There was a time in our relationship that everyone but Crankenstein seemed to be pregnant and it left her despondent. From inexperienced relatives in their early twenties to well-established married couples in their forties and seemingly everyone in between, our friends, family and colleagues were participating in a baby boom we knew would pass us by.
Crankenstein cried at home after seeing sonograms or attending yet another baby shower, sobbing into my shirt until it was hot and damp and stuck to my skin, her shoulders heaving as she mourned an experience she wanted and would never have. I understood her misery, having already navigated those waters myself, but part of me felt relieved, which in turn made me feel guilty. Once I knew the horrible history of her eating disorder, I didn’t want Crankenstein to ever get pregnant.
Technically, I’d been ambivalent even before that. Originally it had been a question of sperm — she was fine with an anonymous donor, or with asking a gay friend from med school or undergrad to donate; I didn’t like those options. If she was going to birth a child that we would raise together, I wanted a donor who was as close to my genetic stand-in as possible: short, geeky, dark hair, Jewish and gay. We had no one who fit the bill.
The ‘short’ and ‘gay’ selections would’ve been difficult to find through sperm banks, where tall donors are preferred and openly gay donors are discriminated against. Informal procreation agreements between gay men and lesbians, on the other hand, have existed since time immemorial, and I wasn’t opposed to continuing the tradition. But then we were thrown a curveball. Crankenstein, who wanted to get pregnant by 33 at the latest, learned that postpartum psychosis ran in her family. Instantly she knew that she was unwilling to risk such an outcome given her own struggles with serious depression.
At this point in our story, I looked for a way to fix the problem and assuage my partner’s grief. There was, after all, a spare uterus in our relationship. Though I’d long since discounted the idea of ever getting pregnant myself — I’d been advised that my health made it a dangerous proposition, and I feared passing along the genes that had taken so much from my brother — I could avoid one of those outcomes, and give Crankenstein what she wanted, by carrying a baby that was genetically hers.
First I broached the subject with my rheumatologist, who was not necessarily opposed to it; I wasn’t taking methotrexate yet, a medication that’s incompatible with healthy pregnancy. Then I mentioned it to my former GI, already aware of the infertility risks and pregnancy complications associated with my childhood surgeries. During an annual visit to my OB/GYN, I asked for her opinion. She opened the front of my medical gown, stared at my abdomen and frowned, her tone no longer cheerful but gravely serious.
What she said verbatim, I couldn’t tell you, but it boiled down to this: She was afraid that my immune system would make it unusually difficult to sustain a viable pregnancy. If I wanted to try it anyway, it would be without her involvement and I’d need a fertility specialist, a high-risk obstetrician, and to deliver via c-section with a colorectal surgeon on call in case there were complications with my j-pouch. It wasn’t the same advice she’d give everyone with a j-pouch, but she felt my history warranted extra caution.
I pursued these conversations without discussing it with Crankenstein so as not to elevate her hopes. Instead I mentioned it to my best friend, who knows I’ve always wanted to be a mom and that I’ve been partial to adoption since I was a child myself, watching foster kid spotlights on the local news. On the off-off-chance the OB/GYN had encouraged me to get pregnant, he was the man whose children I would’ve wanted to have, though it wouldn’t have happened since his thoughts on reproduction are similar to mine.
Sometime in the weeks after that final appointment, I revealed my fruitless scheming to Crankenstein. Her response was to immediately say she didn’t want me to have biological children. She skipped over my brother’s genetic curse and went straight to mine: “I do not want our kid to inherit your kind of IBD. The thought terrifies me.” Once I got over the hilarity of someone with her genetics and risk factors feeling so strongly about my inflammatory disease, I explained that I would’ve carried her embryo.
It was an idea she found intriguing, I could tell, but again the reality of my homicidally overactive immune system and Rube Goldberg machine intestines clouded her expression. “I wouldn’t want you taking those chances even if the obstetrician said it was OK,” she admitted, as I explained that I felt the same about her black moods and many stints in ED recovery. It was like the world’s shittiest retelling of The Gift of the Magi, in which we gave each other barren wombs.
There are other ways to become parents, of course, and my enthusiasm for adoption has never waned. But it’s been hard to justify pursuing it when my health is unsettled, as is often the case. For now our dog is our baby, albeit a strangely hairy, malodorous and emotionally stunted one whose whiskers are turning white and who antisocially rage-shits against the fence when our neighbors’ dogs are outside. You know, everything you used to see on The Donna Reed Show and Leave it to Beaver.