BY SUNNY DALY

My first question for the doctor was, “Why aren’t more women doing this?” Ovum donation would be a few weeks involvement to help a stranger conceive that wouldn’t interrupt “normal life,” and I’d get five grand? Surely, I thought, there must be some risk I’m overlooking that would prevent a less optimistic (or less naïve?) person fr­­om becoming an ovum donor. Certainly “invasive” must have been an understatement to describe such a procedure. For $5,000 though, it sure beats waiting tables. So, fresh out of college and blundering around trying to ignite a career, I inquired.

I chose the In Vitro Fertilization hospital nearest to home and told the doctor I was interested. My initial question was met with: “Most women find the procedure too invasive. Many are uncomfortable with self-injections. Some don’t like the idea of having their genetic offspring raised by another.”  The doctor explained that the process was really very simple and quite short: I would self-inject Lupron to regulate my ovulatory cycle and we’d gradually bring in Repronex, a fertility drug. After two weeks of close observation of my ovaries by ultrasound, they would remove 10-15 ova via my vagina, write me a check, and I’d be on my way.  I would never meet the recipient couple and was required to waive my ownership of the ova once removed.

In my own research, I found precious little information about the risks of what I was considering, no first-hand accounts, and much alarming news about Lupron and its jaded history with the FDA. Was it foolhardy to jump into something whilst so poorly informed? My mother was all for it. My boyfriend was fascinated. My brother was worried. A close friend was horrified. Another wished he could do it.

After weeks of vacillation, I signed on.

            I was called in for tests twelve days later. As a young American with no health insurance, I delighted in having my very own doctor and team of nurses to answer my every question. They determined that I was a healthy, in-shape, genetically sound 24-year-old (with the curiosity of a cat!). I was even sent to a psychologist. Apparently I passed so they took my smiling picture and created a profile. Within a month, a childless couple in need chose me as their donor.

            As my commitment became tangible, I found I was oddly comfortable with the idea of donating an egg. Ironically comfortable. Though I have ultimately decided that Ortho Tri Cyclen is the best contraceptive for me, I have been troubled by my reliance on such a highly hormonal fertility control. I am attracted to the idea of as few hormones as necessary and now here I was considering needles full of hormones every day.

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            As I worked through these hesitations, the procedure was beginning. I was called in for a self-injection lesson and at this point, the episode became physically real and very sharp. I wasn’t worried because I’ve always been relatively comfortable around needles and the practice shot near my bellybutton was a breeze. When instructed to twist around to inject into the muscle above my butt, and especially when the nurse described how to pull out to check for blood to make sure I hadn’t hit a vein, I woozily collapsed and came-to in a cold sweat. Though the nurse told me I didn’t have to continue on that day, I knew the first one would be hardest so I sucked it up and jabbed right then. Not so bad. Do-able, I thought. I was given a bag of syringes, a box of Lupron, and a calendar of events for my next month. I was scheduled to begin injecting Lupron each morning starting in one week.

            My journal from October 20th reads: “I feel I am in it mentally and physically at this point, complete with a syringe disposal in my bedroom . . . .”  I shot up the first dose of Lupron on October 26th. Despite my held breath and over-anticipation, I had a very pleasant day! And so on for the next five days. I kept pausing throughout the day to examine my body and mentally check for new sensations, but things seemed to feel quite good. I had arranged to work less and not take on so many volunteer responsibilities during this time and I was bored already! 

After my period arrived right on schedule, I met with the doctor for an ultrasound and to start the fertility drugs. The ultrasound was fascinating. The Repronex, injected into my butt muscle and stinging like hell, was not. Already by noon my head was pounding. My journal of November 5th reads: “Suddenly, and as never before, I am wondering, questioning, if this is such a wise or even reasonable thing to do.”  That night I fell apart: I was at work waiting on tables and felt terribly weak, nauseated, and frail. My stomach hurt and the pain in my ass, where the shot was most debilitating, refused to subside.  I came home as quickly as possible and lay on the stairs, not quite able to make it up to bed. I was terribly worried about what now felt like a rash decision.

