Cassandra Martin, 33, from Maryborough, Qld, shares her story:
I’d only been dating Ben, 18, for two weeks, but there was something I had to tell him.
“I’ll never be able to have a baby,” I said, wondering if it would be a deal-breaker.
I had androgen insensitivity syndrome, meaning I didn’t have ovaries or a womb.
It was something I’d spent my entire life trying to come to terms with.
And now I was asking Ben to do the same.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.
Cassandra and Ben.
(Image: Supplied)For a long time, we put it to the back of our minds.
We partied, bought our first home, and married in 2013.
Four years later, we decided it was time to start a family.
We knew we’d need an egg donor and a surrogate, so we joined an egg donation forum where we shared our story, and we went to meet-ups arranged by Queensland Surrogacy.
Trouble was, because egg donors and surrogates can’t get paid in Australia, it was relationships-based.
“It feels like we’re in competition with other couples,” I said to Ben.
The couple wanted a child.
(Image: Supplied)We decided to rethink our options.
“What about other countries?” my mum, Leigh, suggested.
It turned out countries like the USA and Canada ran egg donation and surrogacy as a business.
“If you can pay someone, it takes the emotion out of it,” Ben said.
We soon found Ukraine also handled fertility assistance in a similar way, and it was much cheaper.
We had a Skype call with the director of an agency, Julia, who said she’d be able to help us find both an egg donor and a surrogate.
We were shocked to discover the total cost, which included flights and accommodation for when we’d fly over to collect our baby, would be around $100,000!
Thankfully, our savings would just about cover it.
In Ukraine.
(Image: Supplied)“It will be worth every cent,” I told Ben.
First, we’d ship Ben’s sperm to Ukraine.
But while we were organising that, COVID hit.
“What if we can’t get it shipped?” I panicked.
Eventually, we found a courier who could do it – and Julia texted us to let us know the deposit had arrived safely.
Next, we browsed a database to choose our egg donor.
“I want her to look like me,” I said.
So we chose five women, all tall, fair-skinned, with blue eyes and blonde hair.
With Hope (right).
(Image: Supplied)Incredibly, our first choice was a perfect match.
She underwent IVF, where specialists retrieved 12 of her eggs.
They were fertilised with Ben’s sperm and put on ice for us.
Choosing the surrogate was harder.
Our first choice got COVID the day she was supposed to be implanted; our second didn’t even show up at the hospital.
“I’m starting to wonder if this is ever going to happen for us,” I sobbed to Ben.
Then Julia put us in touch with a third surrogate – and her name, translated from Ukrainian, was Hope.
“She’s the one,” I said.
In March 2021, the embryo transfer went ahead and 12 days later, we got an email.
“Hope’s pregnant!” I cried to Ben.
It was a dream come true.
(Image: Supplied)After her six-week scan, we were allowed to contact Hope.
I sent her a message, thanking her for being our surrogate.
I want to thank you too, she wrote back. My mum is sick and the money will help pay for treatment.
After that, we texted every few days.
Hope told us she was having cravings for lollies, meat and prawns.
Peaches, too, she typed. I’m eating them by the kilo!
She shared scan videos and photos of her bump.
At her 16-week scan, we found out we were having a girl.
The new family.
(Image: Supplied)“I’ve always loved the name Evelyn for a girl,” I told Ben. “And I think she should have the middle name Hope.”
We started buying baby clothes and decorated the nursery in a dusty pink.
We booked flights to Ukraine and packed our bags.
We were due to arrive nine days before Hope’s due date.
But two days before our flight, Hope texted: My waters have broken.
Frantically, we changed our flights to the next morning, but by the time we got to Brisbane Airport, our baby girl had been born.
I was heartbroken we’d missed it.
But seeing her photo, my heart swelled with love.
In hospital, when Evelyn was born.
(Image: Supplied)After 40 hours of flying, we landed in Ukraine and went straight to the hospital, where we were taken to a room to meet our daughter.
I got in a bed and she was placed in my arms for skin-to-skin contact.
“I can’t believe this is our baby,” I choked.
It was the most magical moment of my life.
Next day, we met Hope for coffee.
And after we’d been discharged to our AirBnb, she visited us, bringing chocolates and a letter, thanking us.
It was so special knowing her gift to us was also helping her family.
As we started the long process of applying for Evelyn’s passport so we could go home, we started to see stories saying Russia might invade.
At first, locals told us not to worry.
But soon, it was on every front page.
The day Evelyn’s passport arrived.
(Image: Supplied)Worried, Mum called me. “When are you coming home?” she fretted.
“We’re still waiting for the passport!” I panicked.
Finally, we got Evelyn’s passport and five days later, we flew home, relieved beyond measure as the embassy in Kyiv had been evacuated and we got a call from Department of Foreign Affairs.
“You need to go home,” they told us.
Now, Evelyn is 11 months old and we’re settled into family life.
0She’s smiley and giggly and we love being parents.
Sometimes I look at her and can’t believe she’s ours.
But it turned out, all we needed was Hope.
