Spar believes the idea of anonymous sperm donors, as it was with adoption, is a mistake. “The parents want to know who their children are, and you have a whole generation of children who when they turn 18 want to find their biological parents, and can’t.”
Rothman acknowledges that, and CCB now has a kind of if/then clause in its contracts. When a child turns 18, he or she can contact CCB, which will get in touch with a donor and see if he’d like to have contact.
Still, while it’s hard to ignore the difference between that contact and actual childrearing, most people involved would rather not talk about the issue.
“I’m simply not involved in the decision,” Sean says. “By the time a recipient contacts me, she has already decided to have a child. As a known donor, I can give that child the option of knowing his/her biological father. The alternative is that the parents could use an anonymous donor, in which case the distance to the biological father would be infinite. This is better.”
The money shot
There is an even larger question about whether people who can’t have their own kids without medical help should be having them at all, particularly when there are so many children available for adoption.
But before getting into the Darwin-ugliness surrounding it, I’m stepping inside California CryoBank’s Massachusetts Ave. office for my big tryout. Aside from the three huge canisters of liquid nitrogen by the door, it looks strikingly like my ophthalmologists: bleach-white walls, tiled floors, and lots of brown doors under fluorescents.
Except that everyone here is dressed like they’re about to go into major surgery. Suddenly I’m worried I’ve signed myself up for something more invasive than I thought.
The woman at reception hands me a sheaf of paperwork to fill out in a waiting room that consists of two chairs, a water cooler, and snacks: peanut crackers, Nutribars, cookies. As dry as my mouth is right now, I can’t imagine what it would take to choke any of those down.
The initial questionnaire is detailed. At eight pages, they want to know all my bad behavior for the last year: sexual history, drug use, anything that would send me to an ATM at three in the morning. The last page, which I’m not supposed to fill out, has a place marked “Viscosity.” As if I was a grade of motor oil.
While I’m writing, a Jimmy Fallon look-alike walks in. He’s donor #5681, and he’s obviously old hat — he takes a peanut cracker and sits down to fill out his forms.
“This paper work is pretty intense,” I say.
“It’s like going to confessional,” he says.
The receptionist hands me a urine sample-sized collection cup and tells me to ring the bell at the desk when I’ve filled it. Good luck, I think, and head into Collection Room 105.