Two days later when the doctor had my blood sample results from that first shot, he told me with a proud smile that the estrogens in my blood had jumped from 20 to 500 – 25 fold! He said this explained why my physical reaction was so powerful. He grinningly showed me the sharp curve on the chart demonstrating how “well” I was reacting to the drug. From then on, my dose of Repronex was about a fourth of that first shot but the effects continued to be physically demanding. My journal for the next few days says over and over, “so many unnatural liquids… so many shots…” I missed the simplicity of just taking a pill each morning, my fertility regiment for so many years prior. I winced when anything – including my boyfriend – accidentally touched my stomach, and my inflating breasts grew too tender.

Throughout this time, my sex drive was erratic. Sometimes it was all I could think about and sometimes it sounded like misery. My boyfriend was very accommodating when I insisted on not just one, but both a female and a male condom at the peak of my injections. I admit I was often the instigator, but I would also become extremely paranoid afterward and lecture about the enormity of the risk we were taking. Not only was I fertile as never before, but there was a risk of ectopic pregnancy – a possibly fatal condition of pregnancy outside the womb. Not to mention that if one of my plump eggs were inadvertently used, the whole experience would be for naught. 

Each day the ultrasound revealed the hard work my ovaries were doing. I had six or seven large ova on each side and they were visibly larger each day. The doctor began to talk about moving the surgery forward since I was responding so acutely. I felt very ripe. I was now scheduled to have the ova removed four days earlier than anticipated.

Now came the hardest part: thirty-six hours before retrieval, I was to inject myself intramuscularly with Novarel to cause me to ovulate just in time for surgery. The amount to be injected was the largest amount yet, and I was completely and unnecessarily psyched out to the point of nausea. At 8 p.m. on November 13th, the shot was loaded and ready to go. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to get myself to do it. I just couldn’t. My hand would not acquiesce. I had insisted to my boyfriend all along that I needed to self-inject for my own comfort and that I did not need any help, but my plan backfired at the crucial moment. Now he came to check on me just in time and found I was shaking and scared and couldn’t quite finish the job. I told him I wanted him to do it, but was afraid of that too. He said, “If you ask me to do it, the whole thing will be over in ten seconds.” I consented, tensed like hell, yelled at him what to do, and indeed it was all over in ten seconds. The next day I bought him flowers.

My trip to the hospital was actually kind of fun. I was tucked into a cozy, warm bed and given all of the anesthesia I wanted. I remember being wheeled somewhere, asking if we were about to get started when the nurse responded that we had just finished. I spent the day in bed watching movies and felt well enough the next day to ride my bike.  Characteristically, I was pushing it and my body reacted poorly. The next day I was confined to the bed again, already madly restless, but trying to let the needs of my body outweigh my impatience. I felt more aching and sharper cramping but because the shots were over, I felt psychologically done. The final days were the hardest to get through because I hadn’t anticipated post-surgical weakness. Finally, a week and a half later, my period (the sign of normalcy! the signal that I was back on track! everything would be okay!) arrived, and I welcomed it back with joy. Now I’ve begun the pill again and feel no physical remnant of the experience except that I’ve been able afford a long-dreamt-of move to xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" ?>New York.

I’ve already been asked by the doctor and a potential recipient if I would do it again. Thinking back on those first nights on Repronex, I am hesitant. I was afraid of what I was doing to my body and wondered if such an unnatural process was an ethical course of action. Adoption, I feel, is a more responsible route for couples who cannot conceive, but I understand the appeal of carrying your own child and wanting to be involved as deeply as possible in the process.  I am glad I was able to help a family and benefit myself in the process. If I were to do it again, I would want to meet the recipients to ask them my own questions. Ovum donation is no means to a living. For me, however, it sure beat, “Can I take your order?”