A Lesson in F(er)tility
I’m an egg donor nine times over. It’s crazy to think about sometimes, especially because my tenure as an egg donor lasted only a little over three years. Three years, nine donations. Countless fertility drug injections, and, potentially, countless spawn, since they use my eggs not only to try for an initial pregnancy for the donee, but put any extras on ice so that the same donee can have genetically-related children in the future, if she wants them.
The donating process itself was never very difficult for me – I think the worst part was waking up at oh-god-thirty and hauling myself to outside-of-the-beltway Virginia for the appointments. The shots were never more painful than a sharp prick (the needles used are similar to those used by diabetics), and the operation itself was always something I almost perversely looked forward to: a forced nap? Who would say no to that? (Excepting recalcitrant toddlers, I suppose.)
Before I was cleared to donate the first time, I had to undergo a psychological evaluation, basically along the lines of: “You know what you’re getting yourself into here, right?” I did. These children will not be mine, are not mine, even though they get their genetic material from me. You don’t have to worry about me ransacking the fertility clinic’s files in the dead of night to track down my biological progeny. I think my biggest fear with the endeavor is that my future children (with my husband) would meet their biological half-siblings someday, unwittingly fall in love, and then be made to suffer through the awful realization of their relatedness. Fairly unlikely, I know.
I was and am so glad to have been of service to these parents who so desperately wanted children, and yet I can’t help feeling a little morally ambiguous about some aspects of egg donation: selective reduction, for example, the process by which a pregnancy of multiples is winnowed down to one of twins. I perfectly understand the benefits of a more manageable pregnancy, coupled with the increased chance for viability of those fetuses which remain; all the same, selective reduction is just another word for abortion. Also, sometimes I can’t help but think that my willingness to donate my eggs directly contravenes my pro-adoption stance. If parents are able to get a child from me, that means that they won’t adopt an already existing child in need. Even now that my role as egg donor is over, I still find myself unable to square these questions in my mind.
One direct benefit of egg donation, however, was the quality stamp I received on my own ability to reproduce. My eggs are VIABLE, gosh darn it! And my uterus looks pretty darn good, too! That has definitely been a mote of comfort to me, since most people don’t know if they’re reproductively healthy until after they’ve started trying for their first little chicklet. Still, if my dear reproductive system decides to start acting up once Э and I start trying for ourselves, I think I’ll be more than a little perturbed. You hear that, body? Be good, or else I will cut you. Or just lament your failings in my blog. You know, either one.
