Letter to my Bean: The Birds and the Bees

Dearest Bean,

This is one of my favorite stories to tell. The story of how you came to us. You already know that you were born and carried to term in the womb of our dear friend K – but the why and wherefore, we haven’t yet delved into. Yours my dear, is a story of medical magic and glory. The gift of your birth reset your mother’s justice scale with the medical establishment (and if that is confusing, ask your father).

To start with, Miss Bean, you were one of four eggs harvested from my body in August of 2006, after your Momma did her first stint of conventional chemotherapy. Your father, in his second-year resident scrubs, went to the clinic with me to give his deposit in order to fertilize the eggs in a timely fashion.

Three of those eggs became embryos and were frozen. You lived in suspended animation for nearly 7 years during which time I went through menopause at age 34. We paid a babysitting fee to keep you cold and dark. Soon it became clear that it was time for us to become parents. I did not have permission from my oncologist to be pregnant and our dear friend K offered to be our surrogate. A small cold container containing 3 embryos with lots of paperwork flew across the country to Portland, OR from Ann Arbor, MI.

K spent the summer receiving shots and scans and tests with unfailing good humor and grace. At one point, before you were put into K, I called K and her husband to share I needed to do more radiation based on my latest scan. I asked them if they were okay helping us become parents even if it meant I may not be around for decades and decades. I asked them, but in truth, it was a way of asking you. A way of asking you for permission to be born to a momma who might not be around for as long as you would like. Better to be alive and to suffer the loss of a parent in childhood or early adulthood, or better not to be alive at all… those were my concerns at the time.

You are reading this, so obviously we chose life for you.* Life includes intense love and happiness and intense suffering and pain - all of it. Your father and I hoped at the time of your beginnings you would be able to grokk the joy and the suffering and understand. I hope so now too.

So here we are, the summer of 2013, I fly out to be present for the implantation event. K and I walk into the clinic. The room is dark and cold (there are negative pressure fans to keep the embryos safe) and a very serious woman approaches the MD with a long pipette resting on a petri dish. In silence and awe, we all watch the monitor as the pipette is inserted into K’s uterus and one shining light is deposited at the back of the womb. In total silence K is wheeled back to her room where she receives an acupuncture session and I sit next to the window in my blue hazmat suit, reeling from what just happened.

Two weeks later I hear your heartbeat over the phone for her first scan. My heart moves into K’s belly.

By the end of March, you were making it clear that your stay with K and her family was coming to an end. 4 weeks early K starts going through lots and lots of contractions and I fly out. We had literally just moved into the house and constructed the closets, thank you for waiting till those were done. (smile)

Wednesday morning K and I are driving home from having spent the night in the hospital for monitoring. We go to the store, stock up on food, and in the parking lot K pauses, looks at me. “My water just broke. You’re about to become a Mom.”

Heart in mouth I call your father and tell him to take the first flight out. K and I rush home, grab her bag, put food in the fridge, and head back to the hospital.

All night long I watch the monitors attached to K’s belly. My last night as an adult I wandered out at one point to eat noodles, thinking to myself, “one day I will teach this child to use chopsticks.”

Around 11 the next morning, the MD informs K that she is fully dilated and can start pushing. K looks at me, “The baby’s father is on a plane that lands in 30 minutes, can I wait to start pushing till then?”

I imagine this was not a request they heard every day.

The MD looks at K, looks at the monitor, looks at the clock, “Yes, that should be fine. The baby is not in distress.”

So, wait she did, until your father called me as he ran through the airport. “I have landed! I am running to the taxi line… oh shit, the line is long.”

“TELL THEM YOU ARE HAVING A BABY.”

“Okay, let me deal with this. I will call you when I am on my way.”

25 minutes later, we are running towards each other in the hallway. “She is pushing! This is happening!”

Then, my dearest Bean, you arrived into this world. I will never forget my first view of you. First your red hair in the birth canal and then the rest of you, squalling and wailing, so fragile and strong. The moment I became a mother. The moment you arrived as my teacher.

You are growing so fast. Elbows, wrists, and knees are everywhere. Yet it all began with you resting on my forearm as I held your tiny body in the warm shower - rubbing oil all over you before bedtime swaddling. My beloved Bean.

*When I mentioned to your Father that I was writing all of this down for you, he shared this. “We chose life for her and she also chose life with us. The statistics were very clear that this was a shot in the dark, but she made it happen for all of us.” Thank you Bean for choosing us.