Life Begins at Misconception

1

Our first miscarriage tackles me to the ground, a surprise assault that hits bodily from behind. I hear my head snap back as air leaves my lungs in great staggering sobs. I am both robbed and broken, but not alone. I have you. We are the victims of a random genetic crime. 

Our grief is imbalanced, but not unequal. We cry at different times. You cradle me when I crumble and hold the pieces together. I knew I loved you, now I understand how I need you. 80% of people reach a successful pregnancy with their surrogate on the first embryo transfer. The doctor tells us 94% reach success on the second. We take comfort in the math as he urges us to continue. 

I’m barely able to tell the few friends who knew about the transfer that we’ve had a misconception. I decide not to tell anyone that we’re trying again so soon, I secretly hold out hope that I’ll have good news in just another 6 weeks. 

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On our first date you made fun of the historical inaccuracies in the novel I carried with me to the bar. I kissed you knowingly on the sidewalk later that night. 

On our second date I told you I was in the process of becoming a father. I assumed this would end things between us. It had certainly ended other relationships. By the time I met you, I knew it was more important for me to be a parent than a partner. I already had an angel for an egg donor and was in conversation with a surrogacy agency. I was ready.

Laying next to each other on your tufted green velvet couch, you revealed that I was the first guy you seriously dated since ending your engagement. You admitted this by way of counterbalancing my big news, you put me at ease with your honesty. He proposed with a watch instead of a ring. I will remember this always, because time has never been on our side, and I wish I could propose to you with more. 

2

Miscarriage number two infects me. Any comfort we took in the randomness of number one has evaporated, replaced instead by the deep illness of an emerging pattern. I can’t think straight, I don’t sleep. I am nauseous and weak. 

It has taken three years of saving and planning to reach failure. We float in the deadspace of our apartment, unable to move into a 2-bedroom unit across town like we had planned. The year of great things we were looking forward to stretches like a tunnel of taffy into a membrane so thin I’m afraid the slightest movement will puncture it and suck us out into the void. So I barricade myself in the apartment and stop speaking with friends. I only leave the house if you want to.

We cancel plans to celebrate our marriage in NYC with family. My sister thinks we should still do it, she says “you can’t stop living.” I tell her we can’t imagine being so sad in front of everyone. I don’t want to remember our wedding this way. I don’t want to remember any of this.

My head hurts with a truth-ache: what if all the embryos are rotten? The doctor tells us this might be true, that we might need to hire a new egg donor but he isn’t certain. I don’t know how we’ll make the decision: a new egg donor, or another cycle with what we’ve already got?

---

Somewhere between dates 3 and 6, I cooked dinner for you, you cooked dinner for me, and then I said, “If we’re going to be together, let’s have a deal-breaker conversation now.” I didn’t want to learn later that you were riddled with debt, not out to your family, or didn’t eat chicken on the bone. I’ve dated and deleted one of each. So you and I talked through a minefield of issues: finance, religion, cleanliness habits, education, parenting philosophies, and marriage.

Weddings were a sticking point. I couldn’t imagine spending any money on a celebration knowing how much I’d already poured into surrogacy. But I saw how happy a public declaration of love would make you, and I experienced the true delight in doing something just for you. I agreed we should have a small ceremony with family. We smiled, because this counted as a tacit proposal.  

That same night you asked, “Will you wait for me?” This was a bigger commitment for me than marriage. You wanted me to put the parenting journey on pause, to give us a chance to grow together before there was a kid in the picture. You didn’t want to be a step-parent from pre-infancy. You wanted to make decisions together. You told me if I moved forward with a surrogate right away, you wouldn’t be able to stay.

I was reluctant to pause, but I agreed because I wanted dinners with you to go on forever. We already had a habit of raising our glasses (sparkling water on most nights) and toasting the day in a new way every evening. “May we continue to find as much joy in leftovers as we do in new delights around town,” I said as we both cooed over bowls of reheated chili and cornbread. Every meal with you tastes better.

You asked for a year, I thought you'd come around sooner. This was the first time I realized I’m a switch and you’re a dial. I only have on and off settings, I make decisions quickly and decisively. You have a 0-10 knob, you ramp up slowly and steadily. But my switch was on, so I told you we should move in together immediately. We should take weekend trips. We should meet each other’s families. We should stress-test this coupling. We should know if we’re gonna last as soon as possible. I’m a simultaneous person, you’re a sequentialist. I do everything at once, you do things in order. Together we’re a supercomputer. 

3

Before our third cycle, I have a meltdown in the kitchen while you’re cooking peperonata. Shaking, I tell you “I just want to get out of Hell.” This is one of my worst days. I rattle at the joints and feel all too close to collapsing into a pile of bones. “We have to keep moving, we can’t drag our feet on this,” I cry. “We have to get out of Hell together.” You gather me again in your arms and press me into wholeness. You apologize for your paralysis and I finally understand that while you hold me together, I pull you forward. 
We plan for our third transfer. We’ll use our frozen embryos, but everything else will be different. We’ll leverage chiropractic work, acupuncture, and nutritional supplements. We’ll take a longer break before we try, giving our surrogate time to rest and heal from the months of hormones. 

My parents begin to use the word “prayer” in conversation. It hurts to know we’ve got nothing else left.

The third misconception is more perplexing. This time the problem is with our surrogate’s uterine lining. It isn’t responding to meds, it won’t thicken. We don’t even transfer an embryo. The doctor assures us that this happens, that surrogates don't always respond to the hormones, especially when you’ve done so many cycles. He tells us to buck up for round four, it’ll be just around the corner.

