Labour of Love Read online

  Contents

  1 Love, courage and small beginnings

  2 Decisions, decisions – but what if . . . ?

  3 Open heart, open eyes

  4 Hello, nice to meet you. Yes, I’ll have your baby!

  5 Mothers, mates and marathons

  6 A collective love

  7 Healthy, happy, willing

  8 Risk . . . are you prepared?

  9 A birth, legalities and needles

  10 Little disappointments, new friends and Beyoncé

  11 Goodbye, 2013 . . . Hello, 2014

  12 One embryo, one transfer, one life

  13 Baby JJ . . . are you positive?

  14 Precious life, a holiday and Chinese takeaway

  15 A kidney bean and a heartbeat

  16 Stick with me

  17 Trouble in paradise

  18 Nice to meet you, Baby JJ

  19 Om Shanti, baby

  20 A ‘good weekend’ away in Byron Bay

  21 A dream, the stars, and a baby

  22 Cosmo, negativity and sickness

  23 Twinkle, twinkle, little star, do you know how small you are?

  24 Cankles, a pendant, and celebrating Baby JJ

  25 Spinning babies and the internal connection

  26 Somewhere over the rainbow

  27 Pack your bags, you’re having someone else’s baby

  28 Induction is not to be feared . . . right?

  29 Can I find my happy place?

  30 A gift is given – 26 November 2014

  31 Gratitude, love and light

  Epilogue

  Letter to Elsie

  Acknowledgements

  Further information

  About Shannon Garner

  For all the love I hold in my heart;

  for Jaxon, Keira and Elsie

  ‘Love is not something we give or get;

  it is something that we nurture and grow,

  a connection that can only be cultivated

  between two people

  when it exists

  within each one of them – we can only

  love others as much as we love ourselves.’

  Brené Brown

  1

  Love, courage and small beginnings

  In a little cream cottage behind a white picket fence in the small town I’ve called home all thirty-five years of my life, I sit alone. Without the demands of family, the place is quiet, apart from the whir of the washing machine, the tick of a swirling fan, the hum of my computer. Cars speed past on the busy road, and as I glance out of the window marked with sticky fingerprints the sky is awash with grey clouds, a light breeze tickling the weeping bamboo that sways in my garden as if to wave hello. From timber photo frames displayed on the desk, faces smile at me – my husband and our two children – the sweet smell of lilies wafting through the house. I turn towards three vases filled with beautiful bunches of brightly coloured flowers, cards arrayed across the sideboard offering Congratulations and one huge Thank you. I straighten my back, stretch my neck and contemplate the past eleven days.

  Eleven days since I gave birth to a baby girl. I think about the decision I made, how the dedication of one year of my life has changed the lives of so many people I now care for very deeply. My heart swells with joy when I think about baby Elsie: those tiny waxy toes, precious hands, that barely there breath, and the smell of her skin I wish I could somehow bottle so I never forget. The way she sucks on her fingers and, when disturbed, puckers those plump, deep pink lips in protest makes me smile now.

  Elsie is the result of a decision I made, and she’s exactly what I had hoped for and dreamed of, an idea thrown out into the universe in one giant leap of faith. She’s beautiful, perfect and not mine to keep.

  This is my surrogacy story, one of hope, courage, love and, most importantly, trust. A story that started with baby steps, tentative and cautious, and then gained strength and the power to change lives, connect strangers, and form a family where there was once little hope. Just as a baby struggles through their first shaky steps, I struggled, stumbled and fell. But each time I got back up by finding my calming centre and remembering my purpose. I was giving something to a couple who would possibly never otherwise experience parenthood, igniting a light in their hearts that would burn within them forever.

  I could be that person.

  I could summon that light, bright and powerful.

  I could make that difference.

  2

  Decisions, decisions – but what if . . . ?

