The One About the Sperm

by Robin Silbergleid

In the car, climbing across the car seats to look for his favorite Jim Gill CD, my son tells me he’s going to give his Father’s Day gift to Uncle Jesse, since he doesn’t have a dad. He says it casually, as if it’s something he’s explained before. Okay, I say—before I even ask what this particular school project is— or you can give it to me, or your sister, or Grandma, or anyone else, but sure, I think Uncle Jesse would like that.

As I have explained to him in various ways from the time he was old enough to listen, he doesn’t have a dad but a donor, who generously provided the sperm (or “magical seeds”) necessary for me to have him as a single mother. I’m glad it’s not a big deal for him today; other days the situation is more complicated and emotionally fraught, like when he was about three and concocted an involved fantasy about how his father was a construction worker who lived at a blue house that you could see from my bedroom window and let him drive his excavator at work sites; after that scenario, he claimed his dad was, interchangeably, Santa Claus and Batman. He told this tale to his preschool teacher who, I think, was more upset that my Jewish son had ruined other kids’ perceptions of Santa Claus than anything about his parentage. The construction worker fantasy worried me, as it seemed so real. I kept reminding him, you know you can’t get into a car with anyone other than mom or grandma or our friend A., right?

From what I can tell, now at five and a half, my son does not have deep longing for a father–nor does his sister, who had a similar imaginary dad fantasy around that age, hers involving a plane trip to Africa (a detail borrowed, no doubt, from her readings of Curious George). For a while, as an elementary-schooler, she liked the fact that the donor was Irish (like, first generation from Ireland) but mostly she hasn’t asked any questions or even to look at the profile, though I’d be happy to give it to her. It’s been years since I’ve read it myself.

Mostly, the fact of using a sperm donor to build our family is just not a big deal in our day-to-day lives, although it’s a huge deal in terms of my gratitude. My kids wouldn’t exist without his generosity even if, I know, he was compensated financially for his donation, and I’m reminded regularly that my children aren’t my clones but have features that could only have come from the donor—my daughter’s musical ability, my son’s interest in machines, the shape of their toes. Although neither one of my children has expressed a keen interest, I think at some point it would be nice to celebrate the donor on Father’s Day, although I understand that ‘holiday’ has more to do with social role than it does biological connection.

Before I had my children, I thought in a vague way of how I would talk to them about the donor. With my son, books have been helpful in opening conversations. We particularly like the picture book What Makes a Baby; I’d recommend it for anyone who has used donor gametes, surrogacy, adoption, or, really, anyone who wants to explain family building without needing to talk about sex or gender. Because babies, as fertility patients know all too well, don’t always come from sex. They come from desire, labor, egg, sperm, and uterus.

My son knows now that he came from a special sperm and a special egg and my uterus. He also knows he was born in the hospital operating room, where, I’ve assured him, the doctor gave me a lot of medicine and sewed me back up, and I was so in love with him I didn’t really feel a thing. Because he’s five, he also asked how I got the sperm, if the donor held it in his hands and gave it to me, like a present I might open on my birthday. No, I explained, trying very hard not to laugh, it came in a small jar called a vial. (I didn’t tell him my favorite detail, that the fluid the andrologist used was pink.) I know as he grows he will continue to ask, and I’ll continue to reframe the narrative of his conception, giving him more detail each time.

I don’t know if our sperm donor is also a dad, whose family will acknowledge him on Father’s Day. I do wonder about him sometimes, and wonder if and when he thinks about the families made possible by his generosity. Because of him, a child exists who has made a hand printed card in preschool and asked about how he came to be.

Launch Point

Ben Holladay-McCann shares some of the challenges he and his husband face as gay men building their family. Read how they decided which option was best for them and how creating art is playing a role in their quest to become parents. Thanks, Ben, for sharing your story!

Launch Point
by Ben Holladay-McCann

From a young age, I knew that fatherhood was something I aspired to. The fact that I’m gay never phased me or stood out as an obstacle to achieving that dream. Sure, I knew it would be a challenge — the scales are tipped in favor of heterosexual people – though I’ve always been of the mind that any journey worth dreaming about is a journey worth taking, no matter the odds.

Ben (right) with husband Erik. Photo by Kendra Stanley-Mills.

Erik, my husband, shares my dream of raising children together. At first, we had explored the idea of adoption, which, though an awesome and noble avenue to take, can prove hugely challenging for LGBT folks. Most countries outside the U.S. will not adopt to gay parents. In a strange twist of happenstance, the governor of Michigan signed legislation permitting faith-based adoption agencies to discriminate against LGBT parents not long before we relocated to Colorado. Our home state is not unique in that regard, as several other states allow the application of the petitioning couple to be denied based upon nothing more their sexual orientation.

Though adoption was quickly removed from the table, we uncovered a new and more fundamental truth that lived deep within us; holding a genetic relation to our child was of greater importance to us than we had first known. With that in mind, having a child through IVF via gestational carrier as the path to parenthood was the only logical option for us.