This is the first time we are allowed to think that perhaps it’s time to look for a new surrogate instead of a new egg donor. The doctor won’t say so, but we think we might be one of those unlucky teams for whom this will never work. Maybe our surrogate would have found success with another couple’s embryo, and maybe our embryos would have found success with another surrogate. We’d need a meta-physician to diagnose the problem; there are no more numbers to describe our situation.

You agree with the doctor. Maybe he did prescribe too much estrogen on round three. We agree to a new medical protocol for the next trial and pray for peace together at Rosh Hashanah dinner.

---

I napped with you on our too-small bed, mumbling “I think I’m falling in love with you,” while we let our minds loosen in the milky mid-afternoon light of a weekend daytime nap. You started spending every night at my place. At first I couldn’t sleep with you touching me at all, but soon enough I learned how lovely it is to be held all night long, or to hold you. Now I can’t fall asleep without you in my arms.

I changed the pronouns of the home from “mine” to “ours” and made space for you to nest. Within a few months we only used your apartment as a satellite second-bedroom to entertain out-of-town guests. We let go of your lease the first weekend in March. 

The next weekend the pandemic hit and we were both stuck at our new home, you on the verge of getting a new job, me on the verge of losing mine. In May, I broke down after we watched a sub-par Pixar movie. You asked what’s wrong, I told you “I don’t know how much longer I can wait to be a dad with you.” 

We made a spreadsheet to compare surrogacy agencies, then chose one. In October we matched with our surrogate. We focused on the legal negotiations and put our savings into escrow. 

I didn’t wonder if you’d ask me to marry you, only when. We both secretly packed a bottle of champagne in the car for our trip to Morro Bay. We paddled across the water— spotting rays, sharks, and harbor seals, then beaching our canoe on the edge of a sand dune. We walked to the top and you proposed to me with a watercolor painting of a diamond ring that I carry in my wallet to this day. Saying yes to you quickly wasn’t rash, it was easy because I love you.

4

After our fourth failed pregnancy I tell you I’m afraid this has ruined me for life. I am all wound. Emails filled with birth announcements, baby naming ceremonies, and the gentle exasperation of friends blessed to have homes with two kids under the age of 4 land like napalm. I wonder when the raw edge will scar over. Then I fear the new skin will be so thick I’ll never feel again. Even worse, I worry I’ll resent any kid we do have if we’re lucky enough to get pregnant.

There is no why in time. I don’t believe things happen for a reason, I think things happen and we reason with them. But so far I can’t reason with this. I was battle-ready for the inequity of becoming a queer biological parent, but I could never have prepared for the chaos of infertility. I can’t believe how much time we’ve lost. At best we’re still a full year away from becoming parents. The early years of our life together will always be defined by these misconceptions. My life with you began here, in unfairness, and I’m sorry.

You tell me all the good things you cling to. Little victories like daily hugs and lavish weekend breakfasts stand side by side with our new method for coping with crankiness: we ask each other questions. You get curious about cooking when you’re trying not to spiral into darkness and I ask you medical questions to defuse any ticking time bombs I feel in my heart. 

You often remind me how much you’ve learned from me: the gift of mental clarity from daily workouts, the full flavor of fruit from the farmer’s market, and what wonders a skilled tailor can coax from a boxy coat. When you say “I hope you’ve learned things from me too,” I sense the sort of self-consciousness that belies a deep fear. You worry I’m not learning as much from you as you are from me, that our relationship is somehow unbalanced in this skill-sharing. 

But that’s because I haven’t told you that I study the way you forgive. I’m learning to be more patient. I’m learning to be more flexible. I watch you and take notes on how to be a better teammate. I’ve seen you shift from frustration to compassion so quickly that it seems as easy for you to forgive as to forget. I’m a better husband only for having you as a role model. 

Love is not so simple as to be a general state of being. For us it has been a seed to nurture, a task to attend in the midst of this fire. We are both working, and we are both growing.

We have one shot left, a Hail-Mary attempt in a few months. It's as dangerous to abandon hope as it is to hang on to it. So I put some in an urn on a mental shelf, and watch it from the corner of my eye. I pack your lunch every morning before work and tell you “I’ll see you on the other side,” as you walk to the car. I’m uncertain of so many things, but not this.

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In December, we learned that we wouldn’t be able to proceed with an embryo transfer unless we were married. Though we had hoped to do something nice with family in the coming year, suddenly we needed a marriage license a.s.a.p. We scheduled a remote ceremony with the Orange County Registrar and after 3.5 minutes on Zoom (our family all in muted attendance) it’s done. I gave you a sand dollar from the dune in Morro Bay instead of a ring. 

We told none of our friends because this was a marriage, not a wedding (but joyful all the same). This was the reward for fostering an intentional relationship from the beginning. We started dreaming up a big celebration for the new year.

Things moved quickly as we planned for our first transfer. I let myself tell a few friends, giddy at having finally reached this moment. If all goes well, we might have a child before the end of the year. 

The time I spent waiting for you thawed and relaxed. I thought instead about all the time I gained from the pause. Having you in my life made every day more valuable. I was no longer waiting for you, because forevermore I’d be waiting with you. That was my secret vow, the thing I hoped to tell you at our future wedding. 

I baked brownies to celebrate the day of the transfer.  We had so much to look forward to. We’d be parents before we knew it.