I was far too early. I had finished my breakfast burrito and it was only 8:30AM. Even so, I went up to the 6th Floor of the Medical Center and was greeted by a huge waiting room right outside of the the elevator doors. I read the sign pointing me to the left towards reception, just as as my coordinator’s email stated.
Still too early, I sat on a couch just ahead of the elevator and people watched as I waited. I saw a few couples walk in, and I couldn’t help but imagine being in their place. The very thought made me hope and wish to send every positive energy their way in their hopes of conceiving a baby. I saw women waiting for their daily monitoring, and wondered for a moment if they too were donors and imagined how I’ll be (hopefully) sitting in their places soon enough. It was all surreal.
My appointment was at 9:15AM, but at 8:50AM, I decided it was time to let my presence known. I went to the receptionist to introduce myself and asked for my coordinator by name. She quickly looked up from her computer with wide eyes and in a hushed voice asked, “Are you a donor??” I told her yes, and immediately she whisked me away to the egg donor’s waiting room just past the double doors.
I wasn’t aware, but apparently, we aren’t allowed to wait with the rest of the patients. Unlike my agency which allows for the possibility of open and semi-open arrangements, my CRM has a strictly an anonymous donation process therefore everything to do with being a donor is strictly kept confidential.
I realized the seriousness of this policy when I read a memo on the wall describing the egg donor’s entry and exit procedure that involved issuing the donor a security card to give her access to the service elevator and give her an entirely different entrance to the clinic to avoid mingling with other patients.
One of the nurses introduced herself to me, and handed me the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory-2 with nearly 600 questions to work on as I waited. Another girl arrived and waited in the room with me, and I assumed she was another donor, but later found out she was a pre-med student hoping to shadow me as I went through my screening. I allowed it.
After submitting my required paperwork and identification, I was sent to meet with the genetic counselor. She was absolutely lovely, but I don’t think she was quite aware that a single sheet of paper was not going to be enough to fit my entire genetic background. Both my parents come from rather large families, at least much large than the traditional American Nuclear Family: my mother has five siblings, while my dad has nine. Don’t even get me started on my how many cousins I had and their children. Somehow, someway, I managed to list at least 95% of our family, only missing a couple of my cousin’s children. There weren’t any major concerns. There were two deaths caused by cancer in the family, some kidney trouble, and a history of high blood pressure and gout due to poor diets on my father’s side, but ultimately, my family has been generally healthy.
I was sent back to the waiting room to continue working on my MMPI-2 Test, and I overhead a conversation between the genetic counselor and I presumed to be a doctor, or coordinator, or something. During the genetic screening, I had mentioned how my mom had multiple miscarriages. It was a causing concern about my own viability.
The genetic counselor came back out to speak to me regarding the topic, and I assured her that as far as I was concerned and was told, it was a structural issue with my mom’s uterus. I’m not sure if they were fully convinced. I’m certain that it’ll be something they’ll be looking for in my results in a few weeks.
Truth is, my mom always had trouble with pregnancies. She had no trouble getting pregnant, but she had trouble keeping the pregnancies. It happened so often that I grew up thinking miscarriages were the norm. I was a child and didn’t know any better. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized the awful thing that my mom had to go through all those times.
Their concern only fueled my own. Knowing that about my mom, I had always feared that I would befall the same fate. Perhaps in some convoluted way, becoming an egg donor, among many other reasons, was sort of a hope for good fertility karma for when I choose to have my own children. I know I can’t guarantee that, and this choice will in no way impact my own future, but a small part of me can’t help but hope anyhow.
[Note: My mom’ story also has a happy ending. Nine years after I was born, our family was blessed with a baby boy: my brother, who I love more than anyone in the world. I don’t know how my mom feels about the babies she’s lost, but I can’t imagine having any other sibling than the brother I do now, and for that, despite everything, I’m thankful.]
