They Call Me "Selfish" for Having a Surrogate

As a now 30-something woman, I've been asked about pregnancy and motherhood in pretty much every context imaginable. Even in my 20s, when I was in grad school pulling all-nighters with my thesis and barely remembering to eat or to breathe, I was asked not if, but when, I'd be having a child.

I was asked at my older sister's wedding, at academic conferences—especially once I got my PhD, because something had to come next—at pool parties when my belly was rounder than it probably should have been, even in an elevator by a stranger who seemed convinced that riding 5.2 seconds in a tiny metal box with someone entitles you to encroach on their space in all possible ways, including offering unsolicited advice on their uterus.

And why shouldn't I get pregnant? I have an incredible husband I've loved, lived, and laughed with for 20 years. We have stable work, an appropriately sized home, and a tightly woven support network eager to be involved.

I lied for nearly two decades when people asked me about having a baby. I chose words like "It's not the right time," or "We'll see..." or a very lazy "I don't know."

What I wanted to say instead was "It's not for me," or "I prefer not to," or—at the very least to the people in the elevator—"Please mind your own business?"

In my early teens, I already knew many things about myself. I knew that my brain has a quirk and lights up in Technicolor when I read or hear people speak. I knew that I had a strangely vivid memory, a perceptiveness of people's emotions that made them uncomfortable, and periods that kept me on the floor or on the toilet in agony.

I knew I wanted to live in Italy and that I wanted to be a writer. I also knew I didn't want kids. In none of the visions I had for my future was I ever a mother. When my peers would stuff basketballs under their dresses to pretend they were pregnant, I'd grab my hockey stick and run. I wasn't interested in cradling babies, cooing at babies, congratulating people for their babies.

In my 20s, then, when my doctor diagnosed me with premature ovarian failure, I didn't flinch. I had mood swings, hot flashes and very few eggs. I'd almost beaten my mom to menopause, but I was okay with that.

Sometimes I'd answer "It's not that simple," which I suppose was closer to the truth.

There is nothing simple about going against the grain in a society that expects you to procreate, to put your career second, to put your health last. There's nothing simple about the weight of denying parenthood to a partner whose eyes twinkle at the idea of raising kids.

There's nothing simple about in vitro fertilization (IVF), about endometriosis, about unraveling under the toxicity of hormones that your body cannot handle, about watching your bank account deplete and your debt rise. There's nothing simple about being the only one awake in the night—every night, for years on end—crying, vomiting, wanting out, but having to pull yourself together to come across as calm and composed to a doctor who will judge your mental stability first and your physical symptoms second.

It looked to everyone like we'd given up on parenting. But what we'd actually given up on was silencing our instincts and our freedom to fully be ourselves.

The greatest gesture of love lay in our compromise; if we were going to raise a kid together, it wouldn't be at the expense of my wellness or my wishes. If I had to choose between being sick and being childfree, I would always choose being childfree. So, we replaced me with two women: an anonymous egg donor and a non-anonymous surrogate. I won't be contributing my genes or my womb, but I promise to still offer my heart.

You can imagine that answering questions is even trickier now. Our approach is unconventional, privileged, selfish, and—to some minds—commercial to the point of being criminal.

Our surrogate, Margot, who has already done this four times before, will fiercely disagree with anyone on that last point! She remains in control of her body and her rights. She is reimbursed for her expenses beyond delivery and recovery. Her wellbeing and privacy are carefully looked after by physicians and lawyers, and her relationship with our family extends far beyond any time-bound agreement or "transaction." Simply put, our child will know Margot and our story.

Our family will never see me pregnant or see a mini version of me staring back at them, but we feel so good about this. Though it's scary to see our savings dwindle again and to learn to trust like we've never trusted before, we are happy.

I don't dodge the questions anymore. I straighten my posture and say it like it is.

No, she won't decide to keep the child.
Yes, I will still bond with the baby even if he doesn't grow inside me.
No, I won't just relax and get pregnant at the same time as our surrogate, that's just not how it works.
Maybe our kid will have my eyes and hair and skin, but it'll be pure coincidence if he does!

And to the stranger in the elevator who insists that it's unnatural and selfish and a real shame to have made the decisions we've made, I will follow the truth with five simple words: "Please mind your own business."

Kristina Kasparian is a writer, consultant, and health activist with a PhD in neurolinguistics.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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