I am going to have a baby whom I will never know. I will never see him or touch her. I will never know his name. I will never know if she'll have red hair like me, or hair like her father, who I'll never learn a thing about. I won't know anything about the father, or about the mother who carried her for nine months.
I won't know how old he'll be, if he ever comes into existence at all. And I'll never know these things because those are the conditions you agree to when you donate your eggs to help a couple have a baby.
I've decided not to tell my parents about this. If my mom knew, I think she would be angry. She wants to have a grandchild. And she will soon but she won't know it; she won't know of it or know the child. I'm afraid to tell her because I know she would convince me to change my mind about doing this, and I don't want to change my mind about doing this.
I am doing this for many reasons.
Because my father was adopted, and I know the love that his parents, my grandparents, gave him. They raised him well and gave him the most love any parents could possibly give. I have faith that anyone who wants a baby badly enough to go through these expensive medical procedures will love their child with the most and best love possible.
Because there are so many unwanted children in this world and not enough wanted ones. Anyone who wants a child this badly deserves a child. And in my opinion helping them out with this is one small contribution to a better world.
And then there's the money. I'll admit, at first it was the money that caught my eye. The money, $2,500, is quite a bit for a college student. That's why I filled out the seemingly-endless application. But, after I sent it in and got a call to set up an initial appointment, the reality of what I was doing hit me. Do I really want to do this? Can I even go through with it? Oh my God, I'm going to "have" a baby… even though I'll never really have it in any sense.
It's not about the money any more. Not after I thought about it, and realized what I was about to help with. I am going to bring joy to someone's life from the day they get those eggs until the day they die. I am going to help give someone a little life to push around in a stroller. A little life who will cry and whimper "dada" and "mama." A little life who will give them silly little macaroni-art posters for Christmas and whose school picture will be framed and added to the rest of the school pictures in the family room hallway every year; a little life who will grow up before their eyes.
When I was touring the medical office, I saw a couple perched on the bench in one of the fertility rooms. I wondered if this couple will have my baby… well, it's not really my baby, is it.
I looked at the man. He seemed nervous. And I looked at the woman. She seemed nervous too. And they both looked at me. From the expression on their faces I could tell they were wondering if it was my eggs that would make their baby. They were sitting right next to a bulletin board full of baby pictures; a bulletin board of success stories, the nurse told me.
I feel right doing this, like it's part of my fate. Oddly enough, I was born on Easter morning — the holiday of eggs and new beginnings. And now, I am going to do something strange, donate my eggs, to procreate a new beginning for someone.
I'll have to give myself shots every day for a month. The thought of this scares me a lot — I'm not going to lie about that. I hate needles, but I know I'll be able to stick myself with them because I want this baby for these unknown people nearly as much as they do.
It's the right time for my body to have a baby. It's not the right time for me to have a baby. But for them, the couple that I'll never meet, it is the right time. So, I'll share with them what I have. But they'll never be able to share with me who they'll have.
