The Choices We Make. Karma Brown

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СКАЧАТЬ fun...like movie night.” Ben just shrugged, and with a sigh I dumped the hot popcorn in a large bowl. “Can you hit Start on the microwave? Butter’s ready to go.”

      “So how does this work?” Ben asked, taking a handful of popcorn and looking at the screen. I had already opened the site, having found it during my research mission earlier in the day.

      “I think it’s like any ad site, you search and see what pops up.” I typed a couple of words in the search box and hit Enter. I was playing naive, because I didn’t want Ben to know I’d already done a pretty thorough search. I needed to know what to expect ahead of time, because Ben wasn’t exactly on board with the idea of surrogacy.

      Two pages of hits came up, and, taking my own handful of popcorn, I scanned the first page.

      “Okay, this one looks good. ‘In search of a loving couple to take this incredible journey with,’” I read out loud.

      Ben snorted. “Nope. That one sounds too high maintenance.”

      “Stop it. Just humor me, okay?”

      He took another handful of popcorn and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. “Fine,” he said, munching on the kernels. “Tell me more about this incredible-journey woman.”

      “Thank you.” I shifted the laptop so Ben could see the screen better. “Thirty years old, mom of three. Good. We know her equipment works. Married—to the same man—for the past eight years, and she’s asking...whoa. Holy shit.” I pointed to the dollar amount in the ad, leaving a buttery fingerprint on the screen.

      Ben leaned in and squinted. He was supposed to be wearing his reading glasses, which he’d finally had to admit he needed, but he was having a hard time accepting that at thirty-five he was aging...or at least his eyes were. “Forty thousand dollars?”

      “That seems a bit high. Thought it was around thirty thousand? Maybe because she’s already had a successful surrogate pregnancy?”

      “Go to the next one,” Ben said, taking a swill of his beer.

      I sipped my gin and tonic and clicked on the next ad.

      “So this one was a gestational surrogate before—that’s when she carries the couple’s embryo,” I explained.

      “I know what a gestational surrogate is,” Ben said, getting up to grab another beer and a handful of grapes. “Need anything?”

      I shook my head, reading on. “She didn’t like the medications when she did the gestational gig—can’t say I blame her,” I said, looking over at Ben. He nodded, settling back on the couch. We had briefly discussed trying to find an egg donor and maybe giving that a try using my own uterus. But the thought of paying for someone else’s eggs, then turning them into embryos, then trusting my uterus to let them grow... It left me weak with anxiety and despair.

      I couldn’t explain how, but I knew—I knew, deep inside—that my body would never carry a baby to term. And I couldn’t handle one more negative pregnancy test or chemical pregnancy. Sure, we could also get donor eggs, fertilize them with Ben’s sperm to make embryos and then find a gestational surrogate, but the cost to do that would be astronomical. And we’d already spent thousands of dollars to get to this point—surfing for surrogates on date night.

      “So she’s only willing to be a traditional surrogate, which is perfect for us.” Ben nodded again, and I smiled at him before looking back at the screen. I was nervous, so much more invested in this than I cared to admit.

      “Married, healthy, two kids, good BMI, no family disease, had a recent psychiatric evaluation...” At that Ben raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. “Huh. Okay. Says she would prefer a Christian, traditional couple, and wants a relationship after the birth.” I chewed a stray cuticle, trying to decide how I felt about that. The Christian thing didn’t worry me, even though Ben and I were not religious, but a relationship after the baby was born?

      “I guess that’s not so different from adoption,” Ben said, shrugging. “What do you think about that?” I knew he wasn’t keen on doing a surrogacy, but I loved him for appeasing my need to look at all the options.

      “Let’s go to the next one,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. I was weeks off the fertility medications now, so I couldn’t blame the tears that sprang to my eyes on that anymore. What I wished I could say was that I loathed every second of this, no matter what I had said about the popcorn and fun. I wanted to have my own baby, not pay someone else to have one for us.

      I hated that I’d dragged Ben into this sad mess, where we were spending our Saturday night reading surrogate classified ads and pretending it was something we wanted to do. I was worried that I couldn’t make myself talk to Ben about how much adoption scared me. How I preferred the idea of surrogacy because the baby would at least be genetically linked to one of us. But most of all, and the thing I hadn’t said aloud to anyone, ever?

      I was deeply ashamed to be an infertile woman. I despised my body for failing me, failing Ben and our marriage, on the most basic of things.

      Pushing that shame and sadness down, I read the next few ads out loud. They all sounded similar enough that by the end of the two pages it was hard to remember one from another. The popcorn sat heavily in my stomach, and I regretted putting so much butter on it. I shut the laptop forcefully and turned on the television.

      Ben shifted so he faced me. “What are you doing?”

      “I think you’re right. I don’t think this is a good idea.” I flicked through the channels. “What do you want to watch?”

      He took the remote from my hand and turned the television off. “Maybe we should talk about option C.”

      “What’s option C?” I asked.

      Ben swallowed hard but kept his eyes on mine. “Not having kids.”

      I stared at him, unsure what to say. We had talked briefly about the possibility of not having a family, but for me it was never a real option. But looking at his face I saw the concern, and worry, and realized all of this had taken as much out of him as it had me. So because I loved him more than I hated the idea of never having a child, I said, “Okay, let’s talk about option C.”

      And the truth was option C had some decent stuff going for it. Travel. Financial freedom. Flexibility. The ability to be selfish. Saturday morning sleep-ins and late Sunday brunches. Glass coffee tables with supersharp corners, white couches and expensive throw pillows.

      So while I brainstormed and wrote down the top ten places I’d like to travel with Ben, and he sketched out and calculated how much it might cost to design us a dream home overlooking the ocean, my heart wasn’t in it.

      Option C meant there would never be a baby.

      I hated option C.

      * * *

      Around three o’clock in the morning, unable to sleep, I crept out of our bedroom and went downstairs to the kitchen. Bowl of Cherry Garcia ice cream in one hand and my laptop in another, I sat at the kitchen table and fired up the computer. I left the lights off, eating the cherry-and-chocolate ice cream by the laptop’s glow, and went back through the ads Ben and I had browsed earlier.

      I stopped at the one of the woman who preferred a Christian couple СКАЧАТЬ