Becoming Mommies: Two Lesbians, One Donor

Because many  have asked and many have wanted to ask–

This photo is from the day that Sona and I made our son: November 18, 2014. I’m not telling this story because I think we owe anyone an explanation. I’m telling this story for a few reasons: First, we want to be completely transparent with our friends and family but, more importantly, we want to be completely transparent with our son. Also, I want to tell this story for all of the other same-sex couples who will–or who have–already lived it. I searched the internet for days, leading up to our insemination, trying to find stories that were similar to ours–trying to confirm that others have been down the same path, and that the path led to happy, thriving families.

Mostly, though, I’m telling it because I am (we are) so proud of our family—proud of how we worked, consciously and mindfully, to bring this little dude into the world.

So, here it is:

Sona and I always knew we wanted children and, for a very long time, we planned to adopt. We’d really never discussed all of our options. The truth is, I’ve felt moved to adopt since I was very young, never having felt the need to carry my own biological child, and Sona just went along with it.

Then came anesthesia school and her OB rotation. If anything, you’d think that watching mothers writhing in pain as a small human was pulled from them would deter any would-be moms and make adoption look even more appealing. But, for Sona, it changed her mind: she wanted to carry her own child.

Since I would never ask Sona to give up this experience, and since adoption was going to cost well over 25k (a minor side-note), we decided to move forward, knowing that she would carry.

The next step was really the most difficult; we had to decide who would be the biological donors. It wasn’t difficult because we were emotionally torn—distressed over which decision would be best. It was difficult because there are SO many options available, and many of them are very costly.

We could ask a close friend to be a sperm donor. We could try to find a family member, on either side, willing to donate; that way, we’d both have a biological connection to our child. (We had some moms who volunteered their sons’ sperm, but I won’t reveal any names). J We could go with an anonymous donor, using a sperm bank that is close to home and more cost effective. We could use the out-of-state sperm bank; they have a much better reputation but charge the big bucks. We could use Sona’s egg. We could use my egg. We could do reciprocal IVF. We could do an in-office insemination. We could do it at home (hello, turkey baster!). We could buy one vial of sperm and cross our fingers, or we could buy $10,000 worth of sperm and hedge our bets.

The list is exhaustive, and we were exhausted.

Ultimately, after over two years of going back and forth, we decided that Sona would carry, using an anonymous donor from a sperm bank. I think we both decided that our lives would be easier if we didn’t actually know the biological father. Though, we recognize that, in some ways, this is a self-serving decision that works better for us than for our son (but that’s another conversation).

This decision meant two things: we would have to find a donor, and I would have to accept that I wouldn’t be a biological parent. Believe it or not, the latter was easier. I won’t lie: when we decided that Sona would carry and that we would use her egg, I felt a twinge of something—guilt? Sadness? Jealousy? I don’t really know. Whatever it was, it passed quickly, because I was—and still am—so much more excited to be beginning this adventure with Sona than I am regretful that I’m not contributing my own DNA.

So, we found a donor. We used the expensive out-of-state sperm bank (for lots of reasons that I’m happy to discuss with anyone who is interested). And, each month, we waited, impatiently, for our maybe-baby-to-be to arrive in a very large dry ice tank, packed inside of a very large brown box, stamped “THIS SIDE UP.”

I’ve never been so anxious about missing the FedEx guy.

What do we know about our donor? Well, he’s tall, for one. (Good luck with that, Sona.) He’s super smart—a computer whiz. He’s blonde, like me, and his facial features are very similar to mine: big brown eyes, full lips, and similar nose. In fact, we have a few photos of him as a baby and child, and he looked a lot like me—even had the exact same teeth. (Hope you got braces, eventually, dude.) His ethnic heritage is pretty much identical to mine. He has a completely clean family medical history. He’s an ENFJ. He’s great at math, played lots of sports, and, when he was 10, he wanted to be a tiger. SOLD!

As weird as it sounds, whoever this guy is, I kind of love him. And I don’t mean in a you-sound-so-awesome-and-cool-I-want-to-be-your-friend kind of way. I mean that I love him in a whoever-you-are-you-gave-us-the-best-gift-of-our-lives kind of way. Not a shred of me envies him. There’s nothing but gratitude here. And curiosity, of course! Because half of the puzzle is kind of a gamble, and we’re so excited to see who and what our son turns out to be.

So, we got the sperm in the mail, and we did in-office inseminations (mostly, because I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good turkey baster). Sona meticulously charted every bodily function—and I mean EVERY BODILY FUNCTION—for months, trying to perfectly time the insemination. We know more about getting pregnant now than we ever thought we would.

Basically, with donor sperm, there’s a 12-hour window. If she didn’t ovulate within 12 hours of the insemination, she wouldn’t get pregnant. And, to top it all off, our sperm was being shipped from the West Coast. It took 2-3 days to get here. So, we had to guess when she’d ovulate, order the sperm with enough of a cushion that, if she ovulated early, it’d still be here in time, and cross our fingers. Once the sperm was shipped, we had 7 days until it was no longer usable. The stress of it all was unbelievable!

I told people at work that I had to miss a meeting because I had something personal to attend to. I didn’t tell them that I was waiting for FedEx to deliver my baby.

All the doctors told us it would take 5-6 tries—and that’s only if Sona is perfectly fertile. It’s only a 20% chance each time. The first time, it didn’t work out for us. I think we went in too late for the insemination. We took 5 pregnancy tests that first attempt.

Attempt #2 didn’t look so good. We ordered the sperm too late. Sona’s ovulation tests were showing that she was off her usual cycle. She wasn’t supposed to ovulate for at least another 48 hours, and we only had 1 day left before the sperm would be unviable. Even our docs told us that it was bad timing.

Nonetheless, we didn’t want to waste $1000 worth of sperm. So, we went in for our pre-scheduled insemination, anyway, joking the entire time that we might as well just squirt the sperm out the car window. We just accepted that we’d be going for try #3 in December.

And, as they say, the rest is history. We got pregnant. Sona—magically and unexpectedly—ovulated just a few hours after the procedure. 10 days after that, we took a pregnancy test and confirmed what I think Sona already suspected: it worked.

We got pregnant on our second try. Now, Sona is six days away from our due date, carrying our son who was conceived in a doctor’s office in Lincolnwood, using sperm from a donor who, I hope, still wants to be a tiger.

And this is one of the reasons I’m writing all of this. Lots of people—with the best intentions—have been tiptoeing around me, assuming, I think, that I’m sad to be missing out in some way and that, by acknowledging or asking about the process, they’d be salting a wound.

The truth is: I couldn’t be happier. This is our baby, y’all! Our story. Whatever path led us here, whatever process we chose. I believe that this is exactly what we were meant to do as a family. If we had chosen another route, if we had gone with another donor, if we had waited 10 more hours that day—we would have a different baby.

And we don’t want a different baby, we want OUR son. We want Finn Atlas, and we can’t wait to tell him how much we worked—and how many stars aligned—to bring him into our lives.