Sometimes I get in my car and forget to turn the radio on.
Some days the brief silence is refreshing and renews my soul.
Lately, any moment of silence leads my thoughts to the same place.
I REALLY DID THIS.
I had another woman’s egg placed in my body.
I carried a baby that wasn’t mine.
I gave birth to someone else’s baby.
I handed them their baby and went home alone.
I REALLY DID THIS.
If you find me staring into space and can’t shake me out of my thoughts, that’s where I am.
I keep meaning to ask my other surrogate friends if they get stuck in these moments too.
I’ve said before that the whole things feels like a dream, and that still hasn’t changed. I can’t believe it actually happened.
I have that whole feeling of the world spinning around me while I’m standing still.
While I was pregnant, people would arbitrarily ask when I was due. It was my outlet to talk about being a surrogate and make surrogacy more mainstream. I loved that part.
Now 6 weeks postpartum no one has any clue what I just went through and did. (That sounds as if it has a negative connotation.. it doesn’t, I promise.) I see a newborn and ask one of the parents how old they are, when they say 6 weeks I want to shout “I HAD A BABY 6 WEEKS AGO, TOO.” But I don’t. I just smile.
One of my best surrogate friends was commenting, as we both inhaled bites of froyo, how there are pregnant women and newborns EVERYWHERE. How the two of us were JUST pregnant, but no one knows that. In turn, I lamented how great I feel and feel like I look after just 6 weeks, but when you’re not carrying a baby no one comments how great you look for just being 6 weeks postpartum. No one has any idea.
Do you think a forehead tattoo is too radical?
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