Having another child seemed like a lost cause for Brian Rutter and his wife. They found a solution, and it might surprise you.
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The miles melted away as we made our way from the shores of Long Island Sound through the hills of Pennsylvania. While the trip ran just under 500 miles, it seemed like a lifetime in the making.
For nearly a decade, we had complete tunnel vision about having children. Our days and nights, bodies and souls were consumed by a desire for a house full of children. And now light at the end of that long, long tunnel.
The first four years of near misses and miscarriages had led to our daughter, born at 24 ½ weeks, weighing 715 grams. Nearly four months in the NICU with more ups and downs than a roller coaster. But here she sat, nearly six years old in the back of our station wagon, happy and healthy, sharing our shared journey.
After a two-year break to rest our minds and my wife’s body, and also to concentrate on our new baby girl, we started anew. Two more years of in vitro and depleting our investments and income led to a second daughter, also born at 24 ½ weeks. We thought we were prepared again for the twists and turns of prematurity but found ourselves ill prepared when our second daughter died two days after birth.
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Why had we been so unrealistic about the probable outcome of such an early birth? Did we believe miracles happened in twos and threes and fours? Devastated and depleted of hope and faith, we hobbled home to find comfort in our daughter and ourselves.
I was done. One healthy child was more than I could ask for or expect. No more, I thought. But my wife, who had been poked and prodded from top to bottom and everywhere in between, was ready, willing… and able to see our lives down the road. Adoption, surrogacy, all options were on the table.
Surrogacy was where we began. Doctors, lawyers, medical chiefs — we spoke and met with so many. We scoured the Web, losing our minds in commentary and conclusions. We met with a shady character in Manhattan who wanted an arm and leg (and our house) to find us a match. We ran back to our suburban home with our hearts in our hands.
Finally, we met our match. Our surrogate appeared when all seemed lost. A woman of faith who has carried four times before. Who understood our unrelenting desire for children. Who could make the almost-impossible possible.
And then, the opportunity seemed lost. Waiting at Kennedy Airport for her flight to arrive, the fog set in and grounded everything from east to west, north to south. We drove home at midnight in utter silence, unable to see the road or our future. What lie ahead remained back at the Pittsburgh airport.
The morning broke with a phone call that caught us by surprise. Neither rain nor sleet nor fog would keep our potential, dedicated carrier and soon-to-be lifelong friend from us. She was on the first flight. Off to Kennedy we flew. What lie ahead was heading in our direction.
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After two in vitro attempts with our surrogate, we were on our way from one end of Pennsylvania to another, and then to Wheeling, West Virginia. Because our surrogate was waiting. Because our child inside her was waiting. The first sonogram, first OB/GYN appointment… the first chance to meet our surrogate’s extended family.
I was worried. I’m sometimes like that famous New Yorker poster where there’s New York and California and nothing in between. A cross between Mel Brooks and Woody Allen, I come across as Borscht Belt comic in Connecticut clothes. How would I play on the farm?
Because we were going to visit our surrogate’s husband’s family on their farm. I knew my wife, with her quiet nature, her revelatory way of anticipating situations and reactions, would steer clear of conversational potholes. They would love her.
Me? Would my quick wit alienate or be misconstrued? Could my self-effacing, unrestrained commentary leave me stammering in a barren wasteland? As I drew closer to the farm, I worried that we had come so far — would I change the course of our lives with a single unbridled quip?
Just as we reached the farm, a small, whispery voice began to sing from our backseat. We strained to listen to what our daughter was harmonizing. Raffi? Bye, Bye, Bye? Carole King (my wife’s influence)?
I hit the brakes, almost barreling us into a tractor rut. She was singing “Dayenu.” The song we sing during the Passover Seder. We were in shock. Not truly religious (my wife’s great-grandmother once served a ham during Passover), we had enrolled our daughter in Hebrew school the previous fall. It was almost a year later. Why Dayenu? Why now?
And then we started to laugh. Really laugh for the first time in a long time. It was the right song at the right time. For it was a collective prayer of gratitude, thanking God for all he has bestowed. All he had given to us.
With our beautiful and healthy daughter with us, and a future child on his or her way, we realized we had everything to be thankful for, so much to be grateful for. Because everything we wanted from life awaited us down on the farm.
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Photo credit: Dennis Jarvis/flickr
All the best…
What a journey! Best wishes for you and your family.