“I am so sorry, this one’s bleeding a bit.”
I can hear the cringing in my husbands voice as he rubs and massages an alcohol swab into my hips. He hasn’t come out and said how much he hates injections times, but I can tell he does. To be honest, I’m so grateful to him for doing them for my that I’ve been consistently downplaying them. I’ve come to dread my twice-daily shots, but it’s less dread when he does them than when I have to do them myself. “It’s fine babe, it’s stopped already.” I’m so thankful for his willingness on this journey.
It’s so much easier to take needle time with him around. When he’s not home, and I have to self-inject, there’s a moment I have to psych myself up, and it’s like my body can sense the hesitation. I’m so much more likely to bleed if hesitate before I jab, I have to self-talk to up my confidence. “I’ve got this. It’s only seconds, and then it’s done. It could be so much worse.” But it’s quickly become my least favourite part of the day.
“How do some surrogates do this more than once??” I think in disbelief. And then I have a dawning realization that most intended mothers have probably done this. And more than once. And many of those intended moms are still waiting for success. A positive. A baby in their arms. My breath catches in my throat. “Intended moms have done all this, and they have pressed on. And so can I.”
Almost every day I have that moment of realization, a reminder that I’m not alone. Other surrogates, intended moms, have all undergone this and more in their journey to parenthood. I know of at least two friends that underwent IVF with their husbands away. Somehow suffering is easier in a sisterhood, and I know I have a circle of surro-sisters I can lean on, and whine to, and they’ll listen and understand.
One more down, one more needle towards our hope.