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Her Genes, My Belly

I will come out and say that I am “infertile,” though this term feels overly strong, given that I am also a parent of a child who undeniably has Mama’s dimples. Modern medicine really makes you scratch your head. But it is thanks to the miracles of science that in 2007, we conceived our little guy from IVF, and today, that Mister A and I have found ourselves in an unexpectedly intimate situation with a nubile 22 year-old.

Yes, in our case it will take three to have a baby (and of course you ladies, our “urban village,” to help once the having part is done!). We are using an egg donor, and sometime next month we should be entering into the final phase of my now-epic quest for a sequel to Master K.

I remember exactly how the doctor first brought it up. It was in between failures number two and three, and I was in for a consult on what next to do, and he gently probed for my “feelings” about using an egg donor. It was the strangest thing. I had no feelings, because I’d never really thought about it, beyond having seen somewhat sketchy advertisements for donors in the backs of magazines and in the odd movie theater. I remember answering that I was “pro” the right to do it, as if someone had asked me about abortion, and with that same sense of remove one has for concepts that you’ve only ever read about and not experienced.

After failure three, the topic was renewed. Mister A and I had talks. He was so, so reluctant to let go of the idea of our next baby coming from my genes. Against the doc’s advice, we proceeded with a doomed IVF number four. After that, hubby shook his head and went online to research the latest cutting-edge reproductive technology for women such as myself whose eggs, for whatever infuriating reason, are older than she is in years. He came back from his studies, hair askew, and said we could fly to China, where they apparently are experimenting in using donor ovum that has been scooped out and refilled with the mother’s genetic material. Now I love a twice-baked potato as much as the next gal, but there’s a limit to my efforts at getting my own bun in this oven.

And so. I phoned the donor services lady, and overnight my gmail account became swamped with profiles and childhood photos of women seeking to donate their eggs (“donate” is a funny term, given the $8000 fee, plus $2000 more to the email-mad aforementioned service). I felt like a I’d finally entered into the Match.com world I’d just managed to avoid in my dating years. Piled up in my in-box were several brown-haired, brown-eyed duds who looked nothing like me, and a few head-scratchers (including one woman who, with apparent sincerity, described her ethnic origins as “25% Bohemian”). The majority of donors were crazy tall (many cash-poor models and actresses). Many were Eastern European. Not very many came across as intelligent or funny, top criteria from a risk-averse couple not wishing to gamble on nature vs. nurture.

Finally I found my gal who, at 5’ 5”, was the shortest, with myriad intellectual interests, a huge smile, what looked to be great silky dark-blonde hair around the age of 11, and a decidedly wacky streak (listing both Black Flag and Patsy Cline among her musical “favorites”). She and her family have a very clean and fortunate health background. After she went for initial testing at my doctor's, the nurse called me to say that she was funny and enthusiastic, and looked a lot like me (though one suspects this is always the reassuring report).

In we go next week to see the doctor and firm up the schedule for our “joint cycle.” So I’m now, with an ironic head-shake, popping the birth control pill every morning in order to be synced up with my anonymous gal-pal. I hope the eventual child(ren) of this scientific threesome is indeed intelligent, since he/she/they will need the wherewithal to fathom all that led up to creation day…

I will report again, Mamas!