Making the decision to pursue that route was the easy part, though it is not without its own unique set of challenges. Like so many others, our biggest roadblock was attached to the price tag. I remember staring slack-jawed at the full sum once everything had been tallied up. The total cost of IVF treatments is positively eye-watering. Resources to lighten the load do exist, though the majority are geared towards heterosexual couples. Most applications for grants or financial assistance list “husband” and “wife” on the form, rather than “partner’s name”. Even “Parent 1” and “Parent 2” would work in a Suessical pinch.

To complicate matters further, information about LGBT-inclusive adoption agencies can be tricky to find. Surely you can understand our sheer joy when we found an aptly named organization that exclusively helps gay men who want to have a child through IVF – “Men Having Babies”. Using the tools on their website, we poured over all available information and researched many different organizations nationwide before selecting InVia Fertility, out of Chicago. With that important line crossed off, we could turn attention back to the elephant in the room: how make this happen financially. As money savvy as we fancy ourselves to be, our piggy banks wouldn’t provide enough of a springboard on their own. We had to broaden our sights to help make this dream real.

Ben and Erik, surrounded by loved ones. Photo by Kendra Stanley-Mills.

Education is an important component of any fundraising effort, and we are not unique in that regard. As a part of this process, we have sought to bring awareness and information to our friends and family. Try as we have, however, some have made the assumption that adoption, rather than IVF, is the end goal. On more than one occasion, well-intentioned people have asked “what country will you adopt your child from?” or “have you met the birthmother yet”? We are surrounded by people brimming with excitement for us to become fathers, though some may be unaware of the complicated nature this road holds for us. Launching a crowdfunding site hosted by YouCaring.com has provided an effective platform to keep our loved ones up-to-date on our journey while serving to dispel any mysteries surrounding IVF and what that looks like for us.

Ben’s passion for knitting is helping build his family. Photo by Erik Holladay-McCann.

More creative means of capital generation are also supplementing our crowdfunding efforts. I have been a knitting hobbyist for years, though this new adventure of ours provided me the push to begin selling finished works and patterns of my own design, under the brand “NoahNoa Crafts”. Though a seemingly unusual brand title, it was born from the love that my husband and I have held for the name, Noah, for years. When translated from its original Hebrew roots, it embodies “comfort”, while its feminine variant, Noa, signifies movement. It only seemed a natural fit, as those are two qualities I love most about knitting, and hope to model to the children we bring into the world. While getting a small start-up such as this off the ground can be time-consuming and occasionally stressful, it is ultimately rewarding, which is not entirely different from parenthood.

Follow Ben and Erik’s family building progress on You Caring and shop NoahNoa Crafts.

Love’s Conception – Third Party Reproduction

Tomiko Fraser Hines – Photo by Guy Viau

Learning you will need to turn to third party reproduction in order to have a chance at experiencing a pregnancy is a hard thing to wrap your head around. Tomiko Fraser Hines used the art of poetry to find healing.

We first learned of her poem, “Love’s Conception…For My Boys,”  during our National Infertility Awareness Week event in Los Angeles in 2015. Then, the next month, she recited it for us during an Advocacy Day mini interview in D.C. You can #listenup by playing the audio, or reading the poem below. Thank you, Tomiko, for sharing your story! We look forward to seeing you in Los Angeles when we are there for our Men’s Health Month event in June!

“I wrote this poem in November of 2012 when I was about seven months pregnant with the boys. I was in the midst of all of the concerns that come with the way they were conceived, which was via an anonymous egg donor. And, basically, that they would not have (to my knowledge, I’m not a scientist) but to my knowledge they wouldn’t have any of my genetics. So, I had a lot of concerns about that and I needed to find a way to come to peace with it. I write, and words just kind of come through me. I sat down and I wrote this poem for them, but also for me, and it’s called, Love’s conception… For My Boys and it goes a somethin’ like this…”

You won’t have my eyes, but you will benefit from my vision.
You won’t have my mouth, but I will teach you how to use your voice.
You won’t have my ears, but your listening will be finely tuned.
You won’t have my DNA, but my blood will forever nourish you.
You were not my conception, but I will birth greatness in you.
We won’t reflect each other on a physical level, yet we will mirror each other in wondrous ways.
I will guide you.
I will shape you.
I will encourage you.
I will free you.
I will love you.
Hello! My name is Tomiko, and I am your mother.

My Donor Egg Baby Is Five

by Robin Silbergleid

Before I took the plunge into becoming a single mother via donor gametes, well-intentioned friends (and strangers on the internet) told me that once my son was born being his mother on a day-to-day level would eclipse DNA.  My doctor, on the other hand, cautiously warned me she had a patient who never managed to bond with her baby born of donor eggs.  Both these scenarios seemed unfathomable to me.  And, indeed, even as I loved him ferociously from the moment the second line came into focus on the home pregnancy test, for the first years of my son’s life, there wasn’t a day that passed that I didn’t think about the years of fertility treatment and anxiety-ridden high risk pregnancy that followed, that I didn’t wonder about the egg donor who provided her DNA.

