The Wounds that Won’t Heal

Nora Rich

To tell you our story, I have to start with my own family, which is also yours, but of which you are not a part. 

I savored each moment of motherhood from the get-go. And I love my boys more than I could explain to you in the language we know. Some moms describe the turmoil and confusion of breastfeeding, but both of my sons got the hang of it right away. The key, I found, is trust. We are mammals; they are born knowing. When my firstborn latched onto me for the first time, his little hands gripping me so tenderly, I was struck by a single thought—clear as ice: every woman should experience this. And so, three years later, with my husband barely on board and my heart fully invested, I began my search for the right parents to whom I could give the gift of a child.

Nearly six months ago, I sat in a stale room with flickering lights and no windows, across from a social worker whose only defining feature was her thick-rimmed red glasses. Attentively, I looked at the woman, who asked me questions about my mental wellness, our home, and any potential attachment I may have to the child I would carry in the future. 

Dutifully, I repeated the magic words I’d heard from so many empowered surrogates, “That won’t be an issue. It’s not my baby. It’s their baby.” 

Response accepted, the social worker gave a slow nod and a quiet “M-hm” as she clicked away at her keyboard. “And I see from your application that you’re married.” With this, she looked to me for verification.

“That’s right.”

“Are you living together currently?” Her eyes refocused on the screen. 

“Yes, ma’am. Me, him, and our two sons.” The dog too, but whatever.

“Where is he now? We’ve found it’s ideal for our surrogates to have support through the process.” She looked around the tiny office as if he were here, hiding in a corner.

“Working,” I said hurriedly, almost defensively—I didn’t expect that question. “He’s plenty supportive, but he’s also our family’s soul provider. I have an Etsy shop for my jewelry,” I gestured to my chest, where one of my pendants lay suspended on my sternum, “but that doesn’t bring in much.”

The social worker raised her brows into skeptical arches. She almost looked intrigued.

“But I’m not here for the money!… as I told you earlier.” I’m not sure why I felt the need to justify my presence to her. “Our setup now is working just fine. I’m doing this—we’re doing this to serve another family.”

With another slow, focused nod, the social worker added a note to her record.

I meant nothing to that social worker. This was her job. But the social worker meant everything to me. She was the gateway to everything I wanted. When we had finished and the social worker stood up and told me that my answers had been “submitted for further review,” I could have kissed her. My responses were spotless. I knew I would be approved for the job, just as I knew there were people out there who needed me to complete their family. 

The agency told me I was “too choosy,” with more specifications than surrogates usually have. 

“It’s improbable that we’ll find the parents you want here in San Diego. Our surrogates usually carry babies for international parents, if not parents elsewhere in the states,” said a sympathetic agent.

“Yes, I get that, but I want a relationship with the parents. We have to keep in touch.”

The agent looked to be genuinely concerned as she sat behind her desk. An embossed sign reading “It takes a village” hung on the wall behind her. “Of course.” Her face relaxed into a soft smile. “We’ll do our best to match you, but no guarantees, okay? You can expect to see some potential matches in your email by the end of the week.”

The agent’s name was Sarah, and for the most part, she handled the ins and outs of my “case”—except when I had too many preferences—like when I told her I’d want a home birth. Sarah looked as though I’d said I wanted to give birth on Mars. She referred me to her higher-up for that, who told me that home births were rarely permitted in surrogacy because the home is considered a “high-risk birth environment.” Bleh. However, the higher-up said, I could discuss the possibility with the intended parents when we were connected. She was doubtful.

When I opened my email that Friday, I found two emails with subject lines reading “Check out these potential parents ISO a surrogate.” I let the sofa envelop me as I scrolled to see a list of eager potential parents, each with a paragraph-long bio detailing their interests and how they came to surrogacy. Some had specific requests for surrogates, some stranger than others, (must be on a vegan diet, no dogs in the home, etc.) but most did not. 

Adam and Jo in Seattle, WA. Nope. David and Bianca in Ontario, Canada. Definitely not. Larry and Allen in San Francisco, CA. Closer! But still too far. Maybe I am too picky.

“Still looking?” My husband, Sam, peeked over the back of our sofa to see my phone screen.

“None of them are quite right,” I looked up at the man I fell in love with. He knows how I get when I want something.

“Honey, the ‘right’ ones might not exist.” Sam knew me well, but I often resisted his advice, especially when it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. 

“I know, I know … but maybe they do. I feel like they’re out there and I just need to have faith. And be patient.” Damn it, he’s always right, I thought.

