Going solo: choosing to be a single mother - using a donor
Being told she had low fertility led Genevieve Roberts to become a solo parent, even though she had always imagined having children with someone she loved
Genevieve’s journey – from deciding to try to become a parent alone, to becoming a mother and the first year of her daughter’s life – is an honest, moving account of how the most beautiful parts of our lives are often the least expected. As she prepares to give birth to her second child using the same donor she describes the realities of being a solo mum
Most decisions we make each day are fairly innocuous: what to eat for lunch, when to catch up with friends, whether to speak up in a meeting or remain quiet. And the story of these tiny decisions becomes our lives. But sometimes we decide to do something that changes everything – one thing that means we’ll never see the world, or our life, or ourselves, through the same lenses again. The biggest decision I ever made, and will ever make, happened within six months, when I went from being a solo traveller on holiday in Sri Lanka to lying on a doctor’s bed while a consultant inserted sperm into my vagina.
I spent that fortnight in Sri Lanka reflecting on my life, and, over the course of the holiday, decided it was time to take action. I’d always assumed that I would be in a loving relationship before having a family. But it felt time to consider these two hugely important future wishes separately. I’d come away to play around on surfboards, so it surprised me that by the end of my holiday I was ready to explore the idea of starting a family, regardless of not being in love.
I felt that I had so much love to give, and I yearned to watch a child of my own grow and explore the world. Every time another friend told me that they were expecting a baby, I’d be delighted for them, but would also wonder when it would be me who would get to experience the feeling of a baby growing inside me, and then watching them grow and step towards independence. I never felt that I wanted it to be me who was pregnant instead of a friend; I just really, really wanted it to be me too.
And so, once home, I visit a fertility clinic, hoping for results that mean I can happily put my dreams of children to the back of my mind until I am in a serious relationship, knowing they’re written into my biology.
My results are emailed to me after a brief phone call one Friday afternoon. They don’t suggest low fertility – they have come in below that.
It feels odd to me how quickly the journey from trying to avoid pregnancy to wondering if it’s even possible comes around. At school we were taught about contraception (I remember a condom being put on a banana in class, which we all thought was hilarious), but there was no mention of fertility problems.
I book an appointment at a London clinic to get a second opinion on my fertility and the options available. I tell the consultant that I had been advised by the first clinic to try IVF straight away, rather than the less intrusive IUI (artificial insemination). IVF involves being pumped full of hormones to encourage many eggs to grow, then these eggs are collected during surgery before being fertilised in a petri dish. IUI, on the other hand, involves a few scans to check your most fertile time of the month, one hormone injection to trigger ovulation and a pipette of sperm inserted into your vagina. It’s one step up from a turkey baster.
I’ve never had fairy-tale dreams about white weddings, but I have imagined having children with someone whom I love. Harder than anything, though, is the thought of missing out on children because I am waiting for the perfect partner.
If life were a film, a convenient male best friend would emerge at this point with an offer of sperm and support. In my reality, I look into sperm donation and artificial insemination.
The clinic gives me the name of a US sperm bank they recommend. I have no idea what I’ll find when I search online and have my first exposure to an industry that, estimates suggest, will be worth £5 billion in 2025 – and it surprises me. The sperm bank resembles a dating website, only with baby pictures instead of flirting. Each donor shares photos of themselves as a baby and an adult. They include information about why they have chosen to become a donor and share their outlook on life.
My Milanese flatmate finds it intriguing and loves looking through profiles with me. In Roman Catholic Italy, a single person choosing to try to get pregnant by a sperm donor would be breaking the law.
Looking through an online catalogue brings home the reality of what I am doing: sperm has never featured on my shopping list before. While it’s fascinating, having lots of sex to try to conceive would be a lot more fun. But I duly place my order for three vials of sperm – enough for two rounds of insemination (with a vial spare, which the clinic recommends).
The clinic counsellor asks whether I would talk to any future child about their conception. I’m not ashamed and it isn’t a secret – instead I am proud to be choosing to try to become a parent. We talk about the choice I am making, and the counsellor advises me to introduce the topic, in child’s language, from a young age. And she does mean really young, from when a child is first speaking – usually around two years old – so there are never any surprises. She explains that, under British law, any future children would be able to get in touch with their biological father at 18,
“If life were a film, a convenient male best friend would emerge at this point”
and any half-siblings (if both children want to) when they both reach 18. It’s important to refer to the biological father as a donor, so that it does not set a child up with any false hopes that the donor will swoop in during adulthood as a daddy.
After countless scans and an injection to trigger ovulation, my body is ready. The sperm is taken off ice, and inseminated. I’m told to expect it to be almost painfree. But I’m nervous and don’t relax; I feel like my insides are being grazed as a doctor puts a catheter inside me through which she’ll insert the liquid carrying sperm. Then, after all the poking and prodding (have I mentioned already that sex is a million times nicer?) I have to wait a fortnight to see if I am pregnant. A very long fortnight.
I become so impatient that I take a pregnancy test a week early. I see two thin blue lines. For one moment, I feel hopeful. Something doesn’t seem quite right, however. I look online and find that the hormonetrigger injection gives false positives. I’m disappointed but oddly not surprised. It had felt somehow too easy.
I keep doing pregnancy tests, the second line getting fainter and fainter as the hormones run out of me until one turns negative. Only if I stare and stare can I make out the faintest line that shows the power of my imagination. Then I get my period.
The next month follows the same pattern: scans, trigger injection, insemination the next day. I take another test: positive. The faintest line, barely positive. It could almost be my imagination, again. But it’s enough for me to start hoping. A week later, and dozens more pregnancy tests, I realise I really, truly am pregnant. I cry with delight. I cry with hormones. I cry with relief.