Mommy Man (10 page)

Susie was too proud to accept anyone’s help. She turned down rides, job leads, cash, and gifts, just about anything that had the whiff of charity. But at the same time, she was outrageously generous in return. It was yet another way she resembled her brother. Each holiday season, she turned her family’s attic into her own version of Santa’s workshop, using her creative skills to make gorgeous gifts for everyone on her list. She once loaned a boyfriend thousands of dollars to buy furniture, money none of us even knew she had and which he flaked out on repaying after they broke up.

This was another running theme in Susie’s life: loser boyfriends. Everyone in the family remembered the stoner who came over for dinner and sat down in the dining room barefoot. We all witnessed the pretentious jerk who ruined Christmas by mocking a painting she’d made for him. Her dating history was a who’s who of Rochester’s Least Wanted.

She was the kind of young woman parents worry about—She’s so wonderful, why can’t she meet a man worthy of her? Then, a year ago, it finally happened. Prince Charming breezed in from out of town and swept her off her feet. His name was Jack, and he was sweet, handsome, and loving. Susie was a perfect fit for his glass slipper, and he never treated her like less than his queen. Jack had the most family-friendly career imaginable: nature photographer. He got paid to fly around the country and take pictures of animals. His idea of a fun date was to take Susie bird watching. To Drew’s mom, who’d had their suburban backyard declared a wildlife preserve, he was better than a doctor or a lawyer. He was a nice man, who had arrived to rescue our wounded bird.

Susie and Jack talked about moving in together, and pretty soon, that became talk of moving away together. Jack wanted to go to Berkeley, on the other side of the country, to start a new life, just the two of them. It was exactly the Happily Ever After that Susie had been dreaming of.

They didn’t like being away from each other, so when Jack went home to Iowa to visit his family, he promised to call every day. Her phone never rang. At first, Susie figured he was just busy catching up with old friends and spending quality time with his family. A day went by, then another. Jack didn’t return Susie’s voice mails or reply to her texts. She was heartbroken, terrified, and completely paralyzed. She didn’t know how else to contact him. All she could do was wait.

Finally, an email arrived. It came from Jack’s mailbox, but it was written by his father. He used Jack’s cell phone to compose a message to everyone in his son’s address book. The list of recipients went on for pages. Susie was as unknown to this man as any of these miscellaneous contacts. “To all those who knew my beloved son,” it began. She couldn’t bear to read further.

Instead, she looked up a phone number for Jack’s best friend and frantically dialed him to find out what the hell had happened. It took all of Susie’s strength just to keep the phone to her ear as he told her the story.

In Iowa, Jack had been hanging out with some of his old buddies from the neighborhood, guys he hadn’t seen in years. They convinced him to partake in one of their favorite pastimes from back in the day: shooting heroin. Susie had no idea Jack used to be a junkie. It was the kind of detail someone might hide if they were enjoying the rush of a new love and trying desperately not to mess it up. Apparently, when he was using, Jack had built up quite a tolerance to the stuff and needed a really strong dose to get sufficiently high.

Nobody told Jack that, after you’ve been clean for a while, you can’t go back to that same dosage. While his friends floated away to their happy place, Jack’s body began to shut down. He O.D.’ed.

Susie’s worst fear was confirmed: Prince Charming was dead.

Susie never suspected a trip back home could end in her boyfriend’s funeral. She was stunned, furious, and heartbroken, all at once. She kept a tiny picture of Jack taped to a corkboard in her bedroom. He was standing in the woods, a camera bag slung over one shoulder, a weathered brown hat on his head, laughing. It reminded her of the way she knew him. Keeping it up was a necessary torture for her. The pain reminded her of the joy, and that was all she had left of the guy who was going to change her life. Months after Jack died, Susie still cried every day. All you had to do was ask her how she was doing, and she might tear up.

Years earlier, Susie had told Drew and me that she’d give us her eggs if we ever wanted them. She blurted it out casually, the way people say, “When I win the lottery, I’m going to buy you a house.” It was natural, as we were searching for a donor, that her offer would spring to mind, but the timing j
ust didn’t seem right. How would the conversation go? “Hey, Susie, you know all that happiness you deserve and have been struggling so hard to find? Well, great news. We’ve figured out a way you can have it . . . and immediately give it away to us.”

We knew exactly what would happen if we popped the question. Before we even finished asking, Susie would answer yes. Whatever Drew might need from her, she’d be happy to give. Her own emotions were secondary at best. She’d always been more interested in other people’s happiness than her own. But was it really the right thing for her to do?