After a pause and a thoughtful nod, he added delicately, “It’s not too late, baby. You don’t have to do this.” Pregnancy did always freak him out. During my first pregnancy, I could sometimes see the thumping of a foot through my skin—the baby kicking. I thought it was incredible: proof of life. Sam couldn’t look. He twisted his face in repulsion and told me I was a “pod” and the baby was like an alien inside me. I laughed uncontrollably and told him he was ridiculous. The second baby was easier for him—he knew what to expect.

“I’ll be fine, babe! You’ll be fine, We’ll all be fine.” I was so sure.

I didn’t have a reason beyond my intuition, but something told me to say no to male gay couples. I’d also have preferred a two-parent household. And no weird diet requests. I liked the way I ate. The odds were stacked against what I wanted, and I knew Sam was right: I’d have to compromise my priorities at some point. I was almost willing to accept a lesbian couple called Sophie and Rose who lived in LA when Sarah, our agent, called me. She was ecstatic to report the news—as she put it, they had found “the one.” Her name was Rachel, and miraculously, she was here in San Diego. Rachel was your intended mother.

We met for coffee and clicked like old friends. She was a single parent by choice, and I let go of my “two-parent” preference because I felt like we’d found each other for a reason. Surrogacy was her last resort; she had tried IVF to no avail. Her body wouldn’t hold a baby, but she desperately wanted one. That’s why she sought me out. She was exactly the woman I was looking to serve.

Rachel and I were a team. We both wanted you to be born at home, which is extremely rare in surrogacy. My boys had been born in the hospital, and I desperately wanted to bring you into the world peacefully and lovingly, on my terms. With the assistance of our lawyers, we chose to work with a birth center. That way, there would be less intervention and less legal liability, and if shit hit the fan, they’d transfer me to the hospital. I was thrilled. But getting pregnant in the first place was a turbulent process on its own.

Again and again, the embryos planted inside me at the fertility clinic didn’t take. We tried using Rachel’s eggs, but ultimately, we used those from a donor. In that final appointment at the clinic, I lay on the exam table, feet in stirrups, legs open, already on valium, when the nurse practitioner knocked on the door. Rachel sat beside me in a grey hospital chair.

“Knock knock…” The nurse opened the door only six inches, tentatively. I was pulled back into reality from my drugged daze.

“You can come in.” It came out quieter than I had intended, like my volume had been turned down. She closed the door behind her and took the seat next to Rachel. 

“Hi, ladies. So I know we haven’t had any successful implantations yet, and honestly, none of our embryos today are looking very strong. My suggestion is that we put in two and hopefully, one will take. How would you feel about that?” She glanced between me and Rachel, eyebrows raised, hands clasped together expectantly. 

A thousand thoughts sped through my mind in a split second like numbers on a slot machine. Okay … I could rock a twin pregnancy, right? I mean how hard could it be? I looked to Rachel for confirmation. I already knew what she’d say. 

“I’m okay if you are … you know I’ll take home as many babies as you’ll give me.” She was half-joking, but also half-serious.

“Fuck it—let’s do this,” I declared in a moment of drug-induced ego inflation. I could almost hear Sam’s voice in my head, gentle but sure, telling me this would end badly. 

Maybe your mom has told you this less glamorous, more painful part of the story, but maybe not. I didn’t realize the gravity of what I had done until it was too late, and for that, I’m sorry. 

Both of the embryos took. I was pregnant with twins. I would no longer be able to give birth at the birth center, but we found an obstetrician that would allow me to birth with my own body and not mandate surgery. It was the next best thing. 

Slowly and steadily, my belly grew in secrecy. Upon my request, our legal contract stated that no photos, videos, or updates of any kind were to be posted on social media until you were born. I wanted to be clear; I was not doing this to be virtuous or gain attention. I felt a divine calling. That is why I chose to be a surrogate. The pull was intuitive and primal. I know it’s not about that for most surrogates. Certainly, the money was a bonus—it wasn’t cheap to live in San Diego—and my earnings nearly doubled when I found out that I was carrying two babies, but that was not my motivation.

Everything changed at eighteen weeks when we found out that your twin sister had died. Rachel had already bought two cribs and two car seats. Her heart was broken, and mine was, too—for her, of course, but mostly for you. At the ultrasound appointment that day, Rachel and I held each other and wept. We parted ways with our heads hung low. It was raining in San Diego.