At some point that mental-spinning stopped.  It’s hard to know when.  But I suspect now, looking back, it was around the time my son turned four, after the fog of hormones and sleeplessness faded, when I published a book about IVF, started participating regularly with the ART of Infertility, and offered to donate my remaining embryos.

candles_lit5My son is now five, and daily I run the gamut of emotions that go along with being a mother to a preschooler.  Impatient that it’s taken a good fifteen minutes to get him into the bathtub. Anger that he’s thrown his shoes (for reasons only understood by small children) up to the ceiling to crash down on the lamp in our entryway.  Delight at helping him climb into a crabapple tree.  Pride that he gives his only dollar to the homeless woman at the entrance to the highway.  Nostalgia for those days I rocked him for hours in glider, at once grateful he existed and desperate for him to sleep.  Our relationship, as all mother-child relationships, is both extremely complicated and pure.

I have not yet told him about his origins, as he’s barely begun to ask about ‘how babies are made’ in the usual sense; using his best preschool fantasy, he’ll talk about how he was alive when I was a baby in grandma’s tummy.  In a more immediate way, we’ve needed to address the fact that he doesn’t have a father, although because we’re not at the sperm-meets-egg part of the story, even the term ‘donor’ hasn’t made it into our lexicon.

It’s not a big deal.  And, indeed, I rarely have the moment that I think about the fact that my relation to him is different than my relation to his sister, conceived the ‘easy’ way via unmedicated IUI.  But I am still caught off guard when someone who knows something, but not everything, of my story observes that this fair-haired boy looks a bit like me (huh?).  It’s in that moment I remember the kind-eyed woman smiling at me in the clinic waiting room for one of those too-early morning ultrasounds in the week leading up to IVF retrieval, the woman I’d never seen before in all the months I’d been there, the woman, as I remember, who, in fact, looks a great deal like my son.

I will never know who she is, as I deliberately worked with an anonymous donor and declined all but baby pictures.  She is not part of my family, although her generosity made it possible.  As my son grows, as that sperm-meets-egg moment recedes in its significance, I continue to rewrite our family narrative.  On my son’s birthday this year, the friend who accompanied me to embryo transfer and–exactly 37 weeks later– his birth, presented me with a black and white photo taken in the recovery room, where I held my swaddled newborn and my then seven-year-old daughter looked on with a soft smile.

This is not an argument for why you should do a donor egg cycle if you’re thinking about it, or even acknowledgment that those well-intentioned strangers were mostly right.  My thoughts on having a child via egg donation have changed many times, and I have no doubt that they will change again, as my son grows and asks questions and as working on ART of Infertility continues to reframe my own infertility story.  Now more than five years out, I can say the gift of infertility is in the relationships it made possible, and for that I am eternally grateful.

 

Medical Tourism – IVF Abroad

Darla, traveled to the Czech Republic for donor egg IVF and is today’s guest blogger. This post does contain an image of a pregnancy announcement as well as talks about loss. Thanks, Darla, for sharing your story!

An Unexpected Journey

“Journey” has always been the word I’ve used to describe our battle with infertility. (I’m also very deliberate in the use of the term “our battle” because, while it’s most likely that my eggs were the culprit, I can never forget that my husband was by my side through it all, and he is just as battle-worn as I am.)

Our journey to growing our family was an emotional one that tried to takes its toll on our relationship; a physical one that definitely took a toll on my body; a spiritual one that found me begging on my knees for a reason that a loving God would put us through this.

And for us, it was a literal journey. Practically to the other side of the world. But more on that shortly.

When we were told our best chance for success was using donor eggs, we considered it for a brief moment, but realized to do that here at our home clinic would require years of saving, and of waiting. We thought about living childless, but my heart could only take that for about, oh, a day. We looked into embryo adoption, and even had a wonderful and selfless woman reach out to us and offer us her embryos, but it quickly became apparent that it was very important for my husband to feel connected to our children in some way.

Our research into donor egg IVF led us to something we first brushed off as crazy: traveling abroad for an IVF cycle. The number one place to go for donor egg IVF cycles abroad is the Czech Republic. So we laughed and said, “Thanks but no thanks” to that idea, and kept researching. And our research kept bringing us back to a trip to the Czech Republic.

A dear friend of mine, who I met through an online infertility community, was dealing with a similar situation to ours at the time. She texted me one day and asked if I’d heard about this Czech Republic thing. I said I had, but before I could say we just weren’t on board, she said, “I think we’re gonna do that!” Her excitement about it was infectious, so I asked her to share her research.

Before I knew it, I was emailing clinics in Prague and other Czech cities to ask for more information about their program. My husband was intrigued, too, and he started making spreadsheets to compare stats. And one night, I sat in a bubble bath and he sat on the floor next to me. We ranked all the stats of the clinics abroad, and our own clinic in Texas. We averaged the rankings. And we found our clinic. I’m pretty sure I cried the next day as I emailed the coordinator at Zlin IVF and asked for an available transfer date in February. I KNOW I cried when she responded with the date that our babies would be put into my womb: February 9, 2016.

