Most people going for a late-night Whopper at a Burger King in Kankakee, Illinois, would be shocked to learn that a lesbian was meeting a sperm donor inside the restaurant, but I waited outside the men’s room for a paper cup. Ta. Full of semen. I’m willing to do anything for my baby – even pick up free sperm at a fast food chain.
I wanted a baby from an early age, so I carried a baby doll with me everywhere. Everyone believed she was real and knew she would be one day. One day I found myself 34 years old, single, lesbian, and feeling hopeless.
After coming up with one crazy idea after another to get pregnant, including a sexy dress, a six-pack of beer, and an old colleague who left town the day before I got to his place. A gay friend tested positive for HIV. And a wild women’s weekend filled with drums and goddess chants. After that, I missed my period twice, but I didn’t get pregnant. The cup filled with live sperm in my hand seemed like a godsend.
The path to parenthood is difficult for LGBTQ people. It’s not just a decision… I want to be a parent – The same goes for many people who aren’t queer. Ethical, economic, and legal decisions need to be made from the beginning, including at least the following: Should I try to have a child? If so, how should I do it? If pregnancy is a viable plan, getting pregnant with a donor friend can lead to a dispute over parental rights. Frozen sperm is expensive and can be either a known donor (so that the donor can be contacted once the child turns 18) or an anonymous donor (who does not give out any personally identifying information). , and requires many decisions, starting with the choice regarding donor selection. Race/ethnicity, health history, IQ score, and even whether you had acne as a teenager. Other options for LGBTQ people, such as surrogacy, in vitro fertilization, and adoption, are also expensive and come with their own ethical considerations.
I decided to go the frozen sperm route. I moved from Virginia to Chicago, where there were few options for queer single women who didn’t have a lot of cash to obtain frozen sperm, and went to the Chicago Women’s Health Center’s Center for Single Women and Lesbian/Bisexual Women. I was able to take advantage of the insemination program.
I knew from the beginning that I wanted a known donor, so I left the door open for my child to choose to contact me later. I would call the clinic every month and ask them to order frozen sperm the day before I was due to ovulate. The next day, I drove across town to the clinic and collected the precious liquid in a metal shipping container about half my height. The container was filled with dry ice and looked like something. jetsons.
At home, I opened the metal tube, steam flooded my lips and rose around my hand, and slowly removed one of the two small vials containing sperm. Following the clinic’s instructions, I inseminated her two days in a row using a needleless syringe, then returned the giant capsule. I repeated this process for several months without success.
Do you know how expensive frozen sperm is? My friend threw me a big sperm party. It wasn’t a semen party, which may have been a great idea, but a fundraiser to buy semen. However, my savings were quickly depleted.
The dilemma I had during my pregnancy was a combination of limited income and non-heterosexuality, which prevented me from collecting sperm using traditional no-down payment methods. But ironically, sperm is not a scarce commodity. It’s everywhere – I couldn’t get any of it (or any other part). What I needed was free sperm with no drama, no promises, and definitely no sex.
One Saturday during this process, I went to an intuitive healing workshop with my best friend and confidante, Roian. We wrote down our goals, meditated, and focused on creating the life we believed in. I was in the middle of that journey and got stuck. The leader argued: We can overcome anything. ”
What about money for sperm? I thought so, but she didn’t mention it.
Late in the morning, we paired up and looked deep into each other’s eyes as we mirrored our movements. Even though my partner was a complete stranger, I felt a deep connection to him. He sat next to me at lunch and there was an energy radiating between us. While the group was chatting, I shared my current situation. I wasn’t pregnant and I didn’t have any sperm money. This nice man, Drake, asked me why I hadn’t found a donor. I turned to him, shuddering, and threw the entire glass of lemonade into his lap. I grabbed a napkin and leaned over him to clean it, but I stopped just before I rubbed his crotch. We all laughed, but I couldn’t stop thinking about this guy’s private parts covered in lemonade.
The next day, as if driven by karma, perhaps just out of kindness, Drake called me and offered to be a donor. We discussed the complex issues and signed a contract relinquishing parental rights if I became pregnant. Although the Drakes did not want children, they felt a sense of loss at not being able to pass on their genes to the next generation. He is tall and intelligent, and approached our arrangements in a straightforward and kind manner. he was perfect
The only problem was he lived in Normal, Illinois and I lived in Chicago. It’s a two-and-a-half hour drive without traffic (there is always traffic).
