I watched the program, I cuddled a cushion over my belly as if to protect Baby JJ from the audible negativity. A Swedish journalist and author named Kajsa Ekis Ekman, who had studied surrogacy (in particular commercial surrogacy) since 2008, all around the world, declared, ‘I take a stand against all forms of surrogacy. Most of surrogacy is commercial so what we are seeing is an industry emerging which I likened very much to the prostitution industry . . . women are turned into breeders and children are bought and sold.’ Her statements sank inside me like an anchor in a dark and stormy sea. I glanced away, trying to collect my squall of thoughts.
I knew that she was talking predominantly about surrogacy in countries like Thailand and India, which, at the time permitted commercial surrogacy and where conditions and rights for the surrogate are questionable, but her views still made me wonder if she’d ever known the pain of infertility and the loss of a love you never had but dreamed of. Obviously she’d never been a surrogate either, so I wondered, could she really comment? But I imagined she’d seen horrible things in third world countries, and spoken to many women: women taken advantage of, used for their wombs. But I’d read that a lot of women who partook in surrogacy overseas did it for their families, to provide for and support their own children. However, I could see where it could all go wrong, the complexity of human emotions and a financial transaction combined with poverty, a woman’s body, hormones and instincts, and a desperate couple. Of course those terrible stories would leave a person questioning the process, but I wondered whether Ekman had examined surrogacy across the world in its entirety. Weren’t there any good stories to tell alongside the bad?
I smiled when our counsellor Meredith appeared on the screen. She was asked about her role in counselling people for surrogacy.
‘In over eighteen years, I’ve seen about one hundred and fifty altruistic surrogacy cases . . . in New South Wales I have to give my opinion if they’re suitable.’
When asked if she has said ‘no’, Meredith said, ‘I’ve said no out of one hundred and fifty cases . . . once and in maybe ten or so I’ve said, “are you really sure, what about this and that?”’
I hugged the cushion, teary, as I watched the story of Australian sisters Amy and Alex. Amy couldn’t carry a baby so Alex had offered to do it for her. Both women were interviewed, and towards the end of the program they showed video footage of Alex giving birth to Amy’s baby daughter. Later, both women sobbed, Amy cradling her child, Alex, looking on in wonderment and pride.
I sniffed, wiping my eyes, the beauty of the moment hitting me hard in the chest – a selfless act for another. I cried for the experience to come, my own birthing moment, when Jon and Justin would finally meet their daughter, hold her and kiss her forehead. The host of Insight interviewed Alex after the segment and the surrogate wiped away tears, reliving the birth and how her body and emotions had fared afterwards. She seemed happy about the process, even grateful, but she said, ‘I underestimated what it would feel like . . . how hard it was but also the amount of joy I’d feel from the experience.’ Earlier she had mentioned, ‘I still miss the baby, even though I know she’s not mine.’
A lawyer pushed for the federal government to regulate surrogacy, as the current laws were a mess and varied from state to state. He added, ‘Australians are going in the greatest numbers per capita overseas for surrogacy and you have to say . . . why are they going? One thousand babies were born in 2012 in Thailand and India to Australian couples because we make it so hard here.’
I switched off the television, placed the remote on the couch, setting aside the cushion as my hands navigated to my belly. I rubbed it, mulling the idea of Baby JJ’s absence. When it was all over, would I miss her? Uncomfortable, uncertain feelings smouldered inside me. Would my heart and my body betray me, make me feel something more for Baby JJ than I thought I should? Would it be agony to let her go, to see her passed over to Jon and Justin and out of my life? Did I have feelings for her that I was refusing to acknowledge?
Ekman’s comments had left me reeling. I knew that what I’d offered to do wasn’t wrong or akin to prostitution – she was talking about commercial surrogacy, money changing hands in foreign countries through agencies, women coming from a place of poverty and potentially used for their reproductive organs – but it still hurt, and her views made me feel as though I was doing something bad, distasteful. She had mentioned the story of Elizabeth Kane, who in 1980 had been the first legal surrogate in the United States and eight years later wrote a book detailing how she regretted the experience, stating that she was now totally against surrogacy in any form.
Alone in the dark with Baby JJ, I sat quietly, pondering the future. Was it possible I’d regret my decision years later? I couldn’t tell the future; how could I truly know how I’d feel about Baby JJ? My intentions were good, I knew that deep down in my soul, but would my body and my mind follow through with those intentions I had relayed to everyone at the start?
