Yesterday, I attended a virtual awards ceremony on Twitter. It was hosted by WEGOHealth.com, which is a powerful social media network for health activists. A few weeks ago, fellow blogger Keiko had nominated me for the Best Affirmation Post award* for my post “The Truth About Trying.” Out of 15 nominees, the WEGO editorial team chose me as one of the four finalists. An amazing post written by Christine Miserandino called “The Spoon Theory” was awarded the top prize, but I still felt like a winner.
Today, one blogger told another blogger to reach out to me for some advice concerning embarking on a surrogacy journey. This happens occasionally, but it’s been a long time since someone has sought me out to give surrogacy-related advice. We arranged a phone call, and I spent the better part of an hour answering various questions about legalities, matching, and various issues concerning independent vs. agency surrogacy arrangements. I hung up knowing that I’d helped a couple in their decision-making process and that I’d given some solid, actionable advice to help them along their way. Little did she know, she’d helped me along my way, too.
Tomorrow morning, Nyoni and Mo – my last IPs before my retirement from surrogacy – will finally get to hold their long-awaited baby in their arms. I never shared this with you, but immediately after the close of our journey, I was able to facilitate a new surrogacy match for Ny and Mo. After one failed fresh transfer and one failed FET (‘frozen embryo transfer’ for my new, non-IF friends), they were finally successful on a fresh IVF w/PGD cycle. Friday night, Ny and I had a lengthy phone chat to touch bases before she’s sucked into the welcome, but one-track-mind Baby Vortex. “You did this,” she said. “Maybe you weren’t able to help us in the way we all hoped that you could, but we wouldn’t be having a son right now if it wasn’t for you.”
In 2011, I wasn’t an “active” infertile. There were no RE appointments. There was no calendar-watching or clock-looking. There were no injections, no stirrups, no ultrasounds, no screenings, no finger-crossing.
There was no story to tell.
And somewhere along the way, I began to feel like there was no purpose to left to serve. Over time, it was laden not with a depressive weight, but rather with a sense of irrelevance. I’d resigned to quiet my empty, reaching hands and let them rest on the unfinished honor of what my heart wanted but my body was not allowed to do.
The strange confluence of this week’s events seem to deliver a message which I am hearing loud and clear:
You matter, you’re relevant, and you can still make things happen in this community. Be active.
Though I recognized that voicing my experiences and opinions here could be considered activism, I (oddly enough) never thought to apply the identifier to myself.
This is something that I should not squander.
*I totally realize that I outed myself through this link. Nicetomeetcha.