The first time I inseminated myself with Drake’s sperm was over the weekend. Drake and his wife invited me to their home for dinner, wine, and good conversation. I brought my date with me – not the typical way lesbians on casual dates spend their time, but she was serious. After dinner we got to work. Shortly after retreating to his room downstairs, Drake returned with a coffee cup full of fresh cum. Using a handy little syringe, they injected the precious liquid into her cervix and inseminated her in a room full of windows overlooking the forest. At night, deer came to eat the corn left outside under the moonlight. It was like magic.
But I didn’t get pregnant.
And unfortunately, I couldn’t do that every month. When you ovulate, you need sperm that day and the next day. Being in love and having fun delivering sperm are two different things. and convenience -For everyone. But if you have to drive two-and-a-half hours each way to collect sperm, and you find out that you’re ovulating by taking your temperature that morning or peeing on a stick, it’s easy to tell. It’s not a process.
The next time I ovulated was Tuesday. On Wednesday morning, I had to be at work before 7am to prepare training for 50 people. My little Honda Civic hatchback was packed with training manuals, name tags, and paper easels. The back seats were full, but there were still two seats in the front, and Roian offered to drive with us.
As soon as I found out I was ovulating, I called Drake. he said: “Forget the trip downstate. Let’s meet at the Burger King in Kankakee. You know, that exit, Kankakee, or Dwight, near the men’s prison, the only gas station and food for miles? ”Thanks to this plan, my trip was cut in half!
When I parked the car, Drake was already filling up at the gas station. He was honest, but direct.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’m going to take this paper cup and go to the bathroom. I’ll meet you there.”
Once inside, he handed me a jar of honey from the beehives he and his wife tended. Inside Burger King, I tried to look casual while waiting just outside the men’s restroom. Coolly, without the slightest embarrassment, Drake walked out of the men’s room, handed me a Burger King cup full of cum, and walked out of the restaurant with a smile on his face. Looking around, I took the cup into the women’s room and used a small syringe to inseminate it in one of the stalls.
Now, all that precious stuff, especially after a wonderful man drove out to serve it for me in the Burger King bathroom (and I didn’t even buy him dinner!) I couldn’t let it leak. Infertility books recommend that after a woman inseminates, she should lie on her back, lifting her hips up on a pillow using gravity. Unfortunately, there were no comfortable pillows and the back seat was full of training equipment. With Royan as the driver, I adjusted the passenger seat as far back as it would go and pressed it against the supplies. I rode backwards, bowed my head over the seat where my legs usually pass, stuck my legs in the air, and waited for nature to take its course.
When we returned to Chicago, we stopped at a small place along the Chicago River. I once read in an old witch’s almanac that if you put the honey of a man you want to conceive on a pumpkin and pour it into the river, the deal will be sealed. While saying his heartfelt words, he threw the sticky pumpkin, and the moon reflected on the water’s surface.
It would be a Hollywood ending to this story to say I got pregnant that night, but I didn’t. I didn’t go to Burger King the next time I went there, or the few trips I took after that.
Instead, I entered the complicated world of fertility testing and insurance fine print. My insurance plan specifically stated that in order to cover this expensive test, I had to meet the following conditions: Sexual activity in a heterosexual relationship for at least one year. tricky.
After several tests at my own expense, I ended up seeing a new gynecologist who had no idea who I was or wasn’t having sex with. What are my test results? Tube is clogged. My only path to pregnancy was through the emotionally and physically difficult and expensive in vitro fertilization (IVF) process. I was exhausted.
The journey to parenthood as a queer person is a marathon and requires stamina and determination. The mere mention of wanting children seems to confuse friends, family, and medical professionals who are accustomed to non-gay parents. Things are much better than when I started the process, but LGBTQ people still have to strive to be seen as potential parents. Whether it’s insemination, IVF, surrogacy, or adoption, each path is an uphill battle.
Add infertility to the mix and the climb becomes even steeper. Medical plans and insurance policies, adoption programs, and legal procedures are designed for heterosexual users. Some policies exclude queer people because our desire to become parents never occurred to the authors. Some are intentionally discriminatory.
But for me, not becoming a mother was not an option.
Source: BuzzFeed – LGBTQ – www.buzzfeed.com