That night, once again I tossed and turned in bed, my back cramping. I couldn’t get comfortable, and nor could I get out of my head Ekman’s words: ‘I take a stand against all forms of surrogacy.’ I settled on my back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of Andrew sleeping beside me, the weight of Baby JJ in my pelvis.
A voice consumed my mind: Shannon, just stop it. Why do you care what anyone else thinks about surrogacy? They don’t know you and they don’t know Jon and Justin or the relationship you have with them. Focus on that and all will be well. Focus on the love you have to give. That’s what your journey is all about.
It was true, that was all I had to do. For the last time, I vowed not to get caught up in the media coverage or anybody else’s views on surrogacy. They weren’t my views, it wasn’t my perspective. Only I knew how it felt to carry Baby JJ, to love, support and want the best for her, to feel her kick inside me. If people couldn’t understand my intentions or my situation, that wasn’t my fault. I knew I was on the right path.
On 6 September, Tenille and Khane held a first birthday party for Aurora. It brought home to me how quickly a year can sneak past: so much had happened in the twelve months since I’d witnessed Aurora’s birth, and my journey with the boys was now moving quickly and steadily to its conclusion. Baby JJ made her presence known, kicking inside me, delicate, faint movements – a reassuring reminder that she was with me.
Our friends had gathered to celebrate Aurora’s birthday under bunches of pink balloons and reeds of streamers that adorned the patio roof. I mingled at the party, telling many acquaintances for the first time about the surrogacy. Jaxon and Keira ran around the backyard, dodging anthills and rose bushes with a dozen other children, playing tips and hide-and-seek. I received several comments on the size of my belly, some people surprised I was twenty-seven weeks in gestation. ‘Yes, she’s small, I know that from the scans,’ I said each time. I sat down regularly to rest my legs, and ate a couple of quaint coconut balls before we all sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Aurora, her father holding her over the birthday cake, a single candle lit.
When the sun began to set, the festivities died down and people started to leave. I was keen to get home, put my feet up for a while before I had to start preparing dinner. Tiredness and aching legs were a given for me at this stage of pregnancy. I said goodbye to Tenille and Khane, kissed Aurora on the head and walked my kids to the car, feeling a little lightheaded. I shrugged it off, clipping Keira and Jaxon in their car seats, telling myself I’d had a big day. I called to Andrew, who stood in the driveway, beer in hand, with a few friends, each one taking turns riding a skateboard for laughs. Pulling myself up into the four-wheel drive, I noticed my weak muscles. Energy drained from my
limbs as I sat in the driver’s seat, my temples throbbing.
‘Let’s go,’ Andrew said, sliding into his seat, slapping his palms on the dashboard as if playing the drums.
Pulled out of my daze, I turned on the ignition and put the car in reverse, glancing over my shoulder. My mouth started to water. ‘I don’t feel good,’ I said.
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘I don’t know. I feel weird. Maybe I need to eat something? It could be hypoglycaemia? But I just ate . . . I’m not sure. I just need to get home.’
‘Let’s get home then,’ Andrew said, turning to flash a smile at the kids.
We drove halfway home before I threw a wary glance in Andrew’s direction. I gripped the steering wheel as a violent force rose up my throat. I coughed, trying to fight the motion, before I launched forward, throwing up all over the steering wheel and my lap. Endless, torturous, I couldn’t stop the flow but managed to pull the car over before lifting my hands to my mouth.
‘Oh my God!’ Andrew yelled, sliding back in his chair, away from me, a precautionary hand reaching for the handle on the passenger door.
I glanced in the mirror, pale, my red, watery eyes shifting to see the kids giggling, faces animated with shock. Another wave overtook me, my head dipping, vomit splattering my skirt, shirt. Andrew pulled his phone from his pocket, held it up. I heard the click of the camera.
‘Oh my God, gross! Mum’s vomiting,’ Jaxon yelled, undoing his seatbelt, scrambling between the two front seats for a better view.
I gagged, choking, coughing, unable to believe the mess in my lap – I thought I was done with morning sickness.
Andrew continued to snap pictures as I sat, stunned, gazing ahead in disbelief, hands held in the air, covered in the remnants of coconut and lunch. The radio played on but I couldn’t hear, the song and my children’s laughter muffled, the sound somewhere off in the distance. I blinked, tears hitting my hot cheeks. Sweat had broken out on my forehead and the taste in my mouth was sour, bitter.
Labour of Love Page 19