Hi baby,
Big news. Big, big news. Are you ready? A couple weeks ago, your dad and I hit our goal. Sooner than we expected which is crazy, but it’s my busy season at work and I’ve been putting in long hours.
We made it. We have the full cost of a batch of donor eggs, no matter which bank we choose. Now all we have to do is find you.
I thought that once we had the cash on hand, things would get easier. Or, at the very least, speed things up a bit. Nothing about this process has been quick or easy, but for some reason, I had this idea in my head that once we had the funds available, finding you would be simple. But it’s not. If anything, things have gotten a lot more complicated.
You see, these last few months we were working with the hypothetical. We didn’t have the means, so thinking about you was more wishful thinking and less of a reality. I would look at page after page of potential donors and find a young woman with whom I felt a connection, who maybe had my eyes or my nose or had my same likes or dislikes, and wish that I could click “select donor” and make you a reality. But a few days later, she’d disappear and I’d start all over.
But now that’s changed. Now all I really have to do is click a button and you could be ours…but clicking on that button is so overwhelmingly hard. It’s not hypothetical any more.
Long ago, I thought for sure we’d find you naturally. When we didn’t, I knew in my heart that we’d find you with fertility drugs and an insemination, but so many times that failed us, too. When we moved on to IVF, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that we’d be parents soon.
But that didn’t happen, either. When we tried the second ivf with more drugs – and steroids, and acupuncture, and Chinese herbs – and then retrieved 17 eggs, I was positive we’d finally found our baby. I cried happy tears after that retrieval, because you were finally within our reach.
But you’re still not here. I’ve been knocked down so many times that it’s hard to imagine a world where we try something and come through it with a baby in our arms.
I know that nothing is guaranteed. I know that I could click that button and drop a small fortune on a batch of eggs…and still not find you. I don’t even feel comfortable calling a vial of somewhere between six and eight ova from a woman I’ve never met you. I can dream, sure, and I can hope beyond hope that this time, we find you…but the reality is, your dad and I aren’t spending twenty grand on a guarantee. We’re spending it on a chance. We’re buying hope.
It’s not about the money, either. Time and time again we’ve pulled that trigger. We’ve already spent a fortune looking for you, because no matter how small the chance, the final result would have been worth every penny. I’d spend it all again twice over if it gave me you.
But it’s not about the money. Not at all. Clicking that button means I’m giving up on ever finding you naturally. On ever being your genetic mother. I’m giving up on wondering if you’ll have my eyes or your dad’s. On whether you’ll have one dimple like me. I’m giving up on the chance to look down at you and see myself staring back up at me.
When we started saving for a donor, I kept hope alive that by the time we’d saved enough to afford one, I’d be pregnant with you and a donor would be moot. I didn’t want to believe that I couldn’t get pregnant, I didn’t care what the doctors kept telling me. But now we have the money, and when I click that button, I’m turning a page. I’m giving up on myself.
This time, I’m not dealing with a hypothetical. We’re not paying for fertility drugs or hormone therapy or medical procedures. When I click that button, I’m choosing you.
Or, what could be you. What I hope will eventually grow into you. I’m deciding on half of your genetic makeup, which is a HUGE responsibility. I’m deciding what color eyes you could have. What the shape of your nose may look like. Whether or not you could have dimples or big feet or a cleft in your chin. These are little things that I thought wouldn’t matter, but they do. They matter so much. I feel like I’m about to make the most important decision of your life, and if I mess it up, it won’t affect me. It’ll affect you.
What if I choose poorly? What if, God forbid, you get some kind of childhood disease that I could have prevented if I went with another donor?
This may seem silly to some people. I’ve had certain people tell me that I’m lucky – I get this choice that natural parents don’t have. That I get to choose my baby. But that’s not true at all. I already made my choice. I chose your daddy. I chose to fall in love with him, and he with me. We chose each other. We could have each married other people, but we didn’t. We chose to create a family together. And then we had that choice ripped from us.
And now I have to click a button, and decide everything about you. And I know I won’t find a donor just like me. I won’t find a woman with bluey-green eyes and one dimple, who’s left handed and double jointed in her shoulder. I won’t find a woman who loves baseball and hates math and thinks Cheetos and chocolate are their own food group. I won’t find me. And so every part of me, every part that I love and hoped one day to pass on to my child, that all gets left behind when I click that button.
I know it won’t matter when I hold you for the first time. It won’t matter when we’re reading bedtime stories or playing with Casey. It won’t matter when you’re off to kindergarten or graduating college. But it matters now.
I don’t know which donor we’re going to pick. No one seems to be a good fit right now. But I do know that I love you so much. I want the absolute best for you, even if I can’t provide it myself. I want you to love who you are, and I want you to be happy and healthy. Those are the most important things. We’ll figure out the rest later.
Love,
Mom
My Stork Got Lost 