Enter the sister-in-law who now warrants our never-ending thanks.
Abby's only sibling, Samantha, is married with two kids. She lives in Blue Bell, driving distance from our Philadelphia home. One night at a family dinner after the first miscarriage, Samantha told Abby, "You know, I would always carry a baby for you if you needed me to. I would love to be able to do that for you."
In 2007, this seemed like a nice gesture made in passing. But in 2009, when our fertility doctor told us we were unlikely to conceive without a surrogate, we knew where to turn.
"Let's ask your sister before we do anything else," I said to Abby after that appointment. Infertility treatment makes things that might have once seemed outlandish seem normal. Asking another woman to carry my baby? It wasn't at all strange to me at that point.
I was 26 when I married Abby, a corporate lawyer, and I barely knew what fertility was. My work as a sports writer and Web editor certainly didn't prepare me for the indignities of infertility treatment: the invasive questions, the daily tests my wife endured, the conversations about sperm counts and uterine linings. But when it came to asking Samantha to be our surrogate, I knew I couldn't be the one to ask. This was between Abby and her sister.
"You have to be the one to ask her," I said to Abby. "And it needs to be in person."
"You're right," Abby agreed. As per her wifely duties, she ignored my suggestion. Her parents acted as uncomfortable intermediaries.