It was the night before our meeting with Kristen Lander that we finally forced ourselves to decide. To ask or not to ask.

“I’m leaning toward yes,” I admitted, smiling nervously.

Drew sighed and closed his eyes, struggling with his conscience. “I’ve made up my mind,” he said, finally. “I can’t do it.”

With that, the decision was made. Drew knew his sister, and I trusted his judgment. I dreaded the thought of returning to the online databases. Maybe I could think outside the box—place an ad on Craigslist, set up a “Men Seeking Egg Donor” blog. There had to be a solution.

All of that would have to wait, though, because we had a meeting to prepare for. We opened Kristen Lander’s file for a quick refresher course on a woman we’d come face-to-face with in just a few hours.

8

How We Met Your M-Word

O
n the morning
of my fifth anniversary with Drew, I woke up with a strange man in my bed.

“She’s going to hate us! She’s too perfect! Why are we doing this?”

He looked like Drew. He smelled like Drew smells in the morning. He was even wearing that pit-stained, torn-up English springer spaniel shirt Drew wore to bed every fucking night. But this was not the man I’d fallen in love with.

“I’m such an idiot! I’ve built my hopes up too high! We want this too much!”

Over the last five years, I’d seen Drew hit this level of panic a few times before. When we bought our condo. When he left MTV to start a new job. When he left that job to start another new job. He didn’t handle major life changes well, and I’d made the mistake in the past of trying to talk him down. The best thing to do was to stay calm, agree with everything he said, and be the one thing in his life that’s not aggravating the hell out of him. That was my surefire recipe for an anxiety exorcism.

The problem was, we didn’t have much time. In four short hours, we would be face-to-face with the woman who might someday make us dads. So it was that we kicked off a milestone day in our relationship with a trip to couples counseling.

“What if she finds out we can barely afford this? What if she learns what a shitty school district we live in? Do you know Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker are having a baby with a surrogate? Why would anyone pick us, when they could have a celebrity baby?” Drew clutched his hands so tightly around a throw pillow that I was sure I was about to get hit with flying goose feathers.

Thankfully, this was Mindy Stanhope, M.A., we were talking to, the woman who gleefully declared the first time we met her, “You guys are awesome!” She listened patiently while Drew voiced his ten bajillion fears, not at all concerned for her upholstery.

“I can’t do this. Let’s adopt! Let’s just be uncles! Why are we having kids at all? I’m not sure I believe gays should have kids. There, I said it!”

“How much do you know about her?” Mindy asked, calmly.

“Everything! It’s all on her application!”

“And don’t you think she learned a lot about you from your application?”

Drew shrugged. “I don’t know. He filled it out.”

As Mindy tamed Drew’s demons, I zoned out. I had too much on my own mind, like wondering if we’d get to meet Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker at the Rainbow Extensions family picnic. That would be so cool.

By the end of the fifty minutes, Mindy had worked her magic. Drew was back to his old self, still nervous but ready to turn on the charm and win Kristen over.

On our way out the door, Mindy wished us luck, then scooted back to her desk, giggling. “One more thing, guys!” she squeaked. She handed us a box of fancy chocolates, wrapped beautifully with a decorative bow. “Happy anniversary!” she beamed.

I threw my arms around Mindy and squeezed her tiny frame. It was so generous, so thoughtful. It was the edible equivalent of, “You guys are awesome!” For the first time in therapy, I almost cried—and I started to wonder: Had we overlooked the most obvious egg donor of all? It seemed so unethical, but if a therapist could gift us with candy, why not an ovum or two? I had to shake myself out of it. This wonderful woman had done something nice for us, and here I was mentally fertilizing her with my eyes. What had I become?

Drew and I shook our heads as we got into the elevator. “That was so sweet of Mindy,” Drew said.

“The sweetest.”

“I just fucking love her.”

I looked down at the box. No one had ever given me fancy chocolates before, and I never knew how happy it could make me feel.

“How’d ya know I’s a chocaholic?” Kristen warbled, as I handed her the box in the conference room of Rainbow Extensions. She tore the ribbon off and started poking around inside with her index finger. “Any rum nuggets in here?”

We had just sat down in the Rainbow Extensions conference room. Kristen looked just like her pictures, only less smiley, slightly thinner, and her mouth less perfectly formed to say, “Cheese.”

She sat beside her husband, Paco, who slumped so far backward in his chair he was practically using it as a bed. He said hello with a barely perceptible nod of the head and a rhino-like grumble. He steadfastly refused to get up, as if to let the gay guys know there would be no hugging whatsoever.

