“The only option is if you go through a surrogate mother. I’m sorry.”
The gynaecologist sighed as he looked at the sheets of paper bearing dismal test results regarding the state of my fertility. It had been eight months since my miscarriage, and I decided that I needed to go for a more detailed check-up on my female parts.
This time however, I didn’t cry. I was saddened and heartbroken again, yes. But I also felt – well at least, now, I know how things really are and I can move on with life. Of course, I’d feel a twinge of wistfulness every time a girlfriend excitedly announced she was expecting, or get all clucky when I played with my godchildren.
My husband and I had a discussion – we were at the stage of our lives where we were very comfortable in our marriage and jobs and enjoyed travelling regularly. However, we both agreed that we would like to raise a child at some point. The gynaecologist told us that he had “some available China women” on standby to carry our baby if we wanted, and my mother actually told me to consider this, so at least my husband’s family gets to “continue their lineage”. However, this was something we were not comfortable with, and eventually, we decided to find out more about adopting a child.
We went for a pre-adoption seminar organised by a family service centre. The complex flowcharts that mapped out the application process overwhelmed us, and the Q&A wasn’t much better with people asking about “the cheapest and fastest way” to adopt with Excel spreadsheets. What a meat market this is, we thought to ourselves.