Gay marriage had only recently become legal. We were engaged in a heartbeat, but not without consequence. Over lunch, I expressed my dissatisfaction with the procedure to my sister. ‘I’ll donate my eggs,’ she responded right away. Now all we needed to do was find a surrogate mother. We addressed it during large family meat, and Matthew’s mother casually replied, ‘Oh, I adore being pregnant!’ Put my name in the hat if you’re taking names for candidates!’ We guffawed adoringly at the absurd gesture. Cele hadn’t had a period in almost a decade, but her encouragement meant the world to us. She couldn’t possibly have a child, could she?
We were still apprehensive despite her explanations. Cele was, without a doubt, extremely fit. She’d spent her entire life focusing on eating and doing out on a regular basis. Her blood pressure was actually lower than ours! She was, however, 60 years old. Cele, on the other hand, continued to overcome each health-related obstacle.
After that, there was a two-week wait to determine if the embryo had attached itself. They strongly advised us to avoid self-testing for pregnancy. We asked Cele to pee on a stick anyway five days later, on my 29th birthday. She texted a frowning face and added, ‘It’s negative,’ a few minutes later. Anticipation and exhilaration gave way to panic as the battle progressed. Would the next embryo attach if this one didn’t? And if not that, what about our final option? The stakes were astronomically high.
She inquired as to if he wanted to view the pregnancy test results for himself. He walked the humiliating walk, knowing that all he would discover was disappointment. He could see it when he squinted and glanced at the pregnancy test with just the right amount of light: a faint second pink line. A possible child.
Little Uma Louise arrived at 6:06 a.m., and Matthew and I sobbed hysterically. There she was, our tiny love storey in the flesh, our little idea.