Oh, poor Paco. He didn’t know the effect Drew and I had on people. Maybe Kristen’s previous gays had bought into his baller act, but we were going to scoop out the teddy bear that was surely lurking below the surface and make him love us. In a few months, every visit with us would be a hug-a-palooza. By the time our baby was born, we’d be the guests of honor at his familia fiestas, where his relatives fly up from Mexico just for a taste of his famous homemade hot sauce. “Viva Drew y Jerry!” they’d all shout as they raised their glasses of Tecate and spiked horchata.

Sure, sit on your hands now, Paco. I know where this is headed.

Our caseworker Maxwell glanced down at a clipboard, which contained detailed instructions on how he was supposed to conduct this meeting. “Kristen,” he said, resting his finger on item number 1. “Tell us why you decided to become a surrogate.”

Kristen shrugged. “I like havin’ babies. I’m good at it.” There was a slight pause and then, “I know how happy it’ll make ’em.” She motioned toward us to indicate who she meant by “’em.”

Then it was our turn. “Drew and Jerry, why do you want to be parents?”

That was the question, at least. All Drew heard was, “You can talk now.”

“First of all, thank you for driving up here from San Diego to meet us,” he began. “I know the 405 is hell at this hour. I’m just blown away thinking about what’s brought us together today. I mean, did you ever think you’d be driving up to Los Angeles to have a baby for a couple of gays? Paco, are you the husband of the year or what?”

Maxwell cut him off. “Guys, we have a lot to cover in this meeting.”

Drew just kept yapping. “By the way, your kids are gorgeous. Okay, what grades are they in, starting with Joshua?”

Maxwell glanced at the clock. “We usually suggest that everyone go out afterward to get to know each other better. This meeting is primarily intended to discuss the implications of . . .”

Kristen cut him off, assuring Drew, “We’ll talk at lunch.”

I realized Drew never addressed Maxwell’s original question, about why we wanted to be parents. “I’m terrified of kids,” I confessed. I immediately realized that was probably not the best way to start, but it got everyone’s attention. “What I mean is, the way people get tongue-tied when they meet a celebrity, I sometimes get that way with kids, because everything we take for granted is something new and amazing for them. I’m so impressed by the things kids do. I think, ‘Wow! He knows all the Pokemons!’ or ‘She can count to ten in Spanish!’ You know how a kid at the playground will say, ‘Mommy, watch this!’ and then they hang upside down from the monkey bars or something? And the mom doesn’t even look up from talking to her friend or sending a text? I’m sitting there thinking, ‘That’s awesome! Do it again!’ I told myself when I have a kid, I’m always going to watch them on the monkey bars.

“But Drew—you should see him with kids. I’ve never met anyone as good with kids as him. He gets them. It doesn’t matter how old they are, whether they’re shy or outgoing, geeks or jocks, he knows just what to say, just how to make them laugh. Put him in a room with a kid, and he’ll be their best friend within thirty seconds. I don’t know how he does it. But any little boy or girl who has Drew as a dad is going to be the luckiest kid in the world. He needs to be a dad, and I need to be a dad with him because I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.”

Drew clutched my hand tightly. Kristen smiled. Maxwell made a check mark on his clipboard. “Okay, next question.”

I soon realized we’d just been asked the only two icebreakers on Maxwell’s list. The meeting then took an immediate and very dark turn. The real purpose of this introductory session was to make sure the surrogate and the intended parents were all on the same page regarding any issues that may arise during the pregnancy. What if the fetus tests positive for a genetic disease? What if there are birth defects? Down syndrome? What tests would we be willing to perform, and what actions would we be willing to take?

They were just hypotheticals, but we needed to provide definitive answers. The only thing worse than learning your fetus had health issues would be to find out your surrogate had different views on how to handle them. Every decision parents face in only the worst-case scenario we had to make up front.

It was terrifying—to us, at least. Kristen had been through a meeting just like this the last time she’d been a surrogate, so she was quick with her answers.

“No, no, oh yeah, yeah, I don’t care, fine, whatever, you bet, it’s the IPs’ decision.”

“IPs?” I asked.

“Intended parents,” she muttered. “That’s you.” She laughed. “Forgot you’re first-timers.” Nothing phased her—until we got to the subject of multiples.

“I’m not havin’ triplets!” she barked. “Twins, okay, because it’s not mandatory bed rest. But triplets is mandatory bed rest, and I’m not goin’ on bed rest, so I’m not havin’ triplets.”