  Offering to be a gestational surrogate wasn’t a decision I took lightly. It wasn’t spur of the moment, or the yearning of a mother whose own family was complete to relive the wonderment of a new life evolving inside her. My reasons ran deeper, coursing through me like a rapid river every time I thought about the longing and grief others must feel if, for whatever reason, they were unable to have children of their own. I felt their pain as if it burned inside me, too. Born of that pain was the resolve to help. Becoming a surrogate was something I could do.

  But the decision could not be mine alone. I had a husband and two wonderful, lively children – not to mention my own health – to consider. I also had to think about the child that I’d bring into the world, and about my relationship with that child before and after the birth, and with the intended parents. I dwelled on the dangers, tried to calculate the risks, weighed up the pros and the ever-mounting cons, and examined my own need to be a surrogate. Before me was a growing pile of considerations I’d have to sift through to discover potential threats and disentangle all the what ifs. I had to be sure that surrogacy was a good thing for me and my family, and that my decision was made for the right reasons. But the reality was: how could I know? Never before had I been responsible for carrying a baby that wasn’t my own.

  As if the rollercoaster of emotions around a regular pregnancy wasn’t crazy enough, Australia’s sometimes confusing and arduous surrogacy process would undoubtedly add a few more ups and downs. I had to be as certain as possible, prepare myself physically, and believe I could cope emotionally with whatever happened.

  In 2013, I celebrated my thirty-third birthday. My biological clock was ticking away, and I’d started to examine my life. My greatest achievements thus far were my own children: Jaxon, then aged four, and Keira, two – my children are my world and as they grow, negotiating life, they are mine to teach, to guide, and hopefully to draw from them the goodness I know resides in their souls. When I became mother to Jaxon I knew I existed for my child, not solely for him, but somehow I felt complete when I first held my baby boy, we were connected, his heartbeat existing in my own. Keira arrived less than two years later and that same warm and fuzzy feeling wrapped around me. Their mops of black hair, pudgy cheeks and the touch of their soft pink skin made me euphoric.

  From a young age I knew I’d have children. As a lanky fifteen-year-old I sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor speculating about them. I’d daydreamed, imagining their personalities, their quirks. Even then I felt a strong connection with the little people I hadn’t yet met, as if they were already there in some other realm, waiting for me, waiting for their time. Scribbled into the pages of my journal were promises to my future children. I wrote down how much I already loved them, and even though I didn’t know when our paths would cross, I promised that when the time was right I’d be ready, my arms open and my heart full of love.

  Reflecting back on those moments as a teenager, I see now that there was something spiritual – something significantly bigger than me – in my desire to have children, in my sense of purpose. In hindsight, I believe this purpose was to help others have a family, but I couldn’t have truly understood that back then. I only knew one day motherhood would make me feel worthwhile, whole.
I’d be important to others – a husband, the children I gave life to – and they would all be ever so important to me.

  Over the years, navigating my own motherly journey while ankle deep in toys, washing smelly cloth nappies, tackling prams that refused to cooperate, leafing through copious baby books, and blitzing endless supplies of organic baby food, I had watched the struggles of couples around me desperate to have a baby. Often when they did finally fall pregnant, loss and grief followed. The despair in their faces touched me deeply, urging me to help, even if that just meant offering two-bit advice such as how to track your cycle by the moon or eat for fertility. I lent women fertility books I no longer needed, or directed them to websites, hoping the information would help them claw their way out of the deep hole they found themselves in. And there I was standing on the edge of that hole, shouting down frustrating bits of information, all the while with a kid on each hip, safely on the surface and enjoying motherhood.

  After a social occasion with one such couple, I went home, sat on the couch, and stared at my children as they played on the floor with coloured blocks, stacking them up and then giggling as they punched the towers over with tight fists. Joyful and busy clattering filled our house as I studied my children’s features: their audacious smiles, the playful spark in their eyes, the peppering of freckles on Jaxon’s nose, and the chubbiness of Keira’s hands. I asked myself how I’d feel if I’d never had them – couldn’t have them – and my stomach burned with pain. I imagined feeling that same emptiness every day for perhaps years, with no hope, no relief within reach. I folded my arms across my body. The torment of wanting so much to love someone – someone you hadn’t even met – was unfathomable.