The time leading up to the trip was a crazy mess of coordinating with clinics here for meds and monitoring, planning a two-and-a-half-week jaunt through Europe, and talking friends and family down as they mildly freaked out about what we were doing.

Czech-trip

The trip itself was a whirlwind. We went to places we’d only ever dreamed of going: Florence, Vienna, Prague. We were standing outside one of the most famous classical music venues in Europe, the Musikverein in Vienna, when we got the call that our donor had 12 mature eggs retrieved and 9 had fertilized. I’ll never forget standing in the rain with my husband outside this gorgeous building and crying over these embryos. We’d never gotten this far before. And though that number was down to only two by the day of transfer, we were so grateful for this chance, and we had faith in our two “little embryos that could.”

Family-photoTwo days after returning from the trip of a lifetime, I told my husband over dinner at one of our favorite restaurants that I’d caved, had tested, and he was going to be a daddy. A week and a half later, we found out that both our little ones had decided to snuggle in!

And now, we take each day as it comes and remind ourselves that we’re farther each day than we’ve been before. Being pregnant after an infertility battle is a battle in and of itself, but like I tell myself daily, “Today I am pregnant, and I love my babies.”

Update:

I wrote this blog originally back at the end of March when I was 10 weeks pregnant. We found out not long after I wrote this that we were expecting two little girls who we named Olivia Adele (baby A) and Catherine Sophia (baby B). We spent 14 glorious weeks as the parents of twins, 11 weeks as the parents of our twin girls. We had dreams for them, we had a picture of our life as a family of four.Announcement

And then, sadly, the unthinkable happened. At our 20-week scan, we found out our precious Catie-bug was very, very sick. She hadn’t developed normally – she had an encephalocele on the back of her skull (which turned out to be an open neural tube defect), a very large cleft lip/palate, small brain structures, and one doctor classified her head size as being in line with microcephaly. We were devastated to say goodbye to little Cate on June 22, 2016, a day shy of 22 weeks’ gestation. I am now carrying my sweet little angel and our survivor, Liv, and hoping and praying we make it to October with no further issues. While our hearts are broken for our loss, the excitement we felt at finally finding a way to become parents and our joy in our daughters is not dampened. This is all just a part of our very unexpected journey.

#startasking About Parenting After Pregnancy Loss and Infertility – Lauren’s Perspective

Lauren of Rainbows & Unicorns, a site about parenting after pregnancy loss and infertility, reflects on mothering her daughter who was born after donor egg IVF. This story does include an image of parenting. Thanks for sharing your story with us, Lauren!

I scoop up my toddler and carry her upstairs to begin our bedtime routine. Diaper, pajamas, teeth, goodnight Daddy, books, and then — my favorite part — songs and cuddling.

She lies on my belly, her head against my chest. “Saaah!” When one song ends, she looks up and asks for another. And another. And another. Eventually my little ball of energy goes limp in my arms. I hold her for a few minutes, treasuring her chubby cheeks and the smell of her sweet, malty little head before kissing her goodnight until she wakes up to nurse at four in the morning.

Lauren with her daughter at bedtime.

Lauren with her daughter at bedtime.

Although singing the same limited repertoire until my throat hurts and not having more than a five-hour stretch of sleep for almost two years grate in different ways, I remember how it wasn’t always like this. In the tough moments — like trying to console a teething child having an hour-long exhaustion tantrum at 3 am — I somehow find inner strength. I get to do this.

I am a mother thanks to many people, including a younger mom who donated her eggs so that I could experience the same joy she felt when she held her son for the first time.

It wasn’t joy that I felt when I met my daughter. By then, I’d been through too much to let myself feel anything so big. After miscarriage, infertility, being told I would never have a healthy genetic child, and a high-risk pregnancy requiring me to deliver via planned cesarean, I couldn’t allow myself to believe that I was finally a mom. Not until I heard my daughter’s first cries. Not until I held her. Not until she was furiously suckling did it dawn on me that I was out of the trenches.

But am I really a regular parent now? Parenting after infertility is a strange place to be. As I like to describe it, “I’m no longer in the trenches, but I’m covered in mud.”

The grief of infertility is hard to remember. Like the face of someone you loved a long time ago, it’s hard to recollect its features in detail. That is, until a whiff of their perfume, or a pregnancy announcement, or an innocent remark from someone who has no idea why the question “When are you having another baby?” causes your heart to quietly crack a little.

“I’m no longer in the trenches, but I’m covered in mud.”

For many parents like me, we’ve left Infertility Island but we’re moored offshore somewhere else. Play dates with other parents — so many blissfully unaware of everything that can go wrong before, during, and after conception — can have moments that are hard to navigate. How do you relate to another parent who casually announces she plans to get pregnant in March so the baby is born before Christmas? What do you say when someone asks when you’re having another baby? How do you casually explain egg donation when asked where your daughter’s red hair comes from? In time, the answers come.