Afterwards, I met with the psychologist. She asked me questions regarding my childhood. My relationship with those around me. My hobbies. My personality. My future plans. She asked if anyone knew of my choice to become an egg donor and how they’ve reacted. She then asked me the high points of my life, and the lows. She also asked me what I planned to do with the compensation that I could potentially receive through this egg donation.
The purpose of meeting with the psychologist, beyond wanting to ensure you’re psychologically sound, is that they want to know that you’re fully aware and mentally and emotionally sound to go through with egg donation.
Under the tag of #eggdonation on Tumblr, I see so many posts talking about how desperate they are for money that they’re willing to sell their eggs, and that’s exactly the kind of people they’re trying to avoid. It can’t be denied that money is a nice incentive in becoming an egg donor, but they and I, hope that if you truly decide to become a donor that you’ve got reasons far beyond that. They want to know that you’re aware of the immensity of the commitment you’re undertaking and that you’ve truly done your research and made an educated decision.
Short of receiving the results of my MMPI-2 Test, which I know will turn out fine, I felt confident in my meeting with the psychologist. I was honest with my response to her questions. I was open and even teared up explaining why I wanted to be an egg donor. I hope that my sincerity in my desire to be a donor was reflected in that conversation.
The last person I met with was the nurse practitioner. We discussed my medical history further and what the process will be like if I am cleared to proceed as an egg donor. We also went over some of the questions on my original application that needed follow up.
I learned a few things about some of the questions that I found odd: A question asked if I had traveled to Europe during the late 80s to early 90s. Apparently, due to a mad cow disease outbreak during that time, it would have automatically disqualified me if I had said yes. Good thing I was only 4 by the end of that time frame.
I have a tattoo of a paper airplane of my left wrist, and learned that if it had fallen under the one year mark, I would have needed a written declaration from the tattoo shop that they were in fact legitimate and are up to health codes and standards.
Also, I learned pleasant news that I would not have to remove my Nexplanon, my subdermal contraceptive, since it was a progesterone only birth control method and would not interfere with the process. When I got it back in March, I jokingly said, “Just my luck, they’ll call me to be an egg donor now that I’m getting this.” True to my word, just over a month later was when I received my notification that I’d been matched. I offered to removed it if necessary, but if I’m allowed to keep it, I’d be the first donor that will have done so with it. I’d essentially be like their guinea pig. I don’t mind.
Finally, I went through the actual physical portion of the medical screening. I changed into a hospital gown, and laid on the exam table. We went through the usual doctor exams such as breathing in and out, a breast exam, and even checked for thyroid swelling. They gave me a blanket to keep warm, and since I couldn’t see what was going on, they were very good about letting me know what they’re about to do and why. They performed a pap smear, and did vaginal ultrasound.
My nurse practitioner kept pointing at things on the ultrasound screen, showing my uterus, and my ovaries–which she referred to as “beautiful” making me genuinely laugh–and even some eggs. I nodded along, perhaps even threw in a “wow” somewhere in that conversation, but honestly, I couldn’t really ‘see’ what she was seeing. I just simply put my trust in the fact that my uterus and ovaries are in fact there and perhaps even beautiful.
The last part of my screening was drawing blood. Being below the minimum weight to donate blood, that was perhaps the most blood that’s ever been taken from me at any given time. The nurse gave me the option of laying down or sitting up depending on how lightheaded I get from blood loss. I asked what each vial was for, and what the additives in them did to the blood. She described each one, and told me how each test required the blood to be in a different state.
With that final task, I was done. It took a total of four hours. It was 1PM. My flight was at 4:30PM.
I had this crazy notion that I’d go over to Central Park, which was only a mile away, and spend an hour or so before I headed to the airport, but I was too exhausted. With my lack of sleep from the previous night and the whirlwind of my morning, I headed straight over to the airport, had lunch, and took a nap until our flight called for boarding.
It’s been a week since, but this is the part where all I can do is wait. Of all the times I’ve had to wait in this process, this time is by far the hardest.