  There are people who can have children, people who can’t, and people who choose not to. I don’t judge anyone. I only know that my children changed my life. I’m a better person because of them. My children are partly the reason I chose to become a gestational surrogate. I wanted to give a gift, to help someone else realise a dream they might not otherwise have the chance to fulfil. I also wanted to show my children the importance of doing something good for others. Of course, it doesn’t have to be something as extreme as being a surrogate, but I wanted them to know that kindness begets kindness and that if you want to help someone you can always find a way, no matter how large or small your action might be.

  The first couple I offered to help in their quest for a child was my good friends Karen and Mark. Falling pregnant and having babies had been so easy for me. Karen and Mark had been trying for years. I wish I’d thought more carefully about it before blurting out over breakfast one morning, laughing, ‘Well, you can borrow my uterus anytime.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ Karen said. ‘I don’t think you truly realise what you’re offering.’

  Did I? I thought about her reply. Karen’s expression had become one of quiet, contemplative sadness, her arms folding across her chest, and I cringed at my flippant remark.

  As I drove home with my family that day I couldn’t stop thinking about my light-hearted suggestion. I glanced back at my children, both sporting red, sweaty faces, their hair stuck to their foreheads after riding scooters all morning around the park adjoining the café. Keira flashed a cheesy smile and Jaxon gulped water noisily from a drink bottle, eyes shut tight. What if I could help one couple have what I had? I’d been lucky, my life full in so many ways. I knew the love of a child and I could offer that gift to someone else. If only I could rewind the café meeting, and make the offer again, but earnestly and without any tinge of complacency.

  I decided that that was what I would do. Negotiating that road, however, wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to damage our friendship or take the experience of being pregnant away from Karen at all. I didn’t know what she and Mark were thinking, or what they were prepared to do to have a child. What if they were on the verge of giving up?

  After discussing it with my husband, Andrew, I emailed Karen a few days later. Pouring my heart out in writing was easier than talking to her face to face, seeing the sadness in her eyes. In the beginning, our emails flowed back and forth and it seemed surrogacy was a real possibility. Karen explained that they had a lot of investigating to do, talking it over with her doctor, weighing up the costs involved – not only the monetary ones, but the possible emotional burden.

  Over time our discussions became more detailed and the idea of what I was offering grew inside me like a flower, my excitement nourishing the bud, helping it blossom. I trawled online for information on procedures, requirements, costs and legalities. On the internet I discovered forums with personal accounts by surrogates: they described the emotional toll and the regrets, but also the profound sense of achievement along with the love and joy they had experienced. I found myself increasingly drawn towards the idea.

  That breakfast in the café with Karen and Mark wasn’t the first time I’d thought about surrogacy. The idea had fascinated me for some time, but I’d simply never contemplated I might get the opportunity. As my own desire to be a surrogate was growing, I’d seen an ABC documentary called Young Surrogates. The three-part series featured three young women in the UK who had chosen to become surrogates. I sat glued to the television in awe of their actions and the outcomes.

  Before I’d made my offer to Karen and Mark, I had touched on the topic with Andrew several times; however, I don’t think he ever thought our brief conversations would manifest into real action on my part. Andrew and I are different. He takes everything with a grain of salt, ponders the facts, but never worries himself silly, not like me. He’s a realist, while I’m usually the dreamer with my head in the clouds then I tend to jump straight in – act now and ask questions later. But somewhere during our fifteen years together, Andrew’s analytical approach must have rubbed off on me. As keen as I was to rush into surrogacy, I slowed down, pulled back, and tried to examine my own expectations against the possible reality.

  ‘So . . . what do you think?’ I asked Andrew after the kids were tucked up in bed. The idea of surrogacy swirled around my head and now that Karen and Mark were making enquiries I had to again broach the topic with my husband. ‘How do you feel about me being a surrogate? Do you have any issues with it?’