Don’t misunderstand; none of this is as hard as trying to have a baby. But when you’re a graduating member of a club you never wanted to join, you’re caught between two worlds: the one you had to leave once your child arrived; and the other everyone else assumes you’re in.

I have my “rainbow unicorn” (if a “rainbow” is a baby born after loss, I surmised one born after infertility would be a “unicorn”) and she fills my days with more joy than I thought possible. But joy and pain aren’t mutually exclusive. What a lot of people don’t realize is that having a baby resolves childlessness — not infertility.

You’re caught between two worlds: the one you had to leave once your child arrived; and the other everyone else assumes you’re in.

Even though we’re parents, we’re still infertile. Unless we fall into a small lucky statistic of spontaneously conceiving after infertility, if we want a second or third child we will have to submit to the invasive, sometimes painful, and always expensive tests and protocols we endured a few years before — this is equally true whether you do infertility treatment or adopt.

If we want a second child, we’re lucky to have eight chromosomally normal frozen embryos to choose from. All we have to do is pick a date for transfer. Most of my infertile comrades don’t have leftover embryos, either because they didn’t do IVF or, if they did, they didn’t have any embryos left over. It struck me the other week that some of my friends are going to have to go through the whole TTC thing all over again. They have my full support and admiration.

For me, parenting after infertility has given me some unexpected blessings. First and foremost, I have this amazing little girl in my life. She’s affectionate, smart, talkative, mischievous, and healthy. We might not share DNA, but we share a sense of humor, a love of Marmite, a dislike of tomatoes, and we’re both pretty tall with big feet. Most importantly, she’s here, and she couldn’t have been created any other way. My journey to motherhood was filled with more pain than I thought I could bear, but I’d do it all over again to have this sweet child that I get to call my daughter.

Eighteen months into this parenting gig, I am more or less at peace with a whole lot of stuff that I never thought I’d be able to accept.

I have a chromosome disorder which means genetic children aren’t possible, so I chose egg donation to build my family. I can say that openly and joyfully now that I’m a parent. I can be open about the way my daughter was conceived because the irrational shame of not being able to reproduce has dissipated.

Breastfeeding has been tremendously healing in this respect. I wasn’t expecting much, so I was surprised that it came to me so easily. Being able to feed my daughter they way I hoped has restored faith in my otherwise broken body. My body can’t make a baby that will live, but it’s pretty damn good at growing and feeding them!

Over the last year and a half, I’ve spent days looking into my nursing daughter’s beautiful eyes fixed on my face — the same eyes I admired in our donor. Not recognizing any of my family of origin’s features in my daughter was, at first, strange. Sometimes she looks like her dad, sometimes she looks like our donor. To my surprise, I like seeing our donor’s influence. It’s reassuring to see something of the special woman I chose to replace my DNA reflected in my daughter.

Eighteen months into this parenting gig, I am more or less at peace with a whole lot of stuff that I never thought I’d be able to accept.

You might say I had a crash course in comfort levels, though. My daughter’s hair is a deep red, and every time we’re out three people, on average, stop us to admiringly ask if red hair runs in my family. At first the question made me wince. I didn’t know how to answer the question without also sharing the circumstances of my kid’s conception. I’ve got good at saying, “Nope! But isn’t it beautiful?” When pressed, I explain, “Red hair is a recessive gene, which means both genetic parties have to carry it.” In this way, I’m able to acknowledge my daughter’s genetic origins while not divulging too much to a stranger if I don’t feel like it.

I guess that’s what parenthood is about: constantly being surprised and having to readjust expectations, all the while practicing patience, kindness, and even finding the funny side when something’s gone wrong.

And in that sense, my infertility journey prepared me well.

Lauren is a mother via egg donation, after miscarriage, infertility, and a massive postpartum hemorrhage. She is a writer, editor, and designer at Rainbows-Unicorns.com, a community blog for parenting after pregnancy loss and infertility. Originally from London, Lauren lives in San Diego with her husband and their toddler. Follow her on Twitter at @DEIVFmama.

 

An LGBTQ Journey with Surrogacy

Here at ART of Infertility we strive to share a diverse community of stories including those that feature LGBTQ experiences. This past July, at a hotel in California, Maria and Elizabeth met with Rob and Scotty, a couple trying to conceive a child by using an egg donor and a gestational carrier. A gestational carrier, or gestational surrogate, is a woman who carries a baby created using a donor egg, not her own, while a traditional surrogate both provides the egg and the womb. Together for five years, Rob and Scotty have tried multiple times to conceive and are sharing their story in order to educate those about the journey and struggles that they have been through. We are proud to showcase Rob and Scotty’s journey to have children together. 

Lauren

Rob has always wanted children. He can remember being a member of the online community, “Surrogate Moms Online” for almost ten years, looking for egg donors and surrogates to carry his child. At this point, he doesn’t even remember how he found the group, it has just always been a resource to utilize.