I took a bath to comfort you and treated myself to a small glass of wine; I felt that you were weeping, too. At the doctor’s office, they explained to me that your sister would stay inside of my womb and be born with you. My body held onto her because if it let her go, you may be lost as well. For the first time in my pregnancy, I allowed myself to feel your need for me—your innocence to this process and your grief. In the womb, you lost your sister and in birth, you would lose me. Although you were not made from my DNA, you were nourished by the food I ate and swam to the songs I sang. You knew my boys; they excitedly touched my belly as it expanded and squealed with delight when they felt you kick. Rachel did not rest with you each night. Sam and I did. And it was not her, but me, who was awoken in the night when you were hungry and begged for a snack. I would feed us cheese and honey. It was your favorite. You were mine and I was yours. 

“Hey, Bunny” Sam entered the bathroom with silent footsteps and crouched beside the tub, using his oldest pet name for me to make me smile. It didn’t work this time.

“Hi,” I felt small.

“Anything I can do?” Men want to fix things, but Sam couldn’t fix this, so he felt small, too. “I wish I could have stopped you,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?” I asked, but I already knew.

“I just knew this was going to hurt, and I wish I could have protected you.”

Of course, I thought about “accidentally” going into spontaneous labor at home and fleeing, with you, to another country to raise you as my own, but that was just a fantasy. As your expected date of arrival grew closer, the pit in my stomach never ceased. I had made my bed—now I had to lay in it. The real shame was that you had to lay there with me. Unlike in adoption, I could not withdraw my decision to give you away. As you swam in my uterus, you were already Rachel’s property. According to the law, you were not mine at all, even though I was the only mother you knew. It killed me to think that this was all a huge mistake. I knew Sam thought that, though he would never tell me outright.

Rachel and I grew apart during the latter half of my pregnancy. I think she sensed that I’d had a change of heart. She became more anxious and tense. Since I was technically carrying a single baby now, I proposed transferring my care back to the birth center, but she anxiously declined. And so, at 39 weeks and 5 days, when waves of contractions began to wash over me with increasing frequency and intensity, Sam drove me to the hospital. Rachel met us there. Under the fluorescent lights of our assigned room, the nurses poked and prodded me, hooked me up to machines, and did not let me eat. Each hour, a nurse took my blood pressure. I wanted to be left alone in the dark. My blood pressure climbed. The clock was ticking and I watched the nurses grow uneasy as I continued to refuse chemical induction. 

Bothered, the OB entered our room. I could not make out his eyes beyond the glare of his glasses. It was over before he even opened his mouth. 

“Alright, Mom. I’m all for a natural birth, but I am getting a little worried about your blood pressure, here.” He emphasized the word “blood” and trailed off with the last word. “If we can’t get this baby out in the next couple of hours, I’m gonna need to take you into surgery.” His brows furrowed with mock concern. It was an atrocious charade.

My labor stalled then because the environment was unsafe. My cervix wasn’t dilating anymore. I was holding on, trying to protect you; they called it “failure to progress.” When the doctor approached me with his needle to stick in my spine, I pressed my heel into his shoulder, keeping him from us, and tried to push you out until my vision went black. You weren’t ready yet. I pleaded with them all as they carted me off to surgery. “Please,” I must have sounded so weak.

“We’ve already prepped the room.” The doctor’s eyes were cold and detached. He had better places to be.

Faceless figures surrounded me, dressed in boxy blue gowns that masked their human features. Tools passed from nurse to doctor. A steady beeping droned on from behind me. I watched it all go down through a veil of fog. I wept as they cut you out of me, and apologized to you over and over again.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered through silent sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” I had never squeezed Sam’s hand so fiercely. I reached out for you—I needed to feel your small body on my chest—but they had passed you to Rachel.

During that first week postpartum, Rachel called me twice when you were inconsolable. “I think he needs you,” she said.

I sang to you over the phone and you quieted. I think, at that point, she realized the trauma—the primal wound—that we had both given you. She saw the threat that our bond posed to her motherhood. She grew possessive, bitter, and envious. 

Later that month, I received this text: “we are moving on with our lives. we don’t care to have a relationship with you. please do not contact me.” I told her that I love you and I always will, I would love to have a relationship with you, and to please tell me should she ever change her mind.

I didn’t leave my bedroom for weeks. Sam told the boys that “Mommy was sick.” He spent some nights with me, but some, he spent on the couch or with one of our boys. I felt I had let him down, too. 

All in all, I was compensated sixty thousand dollars—the “supreme package” of surrogacy—more than standard because I carried two babies and had a C-section. But the money could never offset my loss or yours. With each deposit into my bank account, I was reminded that I had grown and sold you for this money. It was blood money. I will always carry shame and a heavy heart for that. We belong to each other, my sweet boy, and part of me will remain hollow until I meet you again.