  Andrew closed the fishing magazine on his lap and turned his attention to me. ‘I have concerns,’ he said. Of course, I knew he would. ‘Like, what if something goes wrong? What if something happens to you?’ He shifted to face me, his brow creased in worry.

  ‘But you know me,’ I replied. ‘I try not to dwell on negative things like that. Focus on the outcome you want and that’s what you’ll get, most of the time. I’ve had two good pregnancies and two amazing births with our own kids. Why would it be any different in this situation?’

  My pregnancies had both been enjoyable, apart from the first trimester, when sporadic nausea had struck and extreme tiredness made me a walking zombie. But both times, once the fourteenth week passed I felt more alive than ever. That feeling had carried through until the day I gave birth. Before my first birth I was nervous, as any expecting mother would be, so Andrew and I had prepared ourselves by attending a two-day calm birthing course, run by Marg, a wonderful midwife and instructor for Calmbirth. A short woman with grey hair, Marg was quiet, humble and friendly. She had a no-nonsense air and encouraged women to be guided by their own bodies during childbirth and stand up for what they believed was right for them at the time. In her rambling timber cottage tucked away on a sweeping rural property, Marg had made us comfortable while explaining to Andrew and me the inner workings of the female body during birth: the way the uterus contracts in waves, and the benefits of deep intentional breathing. The Calmbirth motto, ‘Fear equals tension equals pain’, resonated with me. Marg told us that the moment when a woman transitions – the last stage of active labour before pushing begins – is usually the point when she looks around with wild eyes and says, ‘I can’t do this.’ ‘The female body is designed to give birth,’ Marg had said. ‘You just have to relax.
I know that sounds strange, but you must breathe. So Andrew, when Shannon says she can’t go on, you’ll know what that means, right? Baby’ll be born very soon.’ She winked. I left the course that weekend empowered and in awe of the female anatomy.

  Jaxon’s birth, in July 2009 was intense, but I was determined not to let fear overtake my thoughts, and I breathed so strongly and consistently for the duration of the labour that my nose bled. I had opted for a natural water birth and after seven hours – moments after I told Andrew I couldn’t go on any longer – our son arrived. When the midwife placed Jaxon on my belly, that scared first-time mother was suddenly transformed into Superwoman; I felt as though I could do absolutely anything. As I gazed down at our baby, his eyelids sealed, skin wrinkled, his long fingers searching for something to grip, I was gobsmacked at what my husband and I had created. Here was a little person lying in the safety of my arms, needing my love, needing a mother. I saw things differently, as if a new world lay before me, the old world ceasing to exist. As I panted and shook with exhaustion, I realised that the baby resting on my chest was no longer the imaginings of a teenage girl with a dream. I had become a mother, and the achievement and relief of birth were bundled up inside me like a present. As Andrew squeezed my hand and bit his bottom lip, I knew that our lives would never be the same again. We had moved beyond ‘just us’, ready to give this new and hopeful love that unfolded inside us to our son.

  Thirty minutes later, after plenty of skin-to-skin bonding between me and Jaxon, one of the midwives placed my baby boy on the scales, the other padding across the floor to see the result, both of them chortling.

  ‘You were born to birth babies, Shannon! He’s nine pounds fourteen ounces, and you made that look effortless,’ said Julie, grabbing a pen from the bench to note down the weight. At 4.48 kilograms, Jaxon was a very big baby!

  Twenty-one months later, after days and days in which we wondered when she would come, Miss Keira decided to arrive on her due date. I’d taken walks, eaten spicy food, drunk many cups of raspberry leaf tea and had sex, trying everything I knew to bring on labour. On the day she was due, frustrated with the wait and more than ready, I sat on my bed to rest while Jaxon napped after lunch, when I had an epiphany. This was Keira’s journey, I realised, and it would be her choice when she would be born, not mine. As a parent there are so many humbling moments, like when you realise for the first time that life isn’t solely about you anymore, it’s about your children, their lives and how, as a parent you can enrich them and help them to stand alone, their lives intertwining with yours but never truly becoming one.