Despina Meris - Every Conceivable Way: One couples extraordinary journey to parenthood over nine years and three continents

For my mother, for Bill, for Evander.

I love you in every conceivable way.

Contents

I never intended to write this book.

My nine-year fertility journey has been intensely personal; a clandestine operation that I kept under lock and key until it exploded into an extraordinary story.

My circle of friends was broadly aware that my husband and I were undergoing IVF, but I didnt fill them in on much of the detail. Keeping it quiet was the strategy I used to protect myself from worried expressions, well-meaning advice and disappointed looks.

I was determined that this one small slice of my existence would not consume me, that I would be grateful for all of the other wonderful things in my world. My life continued to go in the way that it always had with exciting new experiences, travels to exotic countries with my soulmate and celebrations of milestones, large and small.

But our situation became extremely intense this was not your typical IVF journey so keeping my mind on other things became futile. On our path to having a baby, I found myself experiencing the full gamut of emotions hope, despondency, grief, resilience and much, much more. And most of the time, my husband and I went through these feelings privately, which ultimately was at a disservice to ourselves and our loved ones. We had a village of people to lean on, but we mostly chose to go it alone.

In the few instances that I have been forced to open up for logistical reasons to doctors, specialists, work colleagues, close friends it has become clear that the path I have taken is a subject of fascination, even among the medical professionals I go to for guidance. When nurses, doctors and medical receptionists ask you about how international surrogacy works, you know that you are at the forefront of something.

So, allow me to share our adventure with you.

Warm sunlight streams into the sparse waiting area in the sonographers makeshift clinic, flickering onto dust particles in the air. I have been delivered here by my driver, Manoj, through the backstreets of a crowded Mumbai neighbourhood to an unmarked doorway. The crumbling frame and deteriorating faade have done nothing to calm my nerves.

My husband, Bill, and I have flown from Melbourne into the belly of Mumbai to pursue surrogacy. Our genetic material my eggs and Bills semen will be collected to make embryos. These embryos will be implanted into an Indian woman who will carry a child for us and make a long-standing dream possibly finally maybe come true.

My coordinator, Raj, does the talking for me. At 57, I tower over the small-framed Indian women crammed into this space. Theres barely any room to stand in, the seats are all taken and patients line the hallway and staircase. Like an awkward baby giraffe, I stand in the middle of the room, the only white person here, my blond hair and blue eyes the subject of fascination. To add to my discomfort, the receptionist asks an Indian woman to stand up so that I can sit down. I wish I could just melt into the plastic chair and become one with it.

Bill stands outside in the hallway along with the other men. He is my security guard and at 63 is imposing. No one gets in or out without going past him.

The thought of an internal examination on my first day in a very foreign land has me on edge. Most women cant stand going to the gynaecologist in their own country, where they speak the language and know the rules and etiquette. Here I am completely ignorant.

We are far outnumbered by mosquitos. I have been advised not to take malaria pills because they could have a negative effect on the outcome of my fertility treatment. The buzzing of possible malaria-carrying mosquitos sends me over the edge. Seriously, what have I done? Why did we come up with this crazy idea? I am sweating profusely, partly because of the suffocating heat but mostly due to fear.

Everything in India is new to me. I desperately wish I was here for another purpose; then I could approach it the way I normally would a new destination. For a moment, I tell myself to pretend that Im just a traveller. I look around at the beautiful women of all ages here with me, their dark luminous skin adorned with intricate henna artwork. The saris are in every colour of the rainbow. Their love of jewellery is obvious: nose rings, multiple earrings on each ear, bangles stacked in cylinders on their arms, ankle bracelets, toe rings. Where there is skin, there is jewellery.

I wonder why these other women are here. Are they pregnant? Are they undergoing IVF? Are they facing their own fertility issues? Are they surrogates? But these are complex questions. And I am a stranger in a strange land and Im told only what I need to know.

Clouded as I am with anxiety and jet lag, time passes slowly, heavily. Some women swat at mosquitos. Others shift in their seat. The clock ticks away on the wall. When I look away, I can feel eyes staring at me and when I look back, I catch them in the act. I have travelled sixteen hours on two planes to get to this other land. My land of opportunity. I am strong and I will go through with this.

After hours of waiting, I am called into the tiniest of rooms into which someone has squeezed a pint-sized desk, a chair for small children and a bed that looks fit for a dollhouse. I am Alice after shes eaten the cake, having grown big while everything else stays the same.

I am instructed to take off my shoes before entering the procedure room. The room does not look very medical. Nothing looks sterilised or hygienic. Its as if someones spare room is being used for medical procedures.

A female assistant tells me the very basics of what I need to know. We are here to do a follicle count, to see how I have responded to the fertility drugs. Typically, only one ovarian follicle will ovulate an egg during a womans cycle. The purpose of the IVF injections Ive been giving myself is to force the body to produce multiple eggs in the cycle, giving IVF a better chance of success. The size of my stimulated follicles will determine when Im ready for harvest. By any definition, todays an important day.

I remove all clothes from the waist down and am directed to lie down on the mini bed with mini towels that do not look fresh. My worry shifts from whether I have enough follicles to whether I will leave here with my health intact. I tell myself that whatever comes into contact with my skin doesnt matter, as long as whatever goes inside of me is hygienic.

I see the familiar wand that will be used for the internal exam. I have had this exam way too many times in Australia over the past six years none of which have been enjoyable in the slightest so I know that despite appearances it will fit comfortably into a womans vagina.

Without a word, the matronly assistant unwraps a fresh condom out of a packet. For a split second I feel like Ive been signed up for the wrong procedure. My relief is immense when she unrolls it expertly onto the wand.

The sonographer pushes aside the curtain. He is a serious man with a serious moustache and does nothing to acknowledge my presence. The examination moves ahead without a hitch; there is no discomfort and its very quick. He expertly calculates the number of follicles and their size at lightning speed, with his assistant furiously noting it all down. I am surprised that I have to ask in order to be told how many follicles I have. Im shot an irritated look, but at least I get my answer: six follicles that should be mature at collection and another four that might grow in time. Not too bad, if I do say so myself.

Before I know it, I can put my clothes on and collect my dignity at the door.