Two Eggs, Two Kids: An Egg Donor's Account of Friendship, Infertility & Secrets

By Alicia Young

***GRAND PRIZE WINNER, 2015 SAN FRANCISCO BOOK FESTIVAL!!***

Alicia Young doesn’t have kids. (She forgot.)
Yet she has two biological children.
Two Eggs, Two Kids shares how Alicia came to donate her eggs to two couples—both good friends. The way these families began and unfolded are starkly different. One baby’s origins were celebrated in the open; the other’s, cloaked in secrecy.
Discover a touching and gently humorous look into the world of infertility. Meet:
*Alicia, the egg donor, who explains why she did it—and how
*Angela, one of the egg recipients, who recounts her journey
*Rachael, Angela’s daughter, who discusses her “spare mom”
A Guided Tour to Being an Egg Donor:
*What to expect: the physical and emotional assessment
*Questions for donors/recipients and tips for friends
*Anecdotes from donors, recipients, and family members

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alicia Young
• Release date: Jun 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9780985595029

Alicia Young

Alicia Young is an Australian international TV journalist with more than fifteen years’ experience as a medical reporter, foreign correspondent, and news anchor. Prior to journalism, she was a social worker and crisis counselor. Alicia was once told off by Mother Teresa for not having children and has volunteered at a hospice and leprosy hospital in India. Outside work, Alicia handles parasols and power tools with equal ease (not really). She lives in the US.www.savvylife.net

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Them: Do you have kids?

Me (smiling): No, we forgot.

WAIT. I’m not seeking to trivialize something as important as having a family. This cheeky reply is simply my way of deflecting personal questions. I’ve had this conversation repeatedly, and I recount it for you now with a pinch of wonder at the myriad ways in which families are formed today.

My husband, Jon, and I chose not to have children, so you might be a little surprised to learn that we donated my eggs to two different couples, each good friends. The use of we is not a typo: the physical act of donation was mine, but I wouldn’t have considered it for a moment had Jon not been comfortable and in complete agreement.

I’m one of nine children, raised as a garden-variety Catholic (how did you guess?). Getting married and having children soon after was both the norm and expectation; I was an aunt by age eleven and took delight in all the babies that came along. And there were many. By contrast, I knew in high school that I wouldn’t have children myself. Predictably, this was dismissed by everyone with the usual smile or roll of the eyes and a constant refrain of Wait until you grow up. Everything will change. Except, it didn’t. It’s not that I imagined a life without children in it (I still can’t); I just didn’t think I needed to birth them myself. (My harried parents delivered me to a birthday party a day late, and my sister a week early, when we were each around first grade. A saying comes to mind: A mother’s job is to deliver her child—once obstetrically, and by car for the rest of her life.) I both witnessed and felt the joy children bring not only to their parents, but to the wider tapestry of doting aunts, cool uncles, and eccentric grandparents.

In these pages, I’ll share with you how we came to offer my eggs to a dear friend, and how, five years later, a different friend asked us to donate. The circumstances of these two experiences and their final outcomes could not be more at odds. Each couple adopted a starkly different approach, which, in turn, meant the experiences for their children were poles apart. I know you will understand why I have used pseudonyms for some of them.

•  •  •

Humans are hardwired to procreate.

Babies are celebrated in every culture, across art and literature, religion, and beyond. Our fascination with our youngest is ingrained, from cherubs in Renaissance paintings and a baby in a manger, to politicians kissing newborns and Hollywood films featuring talking infants.

Yet, while humans might be hardwired to procreate, that doesn’t mean the ability comes as easily as the instinct.

According to the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), 10.9 percent of women of childbearing age have impaired ability to achieve or sustain a pregnancy. And, undeniably, infertility issues are experienced by men, too. In the US and UK, one in eight couples grapple with trying to conceive, to varying degrees of intensity. In Australia, the figure is one in six. Nor are we talking here only of couples; individuals also have to confront issues around their ability to have children, whether they’re motivated by current plans or the desire to harvest eggs for the future. Social scientists are fond of telling us that we are delaying our milestones: we are studying and traveling longer, marrying later in life, or not at all. It’s easy to see how this might translate to starting a family later than did previous generations.

Statistics lend perspective. Yet when it comes to the crunch, if you are grappling with infertility, only one statistic counts: yours. Infertility is deeply personal, financially draining, and woefully underreported.

