Egg Donations: A Honolulu Woman's Story
A Good Egg: Why one Honolulu woman has donated her eggs, six times.
(page 5 of 5)
Conception via donor eggs is an incredible process. An often unsuccessful, emotionally complicated and all-too-human process. But I am not anonymous, a number. I know who I am: I am my Caucasian mother’s stories of how much she has loved mothering; I am my Chinese father’s love for music and good deals; I am all the injury, heartbreak and observed suffering I’ve absorbed into my body, if not my genes, for the past 32 years. I am an egg donor, and my role in the lives of the couples I donate to ends the moment my last ova hits the aspirator. What I go through medically and psychologically is not easy, but, at the end, we exchange dreams: the Intended Parents get families, I get freedom. The freedom to work a little less so I can do what I love a lot more: garden, rock climb, create, cook for loved ones, write and travel. For me, meaningfulness comes not as much from making life, but from simple exchanges, time spent with the forgotten lives of children already here. I will never be a mother, but I worry for what becomes of my eggs, for all the unborn and the Pandora’s box of agonies that life unbounds for them, but, eventually, out of ovary, out of mind. I often wonder if my donations are more brave than desperate; in life, desperation is the pendulum, with bravery on each end. Perhaps every now and again I grasp it for just a second before flying once again through the air.
This essay expands on Jennifer Meleana Hee’s story, “How to Sell Your Body Parts ... and Still Respect Yourself in the Morning,” published in the Hawaii Women’s Journal, Issue No. 3 (July-October 2010).
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