Honey

I'm just posting this up here in case there is anyone out there who used to read Honey's blog. If you did, and you find this, please pass this information on to anyone else who might want to know. I am afraid that Honey is very, very ill. I went to see her in the hospice yesterday. She was really very poorly. She doesn't want to die. This has come so much too soon for her and for everyone who loves her. She has fought so bravely over the last couple of years. I've never seen anything like it and I don't expect to see such courage ever again. I saw her just two weeks ago and she walked two miles then. The room in the hospice has a balcony which looks out over fields. There is also a bird table there and she was able to enjoy a robin which came and a fat pigeon. I am going to see her again tomorrow, I hope. It would be so good if she could have some peace at the end but I'm not sure she will. The pain is just so much. Selfishly, I had hoped that she would live to see our new baby but I don't think she will now. I wish so much that she hadn't had to give up her blog because she really needed that to keep in touch. Of course, the worst thing is that she had three young children. I can't even bear to think what this is doing to them. I keep thinking of Dylan Thomas. 'Do not go gentle into that long good night but rage, rage, against the dying of the light.'

Prams

I just bought a pram on-line. A pram is only a few metal struts, some canvas, wheels. That's all. It's important for me to remind myself that a pram is not Shakespearean tragedy or a Wagner Opera. It has certainly felt a bit like both over the last few weeks. First there was the trip to the pram shop (John Lewis, Oxford Street, London, to be specific). It was pretty hard to get myself there but I did it. And when I got there - what happened? Mainly I remembered that, leaving aside all that has happened over the last six years, I really hate those shops. I hated them when I was pregnant with Thomas and I hate them just the same now. Inevitably there was this ghastly woman who was having a melt down with the shop assistant. She was quite sure that the pram she bought could have one of those cup holders for carrying your coffee - but now it turns out that her model of pram can't take one of those. National scandal, apocalypse, blah blah. Of course, the reason why I hate that woman so much is because I'm frightened I'll turn into her. After that I look at prams on-line and it becomes one of those late night internet obsessions when you really can't stop yourself looking at page after page, comparing reviews and prices, matching up dimensions, on and on, late into the night. And I am turning into the nightmare cup holder woman ...... Then I measure the car and find out that only two models of pram will fit in our tiny car anyway so most of the research was wasted. And I start to question the whole pram project. Every other woman I know who has lost a baby has avoided buying anything even slightly baby related until after the birth. So shouldn't I do that as well? Am I not tempting fate by buying a pram? Maybe - but after Laura died it really killed me to see a beautiful pram. And now I have a reason to buy one. So I want a pram anyway. If no baby ever finishes up in that pram then so be it. I'll have enjoyed the pram. The pram maybe all I'm going to get so I might as well make the best of it. And once I've got it, I'm going to put it in the hall, just so I can enjoy it. And also so it's there and ready to go if we get a call far earlier than expected. In fact, I'm going to pack everything we need soon. Just in case. Repeat after me. A pram is only a few metal struts, some canvas, wheels.

Twenty four weeks

I have taken care not to count the weeks of this surrogate pregnancy too carefully. Last week I sort of knew that it was the twenty fourth week - but I was careful not to know. Or at least until Thursday. Then on Thursday I suddenly felt the urge to get the calendar out and check exactly. Twenty four weeks. Laura was twenty four weeks when she died. It's OK - but I just want to type that here. Twenty four weeks. I know that because Laura died at twenty four weeks that doesn't mean that Hope will die now - or any other time. But still - twenty four weeks. I just need to register the fact. I said that to my husband and then I said, 'So we really start to know what we have to lose now.' And he agreed. It's sad in a way that, for us, Hope is measured by what her loss would mean. Or maybe it's not sad. Maybe everything should be measured in that way.

Scan photos

Our surrogate Mum had her twenty week scan and everything seems to be fine. Or more or less. Apparently they couldn't scan her heart properly as she wasn't positioned at the right angle. So our surrogate Mum has to go back for another scan. I'm assured that this isn't a problem and I'm managing to believe that most the time! We have also been sent scan photos. My husband has looked at them and he could definitely see a face, a nose, a chin. He was thrilled. I have to say that I haven't looked yet. I just can't. I promised myself after the second miscarriage that I'd never look at one of those scan photos again. I know that it is time to ditch that promise but I just can't do it for the moment. The time will come, I'm sure. The problem is that once I see Hope then I'll know just how much I have to lose. That makes it sound as though I'm in a really morbid frame of mind - but I'm not. I'm generally fine. But I just find scan photos difficult.

Heart beat video

Hope is now fifteen weeks. We had news at the end of last week that our amazing surrogage Mum had been for a scan. She didn't actually see Hope but she heard her heart beat. Our surrogate Mum e-mailed that she had tried to make a video of the heart beat. I'm not quite sure what that means! But, anyway, apparently it didn't work properly because when our surrogate Mum tried to tranfer it to her computer the sound didn't come through. As a result, she decided not to send it to us. I thought she was properly right about that - a video of a heart beat without the sound is probably not a meaningful experience. As you may guess by the tone of the post, I'm not in the least upset about this. In fact, I'm strangely amused. Some how it seems symptomatic of this whole weird world we are in. This now-you-see-it, now-you-don't kind of world where everything is ridiculously abstract. Actually the truth is that I was pretty glad not to hear the heart beat. I've heard too many heart beats which have subsequently stopped. And, had I heard it, I would probably have spent the whole weekend in tears - and as it is I've had a lovely time at my Mum's farm in the gorgeous spring weather with my mum, my sister and my little boy.

Worries

We are up to twelve weeks and all seems to be going well. But I am beset by worries. Strangely these worries aren't about the obvious things - like will Hope die? Instead they're about the whole surrogacy process. Obviously my husband and I thought very long and hard before we chose the surrogacy route. And actually there is now no point in considering whether our decision was right or wrong. But some how the reality of the decision we've taken is only just hitting home now. My main worry is that surrogacy is just too big an ask. It's too much to expect another woman to have a baby for you. And it isn't just that woman. It's her family. Our surrogate had her own six year old daughter. I know that it has been explained fully to that six year old that the baby won't be staying. But how can you explain that to a six year old? I don't know. Of course, I should have thought more before we decided. And I did think. But I'm a woman who wants a child and I am not rational. Not at all. But equally that isn't an adequate excuse.

Our baby has a name!

We have discovered that our baby has a heart beat - always a good thing. And we've decided to give her a temporary name. This decision was not without its difficulties. Our lovely surrogate Mum suggested we should find a name and I was broadly in favour but my husband was nervous. He is, understandably, very cautious. I think he just can't bear to be disappointed again - and he can't bear to see me disappointed either. But I'm strangely full of confidence. I wasn't confident with the last two pregnancies. I knew they would fail. And I knew the IVF wouldn't work. But now I just feel sure that this will work. And so we have settled on a temporary name for our baby. She is called Hope because that's what she represents to us. I feel rather teary typing that. Of course, the Black Humour Department of my brain has pointed out that, should she die, then that will The Death Of Hope. But then that is what it will be - literally and metaphorically - so that at least satisfies the writerly part of me which exists that things must be called by their proper names. Anyway, for the moment, we have Hope. And that's just fantastic! Actually totally, completely, wonderfully amazing.