I was 24 when I had Heidi in 1993, two years after her brother, Jacob, was born. I adored being pregnant. I carried easily and recovered without any problems.
Heidi and I were always close. We shared a love of music, Disney and a positive outlook on life. By adulthood she was my best friend, and lived 30 minutes from my house in California.
She dreamed of being a mother. So, in 2016, seeing her and her husband, John, struggle to conceive was heartbreaking. They tried for four years until finally, in 2020, it happened.
Hearing she was pregnant with twins, I dissolved into happy tears. Our joy didn’t last. At 10 weeks Heidi lost one of the babies, and at 24 weeks their little boy, whom they named Malakai, also died.
Watching Heidi’s grief was awful. I felt helpless. Then a few weeks later Heidi told me: “Mom, the doctors think that IVF and surrogacy is the best next step.
” Finally, here was something I could do. “Please let me speak to your doctor about being your surrogate,” I said. “What safer place for your baby than their grandmother’s womb?” I could see both hope and caution in Heidi’s eyes.
I was 52, she said. The last thing she wanted to do was to put me in danger. But I was fit, healthy and also retired, with all the time in the world.
I could tell Heidi was worried that I was only offering out of obligation. I reassured her that that couldn’t be further from the truth. A week later I spoke to Heidi’s doctor.
The cutoff age for surrogates is usua.