Jump to October 2009, when Rob met Scotty and they began dating. At this point, Rob had already been trying to have children for quite a while with a traditional surrogate and Scotty was still a student trying to finish up his degree. Early in their relationship, when Rob was still in the process of working with a traditional surrogate, Scotty realized that he wanted to have children too.

Rob and Scotty 1

Scotty and Rob waiting in the lobby at the site of the egg donation.

“When we were dating, he was doing that process and in our relationship I didn’t feel that the kid was going to be mine if it did actually become successful, it would just be, I’m dating this person and that’s their kid.”

Scotty explained that that was the moment when he realized he wanted to have kids with Rob. He didn’t know when but he knew that eventually, that would be the right move. Because he was still in school, it wasn’t quite the perfect time but he pitched the idea to Rob and proposed that their kids be at least half-siblings by using an egg donor and a gestational carrier. Scotty confirms, “That’s how I always wanted to approach it and I was glad he was on board.”

Rob agreed and they did plenty of research. After going to a surrogate “get-together” in the area, Rob and Scotty realized that it would be perfect to use a gestational carrier in order for all of their children to have the same maternal DNA through an egg donor.

According to Rob, it made sense to utilize the same maternal DNA and then use a separate gestational carrier, “Because we’re having two or three kids” and a traditional surrogate might not want to undergo another pregnancy.

When the time was right, Rob and Scotty began trying to conceive with the help of Doctor Aimee, their reproductive endocrinologist. After securing both an egg donor and what Rob and Scotty call an “oven” they were ready to begin the process. When asked what an “oven” is, Rob laughs and explains that an oven is a gestational carrier who does not provide the eggs, she just acts as the carrier.

After plenty of blood tests and paperwork, both men provided sperm samples in order to have multiple embryos. When determining whose embryo would be transferred to the donor first, it was clear to Scotty that Rob had been waiting a long time to have a child. “I’m going to love our kid the same, it doesn’t matter, it’s the same. We’ve talked about having them one year a part.”

Rob and Scotty 2

Scotty fills out paperwork before one of their appointments with Doctor Aimee.

Rob and Scotty seem to have it all strategically planned out but they still have some concern for what the future might hold. They’re cautiously optimistic about their future children and take everything one step at a time.

“We don’t tell anybody where we are in the process. My parents are both passed but my sister knew we wanted kids.” Rob explains that it is difficult to update friends, Facebook acquaintances and everyone else on their quest to have a baby when their situation is so precarious. “It sucks but it sucks more when you have to start telling the world, ‘Oh yeah, that didn’t happen.’”

When it comes to Scotty’s family, things are a bit more difficult. His family isn’t even aware that they are trying and according to Rob, “We don’t know how she’s [Scotty’s mom] going to react either because of their Latin culture and he was brought up Mormon but his mom does accept me, she likes me.”

Scotty knows that he’s going to wait a bit to tell his family when the time comes. “I mean, my siblings know that I want to be a parent one day but like he said, they don’t even know where we are in that process.”

Rob and Scotty planted a tree on the day their embryos were created.

Rob and Scotty planted a tree on the day their embryos were created.

Despite the caution and waiting, Scotty already knows how he would tell his family of the news. He plans on testing out the news with his siblings while out to dinner, featuring an ultrasound image. After that, he’ll tell his parents. I want to have them come over for dinner. I want to make food that I cooked with my mom and my dad that they taught me. I could tell them ‘Hey you guys passed this down to me and I know how to cook this and that.’” Scotty’s idea is that he would pass those traditions on to his own children in order to honor his parents.

To some, it may seem like a lot of planning and strategy to tell the family something so exciting. For Rob and Scotty, it’s everything. They know that their situation isn’t necessarily traditional and that is why they exercise so much caution when it comes to the subject of growing their family. They’ve had some success but endured quite a bit of pain along the way and it is difficult to take a step back and admit that things didn’t work out.

It’s been a long road for Rob and Scotty–an even longer one for Rob. For now, they’ll continue to document their journey and share their story with others who are experiencing the same struggle. Rob excitedly showed Maria and Elizabeth some photos of their experience. As he flipped through the images, he explained each detail. “So this is in the car before we left to go do the egg donation. That’s Starbucks when we got the newspaper and then driving there. This is outside there. This is where the donation is. And then this is in the lobby area.”

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A cute little stress reliever while driving to an appointment.

The two are still working on the process and hope that something good will happen soon. Although it’s difficult to always be patient, they’re working toward their goal and they’ll remember every step of the way, thanks to modern technology. Hopefully one day, they’ll be able to share their pictures with their kids and enlighten other LGBT families with their experience. We here at ART of Infertility wish them all the best.

From Infertility to Fatherhood – My Journey So Far

This week’s blog is a guest post by Fred Harlan. We want to disclose a trigger warning, which is something we will do from here on out when we feel it’s needed, that this post does include images of a baby and of parenting. Fred and his wife Andrea are ART of Infertility project participants who we met in Southern California. They shared their story with us via an interview and also attended our pop-up art exhibit and workshops in Calabasas during National Infertility Awareness Week this year. Thanks, Fred, for sharing your family’s story!

