Page 30 of Sassy Surrogate
Between Danica and me, I’m not sure who’s more tightly wound over this consultation. The news that the first attempt was unsuccessful was a hard blow for me. However, it’s her I’m more concerned about. I could see the guilt and pain in her eyes.
When I approached her with this proposal, I’d never stopped to consider how all of this would affect her. She’d been going through a rough patch, and I thought it’d be the perfect solution for us both. A win-win. Now I’m not so sure.
I’ve never been prone to fits of nervousness, but recently I find myself worrying about everything. What if this doesn’t work? What if it does? Is Danica doing okay? And for the first time ever, I can’t imagine what my life will look like without a woman in it. More specifically, without her in it.
That was never part of the plan. Developing feelings for my surrogate wasn’t something I factored into my planning. In my mind, it was all cut and dried. She’d deliver a healthy baby, for which she’d be handsomely remunerated. I, in turn, would take full custody of the child, and the two of us would live happily ever after while Danica got on with living her own life.
Yet, here I am, looking forward to sharing breakfast with her in the mornings and coming home to her from the office in the evenings. I can’t wait to tell her about the wheeling and dealing that’s a part of my business day, and I love the idea of her in my space, my home.
What eats at me is what happens when this is all over. Our agreement is to go our separate ways once the baby is born. In my experience, a child is no guarantee that a woman will stay. My mother certainly didn’t. Would Danica be any different? Maybe she would. Question is, am I brave enough to find out?
I’m saved from examining my feelings on the topic by the return of the doctor.
“Sorry to keep you waiting folks. I know today’s a big day, so let’s not delay any further.” She takes a seat at her desk and quickly scans a form clipped to the outer cover of our file. “Well then. It seems congratulations are in order. You’re pregnant, Danica. Without a scan, it’s difficult to say with any certainty, but I would estimate around ten weeks pregnant. So, nearly through that tricky first trimester.”
These are the words I’ve prayed to hear, still they take me by surprise. I can’t believe we’ve done it. I want to jump to my feet and bang on my chest, like I’m the first man to ever impregnate a woman. At the same time, I want to be ill on my shoes as the enormity of the doctor’s words slowly starts to sink in.
When her words are met with nothing but silence, she laughs. “I see you’re both a little shocked by the news. Maybe if we go on through to the exam room and you get a look at your baby, it will seem a little more real to you.”
The doctor gets to her feet and indicates for us to precede her. At the door to the room, she directs Danica to the bed and shows me where I can stand for the best view of the little monitor. Once Danica has settled on the bed, the doctor lifts her top.
“I’m going to squirt some of this gel on your stomach to assist the sensor on the wand. It’s going to be cold on your warm skin.”
She squeezes a large dollop of the colourless gel onto Danica’s still flat belly, and, despite the warning, Danica still hisses in discomfort. “Wow, that reallyiscold.”
Grinning over at her, the doctor places a strangely shaped contraption on the smooth skin, and immediately, a loud pounding fills the room.
“What’s that sound?” Danica asks.
“A sound I never get tired of hearing,” is the doctor’s prompt response. “That, folks, is the sound of your baby’s heart beating. And this,” she continues, pointing at the little monitor, “this little nugget is your baby.”
My eyes track the movement of the doctor’s finger on the monitor, and when I spot the grainy bean shape she’s pointing to, I’m transfixed. A wave of emotion so strong it rocks me back on my heels hits me out of nowhere, and the room suddenly feels devoid of air. I can’t seem to draw a proper breath. That’s when I feel a gentle touch on my hand.
Looking over at Danica lying on the bed, my gaze finds and clings to hers like a lifeline. I see none of the panic and all of the wonder reflected in her beautiful grey eyes. She squeezes my hand and gives me the softest smile, and I feel myself tumble over the precipice.
It’s been so gradual, that inexorable slide toward the edge I didn’t even notice it was happening until this very moment. Danica has been a ray of sunshine in an otherwise grey life. Her happy laughter and gentle caring, along with that sassy mouth of hers, has slowly filled my home with colour and joy, I now can’t imagine her not being there. When I wasn’t paying attention, she stole my heart.
To the point that, right there, in a dimly lit room, the sound of our baby’s heart ringing out loud and clear, I feel myself fall all the way in love with this tiny woman with the heart of a lion. The last thing I was looking for. Emotional entanglement leads to nothing but heartache because, God knows, the day she walks away, she’ll take my heart with her.
The wave of panic that receded at her touch now floods back in, stronger than ever, and an overwhelming need to get the hell out of the room has me backing toward the door before my brain even has time to catch up.
“It… that… wow, it’s… I…” I can’t seem to form a complete sentence. Out of space, I bump into the door behind me and blindly search for the handle.
The last thing I see before running, like the cowardly bastard that I am, is the look of confusion and anguish on Danica’s face. But even that isn’t enough to make me stay. In fact, it spurs me on.
By the time I reach the lobby of the clinic, I’m breathing as if I’ve just run a marathon. I yank the door open, dashing out onto the sidewalk. Turning left, with no fixed destination in mind, I take off at a fast clip down the sidewalk. The need to escape is strong. Vaguely, I hear Kieran calling my name and walk a little faster.
I need to get away for a minute. Find somewhere I can take a moment and regroup.
It’s been a lot of years since I suffered a panic attack. Jesus, even the words make me feel weak. Emasculate me. But much as I hate it, that’s exactly what it is. Without conscious thought, I find myself dialling my dad. I have a sudden yearning to talk to him.
“Hello?” The rich rumble of his voice instantly soothes the jagged edges.
“Hey, Dad. How are you?”
“Hello, my boy. Doing well, doing well. You know how it goes. How are things your side?” Mundane utterings, but so desperately needed.
Not paying attention to where I’m going, I wander aimlessly only to find myself beside a park. The sound of children’s laughter rings out and catches my attention. My father’s words fade as I stare at the sight of them running around, some playing tag, others on the swings or slide.
