Before you select a sperm donor, you have to go visit an approved counsellor. I guess so they can make sure that you aren’t crazy.
My fertility clinic provided me with a list of therapists and sent me on my way to make my appointment. My deep ambivalence about having a kid as a single mom was exposed in my procrastination; it took me a a couple of months to make the appointment. By the time I finally put on my game face, I was in the middle of teaching a month-long yoga teacher training intensive. Having finally mustered my courage, I did not want to wait another three weeks to see her. I was suddenly racing, on the clock. Late for everything, including my life.
I squished the appointment into a lunch break and dashed to see her.
“Oh Rachel, your poor foot!”
I had also fractured my foot that morning. Rushing to get out of my apartment (rushing for everything it felt), I had slammed my foot into my bedpost. I had wrapped it up haphazardly with tape, but it had bruised and swollen alarmingly. I looked at my foot. I noticed that it hurt.
I sat down and burst into tears.
“I’m so scared….” I wailed. Everything came rushing out. “My boyfriend and I broke up six months ago, and now I feel like everything is gone. I wanted to have a baby with someone I love, to share that. Not like this.” Everything that had been pent up started pouring out. The anxiety, the longing, the regret, the fear. I’d been fighting with depression for six months, hating myself for finding myself in this situation and resisting the reality that, well, fuck it, here I was. I was a dunce, an idiot, a failure.
“Of course you’re anxious!” She said, “Oh my God, Rachel, of course you are! If you weren’t, that would really be a problem!” Sarah gave me the sympathy that I did not want to give myself.
In the warmth of her presence, my hidden, horrible secrets came rushing out. I confessed everything: my ambivalence about even having a kid, my depression, my suicidal thoughts, my financial insecurity, my anxiety over the future. How much I missed my ex-boyfriend and tortured myself over our break up, how I was now spending time with a man who didn’t want kids at all. How I thought I would be failure if I wasn’t a mom. How I was afraid of ruining my life, afraid of regret, of bitterness, of missing my chance.
The deluge slowly stopped.
If this was a sanity test, I wasn’t sure how well I was doing. I became worried that Sarah might tell the fertility clinic to ban me.
“Rachel, no, this is normal,” she said firmly and quietly. “Most women who come and see me are confused and anxious. Ambivalence is okay.” Our time was up already, gone in what had seemed like a moment. “Let’s meet again,” she held me by the shoulders reassuringly, “so we can go over the actual sperm donation part of it…when you’re ready.” She hugged me at the door. ” You are not alone in this. Most women I speak with share the same fears and anxieties. Now, take care of your foot, okay?”
I looked down at my poor bruised foot.
Right.
I hobbled back out to the street.
It was still raining, my foot was still fractured, I was still anxious and confused. But I knew now that I hadn’t known before.
I wasn’t alone.
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