An eggsistential discovery
On a gloomy June day a few months before I first left home for boarding school, I wandered up the cold, creaky stairs of my house to a landing lined with wooden bookshelves. I was looking for something to read when my eyes locked on the title “It Starts with the Egg” running down one book’s spine in a baby blue font. I was suddenly reminded of the car ride a few years back when my mom had told my twin sister Ella and me, “I’ll tell you how Dad and I had you when you are older—when you will understand.”
These words had seemed to brush past Ella weightlessly, but for me, they were haunting. While Ella, my literal other half, quickly forgot the whole thing, I clung to that single sentence for years. Now, staring at that book, I was suddenly taken over by a feeling of not belonging. I knew there was something to be discovered. Curious, I began to rifle through the soft pages. As I skimmed, I found words I had never seen before—“in-vitro” and “egg donor” seemed to be two of the big ones. Then, as I plucked the corner of a page and flipped it to the next, a loose photograph fell to the floor. I picked up the image and set the book down. I was unsure of what I was seeing, only able to make out what looked like an X-ray photo of tiny bubbles. At the bottom of the image, I noticed my mom’s name typed in small letters.
Still holding the photo, I dashed to the computer downstairs. As I clicked through websites, bits of information began to swarm my brain and I connected the dots.
The photo I had found was an embryo. It was me.
Suddenly, things began to make sense—how my mom was older than other moms I knew, the reason I had my dad’s features but seemed to lack hers, why my ongoing feelings of not belonging always seemed to plague me. I started to tremble, and then to cry. I shut the computer off and locked myself in my room.
After a few days of carrying this secret with me, I gathered the courage to ask my mom if she had used an egg donor. At first, she denied it. I can try to understand why my mom would be scared to tell me and I can trust that she was trying to do what was right. However, when she later confessed that her eggs were too old and that she had paid someone to help, I couldn’t help but feel bought and unnatural. Grappling with these feelings has encouraged me to acknowledge the privilege I come from and accept that I owe my existence to science. I am beyond grateful for my family and the life I live, yet I know that it is a struggle to reconcile with the process of how I came to be.
Although I know some of my questions will go unanswered, I view my life with a sense of gratitude and hold on to what I do know. I know that my mom was able to carry me and my sister thanks to her fertility doctor, the egg donor, my dad, and advanced developments in science. I know that my experience has inspired me to learn more about reproductive medicine, and perhaps one day to help women on their journeys to motherhood. I recognize that I am becoming comfortable with who I am because I know I was created through dedication, desire, generosity, and most importantly, love.
By Anonymous
Art By Dara Bellinson
Childhood Issue | May 2020