From Infertility to Fatherhood – My Journey So Far

I am going to tell you something that I always hated to hear. At least, I used to at a point in time in my life. My wife and I were far along down that lonely path we were traveling in the midst of our infertility journey. The meandering road had become increasingly dark and dank. It was becoming more apparent that the chances of a successful IVF cycle using my wife’s eggs and my sperm was unlikely. Some people in our lives would say the obvious thought to them, and insensitive comment to us, that we could “always adopt.” Even the medical and therapeutic people that we sought out had begun to talk to us about “other options” to parenthood. I simply wasn’t ready to hear it, let alone think about it.

As time passed reality crept in. After many failed procedures, buckets of tears and a ton of soul searching, my wife and I eventually came to the realization that some how, some way, we really wanted to have a child. In order to make that happen we slowly began to look into other possible options. Now, after eight plus years of infertility and 10 months of fatherhood what I want to tell you is this: regardless of how long you have been battling or the reasons for your infertility, that if you are resolved in your desire to have a child no matter what, my message of hope is that there is a way. It may not be the way to parenthood that you envisioned but there are paths that can take you there. Not all roads are available to everyone for various reasons – emotional, cultural, religious or financial. But I know there is a potential path(s) available to everyone. You just have to be in a place along your own journey to be open to consider other possibilities.

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Fred and Andrea during their ART of IF photo session.

Ten months ago my son, Gehrig, came into our lives. He was born of my wife’s womb, my sperm and a donor’s egg. Being his father is a joy that is incomparable to any other, a reality that I still almost cannot believe and an opportunity, considering the circumstances, which I long thought I never would consider. Like I was saying, my wife and I decided that parenthood was what we definitely wanted. However, with each failed IVF cycle the medical opinion increasing appeared evident that the quality of my wife’s eggs was our challenge. Knowing my wife’s heartache and my wanting to always tackle infertility as a team, I suggested to my wife that our future child should be either “both of ours or neither of ours” genetically.  Honestly, I couldn’t imagine how I would feel had the circumstances been that of our future child being biologically hers and not mine, so I didn’t want her to have to imagine it either.

Egg donation seemed so unnatural, so complicated and so not us. We didn’t want to be “one of those couples.” Besides, there were so many questions that came along with egg donation. Would my wife be able to completely accept and love a child that was not biologically her own? Would the donor want to be a part of his and our life? What if he doesn’t look like us, and then what would we say when asked, “whom does he look like?” What would we tell family and friends? And what if years down the road our son had a health issue and would benefit from knowing detailed medical history? And the really big question: what would we tell our son? Although we knew several people who had chosen the egg donor route and were very happy with their choice, it just didn’t feel like the right option for us. So we closed the door on this alternative and proceeded in educating ourselves on the different avenues of adoption, including that of embryo adoption. During this time my wife realized that the concept of being pregnant and carrying a child was extremely important to her, especially considering her doctors believed she would be able to carry a child. So it appeared that embryo adoption was the answer that life was steering us toward. At least that is what we thought until a comedy of errors (a story for another day) resulted in my wife’s sister volunteering to be a surrogate or give us her eggs or whatever we needed, led us to think about egg donation one more time. It was during this period that I realized that having a child who was biologically mine was more important than I had allowed myself to think. Another series of events led us to our eventual donor (another story for another day) and the rest as they say is history.

Looking back on everything we went through I have one more thing to say that someone struggling with infertility may not want to hear either, and I understand why – I was in your shoes. But now I need to say it, I have to say it, because it is my truth. I would not change a thing. At least not if it meant I wouldn’t have Gehrig today. If you told me ten years ago, “Fred, I have good news for you and I have bad news. The bad news is that you are going to go to hell and back again and again and again in your attempt to become a father. You are going to doubt yourself as a man, a person and as a husband. You and your wife are going to go through heartbreak after heartache, and you are going to have to be the rock that supports your wife all while you can barely stand on your own. You will doubt your dreams, your wife, your faith and life itself. You will sit in the depths of despair that appear to have no escape, no hope and no resolve. However, at the end you will be given an amazing little boy to love!” Knowing everything that I know today, I would sign up for that in a New York minute.

We have all heard some variation of the motivational phrase, “Life is not a destination, it’s a journey.” I always wanted to believe that was true but some how never found a way to make it work in my life. Stress and frustration seemed to win out more than I would have liked. Then one afternoon, after my wife and I participated in a vision board workshop – an activity hosted and encouraged by our infertility counselor – in order to assist us in visualizing the life for which we hoped, I realized my board was not complete. I had one picture with a saying to represent my life’s journey that simply was not ringing true for me. In fact, it was pretty lame. So decided to scour the Internet for an image that would adequately represent my life’s road. Beaches speak to me and as I scanned many coastal images I came across one. As soon as I saw it I know my vision board was complete. It was the picture of foam-crested waves gently meeting the sand in which were inscribed the following words: “The journey is the reward.” That rephrasing of all those old Successories/Sky Mall posters spoke to me differently somehow. I didn’t know it exactly at the time, but now I do. And as I look at that photo posted on my desk as I type, I can say that my journey is indeed my reward.

