“It's Game Time.....”
After reading that tweet from Bill Rancic, my heart began to race and emotion took over. They were official in labor and I couldn’t be more thrilled.
Well, ok, they were not actually in labor, nor was the lovely Giuliana. A fabulous gestational carrier is. His sperm, her egg, anonymous uterus. Boom. Done. Regardless of what you want to call the whole process, they, Bill and Giuliana, are fully responsible for the results. After her breast cancer diagnosis, miscarriage and double-mastectomy, my heart bled for her. She wanted a baby so much, and after exhausting every effort, she did what she had to do. I totally respect her for that. Her bravery while fighting cancer was inspiring, despite the hell she was going through.
I’ve dealt with cancer before. Sure, not as the ship, but as a passenger. 10 months into my relationship with my now-husband, he was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Fortunately, it was only Stage One, yet surgery was required. He gave me the option to leave, but it was already too late. I was in love. This relationship was for keeps. So trekking forward, hand in hand, we survived doctors’ appointments, surgery and recovery together. We feared that we many never be able to have kids together. That was a possibility we had to face. But 6 years and one son later, we’re still going strong.
For some crazy reason, the Rancic’s decision to bring in a gestational carrier brought to mind the whole debate about ‘what defines giving birth?’ Do you have to actually shoot a kid out of your vagina to say I’ve given birth? And my answer would be Hell No! Whether it’s through a gestational carrier or created naturally, no matter the delivery, that baby carries your DNA. You have given life. That baby is a part of you. That baby is yours.
Some women want to say that having a child by c-section, you haven’t actually given birth, and I want to call bullshit on that theory. I’ve been on both sides of the spectrum and can honestly say that my experiences do not differentiate one definition from the other. Sure, the circumstances were unique, but I still consider the end result the same.
My daughter was desperately wanted, created out of love, grew inside my belly and was delivered naturally, textbook style. I labored for 11 straight hours. Drugs, pain, endless pushing, swearing, the works. I promised up-and-down to be the spokesperson for the Anti-Pregnancy Campaign because, well, that’s what bitches in pain do. Eventually, Little Woman squeezed her way out of my vagina and all was well. I was a mom. I had given birth.
My son was also desperately wanted, created out of love, grew inside my belly, and yet chose to be difficult during delivery. At some point, he decided to wrap the cord so tightly around his neck that the only way to go was up. Natural delivery was not an option, so we were rushed away to the operating room. It became a life or death situation. After 10 minutes, several drugs and 2 Beach Boys songs later, my son was surgically removed from my uterus. Once again I was a mom. I had given birth.
Do I consider this a successful birth, despite the fact that I didn’t push him out of my vagina? Oh hell yea. I created him, he is a part of my DNA. The route he chose to enter this world doesn’t make a lick of difference.
To Bill and Giuliana, a miracle has occurred. You have been blessed. As you undergo the joyful pain of childbirth, be sure to relish every moment. You both have created life. And with assistance, you both have given birth.