It wasn’t a question until recently. Marie checked the epidural box the moment she agreed to have a child. Actually, that’s not true. Our first discussion went beyond an epidural. In the summer of 2022, Marie and I went to Maple & Ash to have a state of the union-type dinner. Generally, we try to keep things light. Usually our dates don’t have an agenda, but that meal was different. It had an agreed upon purpose. We were going to soberly — at least, at first — discuss the possibility of procreation. It was an adult decision, and we were taking it seriously. We openly considered the life we could have, both with and without children.
Once we decided in favor of the proposition, there was more pouring at our table. Properly buzzed, Marie announced, “I think I’m going to outsource the pregnancy.” In the ensuing digression, we entertained the idea of hiring a surrogate to incubate our offspring for us.
The drawbacks are numerous. First of all, it’s weird. Taking my sperm and five of Marie’s eggs, fertilizing them, then implanting the embryos in another woman’s womb is a story we don’t really want to tell for the rest of our lives. And it greatly increases the possibility of twins. Marie’s nightmare. Then there’s all the externalities that come with dealing with the surrogate. We don’t like people to begin with. And any woman who volunteers to have her body be a vessel for nine months then give away the baby she just gestated is probably goofier than most. We’d have to monitor her behavior, food and vitamin intake and basically have a third member of our marriage for nine months or so. Unthinkable. Also it’s obscenely expensive — anywhere between $50,000 and $250,000. And if you’re in the market, I don’t think you want a discount surrogate.
The advantage of surrogacy is the total avoidance of all bodily changes, health risks, a pregnancy’s wear and literal tear and — most of all — the pain.
But we didn’t entertain surrogacy for long or seriously. It was mostly an intellectual discussion to dance around the enormity our new endeavor. But avoiding problems isn’t in my wife’s nature. Once committed to a project, Marie doesn’t generally waffle. She is always focused, always deliberate, forever adjusting telemetry toward success. At our dinner last summer, Marie was resolute. She wanted the actual experience of pregnancy and childbirth.
That was then.
“Is there such a thing as a pregnancy transplant?” Marie asked a few days ago. “I think I’m done. Seven months. Box checked. I’d like off now.”
The weight gain, the bloating, the sleeplessness, constant trips to the bathroom, digestive issues and stress are tertiary concerns. Marie is annoyed by the exhaustion. It doesn’t sit well with her. Boundless energy is one of her defining characteristics. Lately, she is utterly spent at the end of every day. Her sense of humor hasn’t abandoned her, but around five o’clock, she collapses on our living room couch and digresses into a puddle of helplessness. And I think her IQ drops about forty points.
Intransitive verbs are the first to go.
“Marie tired.”
“Brain dumb dumb.”
“Words hard.”
In her defense, she’s still getting up at 4:45 every morning, still beginning her days with ninety minute workouts, still working full-time. That’s more than the vast majority of non-pregnant people. It’s just her evening hours that are getting truncated. Oddly, in the midst of pregnancy fatigue and occasional bouts of exasperation, Marie is starting to consider natural childbirth.
The primary concern is pregnancy injuries. My wife hates being debilitated. Aside from the baby’s health, Marie’s top priority is getting back on her feet as quickly as possible post partum. She wants to exercise normally, lose weight and get her body back. But Marie is aware of her tendency to overachieve. In some cases, overachieve means overdo, i.e. pushing herself harder than is healthy. Two years ago, she had surgery to repair the labrums in each hip. The doc said that it was one of the worst tears he had seen in a non-traumatic injury. Basically Marie ran through the pain for far too long. Apply that to pregnancy — subtracting the pain with the epidural while adding her affinity for pushing too hard — and she could do significant damage to herself.
So in Marie’s dispassionate analysis, pain is important information. A natural childbirth would allow her to modulate her pushing efforts by letting excruciating pain be her guide. Sounds awful. On a happier note, we recently learned that an epidural can be utilized at nearly any point during pregnancy. As long as she can sit still, it can be administered. Of course, the administration is another concern.
In 1985, a woman was laying on a hospital bed in a Chicago maternity ward. She was 34. Her name was Lucy. Lucy was in agony, experiencing long contractions at short intervals. She had requested an epidural. An unsuspecting, young doctor walked into the delivery room wielding an instrument like the one pictured above. Lucy turned over on her side away from the doctor. As much as she wanted relief from the pain, she didn’t want to see that 16-gauge needle again. The doctor began to explain that he needed to numb the area before he inserted the . . .
“Shut the fuck up, you motherfucker,” said Lucy.
Marie is her mother’s daughter.
Nice end to this essay!