Fred shares a vision board that his wife, Andrea, made during their journey at the ART of IF pop up exhibit and workshops in Calabasas, CA during National Infertility Awareness Week in 2015. Photo by Chrystal Starr Photography.

Fred shares a vision board that his wife, Andrea, made during their journey at the ART of IF pop up exhibit and workshops in Calabasas, CA during National Infertility Awareness Week in 2015. Photo by Chrystal Starr Photography.

I often speak about infertility as a journey. Each couple, each person who is faced with the disease goes through similar experiences and yet at the same time a journey all her or his own. I did not realize it as I was going through it – how could I, it was just too emotional, too raw – but in retrospect, I realize that I was being prepared for what life had in store for me – not just to be a father, but to be a father to this little boy, here and now. I have always wanted to be a dad, and had I become one earlier in life I’m sure that I would have relished it and been a good one. However, becoming a parent at this point in my life I know that I am so much better prepared for fatherhood than I would have as a younger man. I am more grounded, more secure emotionally and less anxious. I am not missing as much time with Gehrig as I am sure that I would have years ago while building a previous business. I am home more and with Gehrig frequently despite building a new practice. I’m often the lone dad in the “Mommy and Me” new parent classes.

The dad I am today is not solely because of the length of time it took to become one, but also as a direct result from my infertility journey. For example, I am more patient and flexible than I used to be. This is a benefit to Gehrig but also to Andrea as we parent him together. Also, the perfectionist that I am has been able to let go of having to do things in a specific “right” way and being tied to specific outcomes. When Gehrig didn’t nurse right away I didn’t panic (don’t ask me about my wife), rather we sought help. He turned into a nursing machine. When Gehrig didn’t crawl when he should have we enjoyed what he was doing (rolling everywhere) and asked for advice. Now Gehrig is on the move. Had I been a parent years ago I would have been looking at the situation thinking: “what is wrong with my kid!”

Once we found out that Andrea’s pregnancy was viable I made up my mind that I would “take it all” – I would change every dirty diaper, listen to every cry, dry every tear and wipe up every spit up with a smile on my face. I laugh when I fly Gehrig over my head like Superman and he drools on my shirt, my glasses or even my mouth. I do not care. No, that is not true – actually I care a lot, in fact I love it. He is my son and I waited too long and tried too hard to have him to not enjoy every moment. And I have learned that some of the best moments are the simplest, such as at the end of the day when I am rocking him to sleep. His head lays on my shoulder and has he surrenders to sleep his neck gives way to the weight of his head which nestles into the nape of my neck. I continue to rock him for another ten minutes or so to ensure he is asleep, but mostly because that time is priceless to me. Each and every night I think to myself how life prepared me those moments, and I’m so grateful that I’m not missing a second of it by simply hurrying to get my son to bed.

Fred, Gehrig, and Andrea during their ART of IF photo session.

Fred, Gehrig, and Andrea during their ART of IF photo session.

 

You may be saying, “well, that is great for you Fred, you are one of the lucky ones, you were able to have a biological child. What about your wife? What about all the people who are not able to have a biological child?” My response is this: those are fair questions and it is reasonable to ask them. It is important to note that during the process of choosing egg donation, I grieved significantly for the child that I always thought Andrea and I would have together. In the end perhaps I am lucky – I am definitely fortunate – or perhaps we made our own luck to opening ourselves up to other possibilities to parenthood. This is not a commercial for egg donation or parenthood, rather it is intended to inspire hope in infertile couples who have definitely decided or are at least thinking they still want to be parents some how, some way. And as for my wife, she feels pretty fortunate herself. She will tell you, what I will tell you, that Gehrig is 100% hers. She carried him in her womb, feeds him from her breast and is a completely devoted mother in raising him and that is what is important to her. Likewise, I know many people who have adopted newborns, babies, children and even embryos, and all without fail will tell you that their child is indeed their child and was from the moment that child entered their lives. At the end of the day it is the emotional bond that matters, not the means by which the child arrived in your life.

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I wholeheartedly believe that Andrea and I were meant to be parents, and once we figured out that part, life opened new opportunities for us to become so. I also believe that my son was meant to be and meant to be in our lives at this moment in time. He didn’t come to us the way we thought he would, but that no longer is a concern. Years ago it was difficult to think about, let alone see, that life’s journey was preparing me, actually all three of us, not for the live we envisioned, but the life we were meant to live.1 That’s my journey – so far.

1A variation of a quote by Joseph Campbell.

Fred Harlan, MA2 is a resourceful Marriage and Family Therapist Intern who works with couples and individuals on relationship issues, and men and couples coping with infertility (theirs or their partner’s). Fred holds Master’s Degrees in Clinical Psychology and Speech Communication. Fred@FredHarlan.net.