Speaking of reports, while I am a journalist, you won’t find a news report in these pages. Two Eggs, Two Kids is a complete departure from my usual approach to covering anything medical. I’m not quoting a truckload of data or the latest double-blind study for a new pharmaceutical. I’m not sieving through research or peering down microscopes (or even interviewing people who peer down microscopes). To do so would give the book an entirely different tone. Instead, I am offering a personal perspective, some practical considerations, and some insight into the changing relationships (some deepening, some faltering, some stalling altogether) of those involved. This is not a story of statistics, but a story of lives crisscrossing and merging.

Finally, I wish to explain why Part II is significantly shorter than Part I. I have not been in contact with Kate (the second egg recipient) for several years, and while I have notified her of the book, I did not invite her involvement, nor did she offer it. I address this a little more in Chapter Nine. Her husband, Thomas, is very supportive of Two Eggs, Two Kids. I wish Kate well.

Chapter One

I LIVE IN THE IN-BETWEEN

I live in the in-between. By that, I mean that I’ve long felt I have a foot in two camps. Two cultures. Two socioeconomic groups. Two faiths (though one dominated). Even two accents. Being an egg donor means being a mother—biologically so, yet not so in day-to-day reality. Egg donation became another way in which this duality unfolded. Far from being torn or lost, I see it as a benefit, this membership in parallel worlds. I am also considered ethnic in Australia (where I grew up), white in Russia (where I have lived), and a woman of color in the US (where I’m based now). More on that in a moment; but first, a bit of background on what got me to this point.

•  •  •

Some people hail from a long line of artists, scientists, or attorneys; I come from a long line of sweet tooths and sentimental hoarders. Actually, perhaps hoarders is too strong a word, as we tend to embrace the catharsis of a good spring clean or a busy-bee day in the yard. That said, if we’re going to get personal about hoarding, I’ll admit that I’ve been known in years past to be scared of my own handbag. Yes, my handbag. Jon calls it the Bermuda Triangle, and it’s true: things have been known to go in, never to be seen again. I’m sure there’s a few old boyfriends stashed in a side zipper.

When I left school, there were only two professions that interested me: social work and journalism. I’ve had the privilege of practicing both, and each has played its part in writing this book. I consider myself fortunate to have had occupations I love; I respect this is not the case for everyone. I’m often quietly but deeply inspired by the depth of a parent’s love in toiling away at jobs they would not otherwise choose but for the drive to provide for their little ones. Just last week I chatted with a man on the subway after he’d wrapped a sixteen-hour shift (yes, he was happy to talk). Naturally, he was a father.

When I look back, I realize I’ve tended to do things out of order and not too traditionally. I exasperated my parents a little by not marrying a nice Indian boy; I did, however, marry a nice British boy whom they adore. Still, he’s not Catholic. (The family joke was that any random Catholic suitor could darken our doorstep, and the daughters would be offered on a silver platter. He might head a Colombian drug cartel, but hey—if he knew a chapel from a chalice, what’s a few tons of fine white powder? A couple of Hail Marys, and we’d be good to go.) But Jon can eat a hotter curry than I can, so I think that’s worth a few points. I can cook reasonably well, but I can’t conjure a full Indian meal, being more of a heat and serve girl. And if you really have to know, I can’t sew a stitch to save my life. I failed my sewing machine driver’s license in ninth grade. Once, our assignment was to simply hem a dress; I stapled mine and declared I’d be far too busy an adult to be hemming anything. I now wish I could whip up an outfit or at least do basic alterations, but that’s my own fault.

Given my slender grasp on traditional female skills, it’s probably not surprising that my path to matrimony was also nontraditional and out of sequence. Jon and I were married in a legal ceremony on a cliff top. (Alas, in the blustery weather, my hair billowed above me in a towering cylinder a la Marge Simpson.) We then honeymooned in Africa, followed, some fifteen months later, by a traditional church wedding.

I remember telephoning a priest after our cliff-top ceremony to request a church blessing, explaining that we had been legally married and might he … ? I got no further. He cut me off, blasting me for my apparent insolence. Young lady, you are NOT married in the eyes of the church! he intoned. We will make this right with the bare bones: no music, no flowers, and no wedding dress—just both of you with your immediate family in the sacristy. Thank you, Father. I’ll think about that, I stammered. Click. The next priest could not have been more different. I explained