It was the most we’d heard come out of her mouth since we met her, and we soon learned why.

Kristen’s last surrogacy had begun with three embryos successfully attaching to the wall of her uterus. Out of a mutual agreement with the intended parents, she underwent a process called “selective reduction,” in which one of the implanted embryos was unimplanted. So it came to pass that she gave birth to twins.

The procedure was painful physically and emotionally, but as much as she wanted to avoid going through it again, it was preferable to the alternative. “I’m not havin’ triplets!”

Kristen’s aversion wasn’t just a matter of comfort. We’d been warned about the risks of higher-order multiples ever since signing with Rainbow Extensions. Having three fetuses greatly increases the chance of extremely premature delivery, cerebral palsy, breathing problems, low birth weight, and a host of other complications. The Rainbow Extensions insurance company refused to cover pregnancies involving more than two fetuses. If you took the risk of triplets, you were on your own.

It was hard not to think about parents who chose to have even more than three kids at one time. Didn’t anyone warn them they were playing Russian roulette with their uterus? We had to agree with Kristen. Two fetuses, tops.

On the other questions, we deferred to what we came to consider the Golden Rule of IPs: our fetus, our choice; her body, her choice. If a doctor recommended an amnio, that was about the health of the fetus, so we’d want Kristen to comply. But when Maxwell asked us how we felt about epidurals, we didn’t hesitate. “She can have all the drugs she wants.”

We were well aware of the controversy surrounding epidurals and how the neonatal Nazis come out and judge you if you dare to get one. But we were men. We could only imagine what the pain of delivering a baby was like, and if sitcoms were any indication, it was hilariously extreme. Who were we to force a woman to undergo the maximum agony of childbirth because we’d read a few articles in
Newsweek
? Allowing our surrogate an epidural if she so desired seemed like the feminist thing to do.

Unfortunately, the Golden Rule didn’t always apply so neatly. There was one topic in particular that rested directly at the awkward intersection between Kristen’s body and our fetus, and it was a biggie. Abortion. No one actually said the A-word, of course, but we recognized its euphemisms, like “termination” and “selective reduction.”

Drew and I are both pro-choice, but that’s easy to say when you know you’ll never have to make the choice yourself. We were gay men. What were the odds we’d ever be faced with an unwanted pregnancy? Surrogacy would allow us into a woman’s body and give us a say in how she handled it. The thought of telling her to terminate a pregnancy made me queasy.

Maxwell ran down his list of nightmare scenarios, asking us over and over to make the choice that’s fueled a thousand court decisions. When is a life no longer worth living? What risks are we willing to take with our child’s well-being? When would we decide what this woman should do with her body?

I don’t know! I just want a healthy baby!

We’d gone in expecting a friendly meet-and-greet, but it turned out to be the most emotionally draining hour of my life. Drew and I were practically shaking. In just under sixty minutes, we’d mourned our hypothetical fetus dozens of times. But through it all, Kristen never cracked. She was so professional about everything, so straightforward and confident in her choices. As we left the room, we thanked her for helping us stay calm. She just shrugged. “It’s all the same questions from last time.”

Our next stop was lunch. The place we picked was exactly the place the last guys had taken her the first time they’d met. Kristen remembered it well and didn’t even need a menu. “I’m stickin’ with the tuna salad,” she bellowed. “It’s pretty good.”

As her iced tea arrived, Kristen noticed we were still reeling from the barrage of nightmare scenarios, so she shook her head and laughed. “None of that shit’s gonna happen, guys,” she said. “Can ya pass the Splenda?”

Pretty soon, we’d managed to lock the meeting away in our memory dungeons. There was important business at hand, namely, getting to know the woman who would change our lives.

Drew barraged Kristen and Paco with questions. “What are your kids like?” “What do you do for fun?” “Have you been to Legoland?”

Kristen handled it just like she had the meeting. Calmly, methodically, using the bare minimum of words required to answer. There were a few things she loved in life. She loved Paco, who she described as warm, sensitive, and so much nicer than her previous husband. She loved to hit the clubs. “I’m a dancer!” she declared and waved her hands over her head.

But most of all, she loved her kids. Being a surrogate allowed her to stay home and raise them, which made it the best job in the world. She loved her surro-kids, too. They lived up here in L.A., so while she was here, she planned to swing by and see them. She pulled a picture up on her phone. “The one dad’s Japanese,” she said, as if their ethnicity needed explaining. “They used a Japanese egg donor so the kids’d be half Asian.”