This was published 7 months ago
‘I’d really love to meet you one day’: A sperm donor’s message to his progeny
Gone are the days when the identity of donors was a tightly guarded secret – and this biological dad couldn’t be happier.
By Gary Nunn
“These are humans we’re creating, and in an unorthodox way,” says the author. Credit: Paolo Lim/illustrationroom.com.au
The most confronting thing I’ve ever been invited to do is write a handwritten letter to my future, unborn children, introducing myself. Not usually lost for words, I found myself biting my pen in procrastination. These felt like the most personally poignant words I’d ever compose. What do you write to someone you don’t know, have never met and may never meet? Someone who is your biological daughter or son?
In 2019, I made the single most meaningful decision of my adult life: to become a donor at a fertility clinic. I’d learnt that anonymous donation is no longer permitted: in 2005, the National Health and Medical Research Council’s guidelines removed the ability of prospective sperm donors to remain anonymous, bringing all Australian states into line with Victoria, which did so in 1998. With the growing use of DNA testing websites, preserving anonymity in sperm donation no longer seemed viable, anyway.
In 2017, following lobbying from donor-conceived adults, Victoria became the world’s first jurisdiction to retrospectively overturn its pre-existing donor anonymity laws, meaning children could receive identifying information and be free to contact their biological parents, even those who’d been promised anonymity. Other states including Queensland, Western Australia and South Australia are following Victoria’s lead.
Personally, I was never interested in anonymity; quite the opposite, in fact. I’m among a new breed of de-identified donors, meaning those conceived by my donation have a right to request contact with me once they turn 18. I hope they do – if it feels right for them. They’ve been my paramount consideration from the start. What’s in their best interests? How might they feel in all the different hypothetical situations that could arise? How will they feel to have half-siblings in other families?
I trusted these children would be born from love. I’ve seen the pain infertility can cause and this was a big reason I wanted to donate.
Gary Nunn
These are humans we’re creating, and in an unorthodox way. So this was not a decision I came to lightly; indeed, it took me more than six months. As with all big decisions, I first sat down with my mum. We talked through every possible scenario, consequence and impact: ethical, financial, emotional. My head was spinning. I told my sister and other family members, given this could one day impact them (“Hi, you’re my aunty!”).
I trusted these children would be born from love. I’ve seen the pain infertility can cause and this was a big reason I wanted to donate. At the time, there was also a serious national shortage of sperm, a situation exacerbated by COVID-19 lockdowns. The Sydney fertility clinic I approached had an eight-month waiting list for hopeful mothers-to-be, and at other clinics the wait was longer. Among the recipient parents would be people whose desire to nurture and love a child was so strong, they’d paid medical professionals to assist in making it happen. I already knew I’d love these children from afar, even if I never met them, but it was only with the presumption – in truth, an intensely powerful hope – that they’d be loved and cared for because they were so very wanted, that I could access my own reasons for donating.
Half was altruistic. I had something I knew others needed that I could give to help them. For the recipient parents: a child, or children, the greatest gift you could possibly give anyone. For the children: a loving family and a “second dad” or “uncle figure” of sorts, later in life, should they wish for one. The other half was the same reason anyone has kids: solipsistic, because they want to. As a gay man, I liked the idea of human legacies on this earth, a bloodline. I’ve since learnt that four gay male friends have also donated – they only divulged this after I mentioned my own donation; another says he also decided to do so after hearing how the experience personally impacted me. The new breed of donor may not be anonymous, but he’s pretty quiet.
Before deciding, I absorbed everything about donor conception. Donor-conceived adults are speaking out more than ever. I wanted to hear their concerns, needs and feelings before committing. I fully support their calls for stricter regulation and donor/sibling linking services. If my children come asking who their “diblings” (donor siblings) are, I want to be able to tell them. As it stands, I’d have to say: unless they contact me, I don’t know. I shouldn’t be the gatekeeper of that information; the donor-conceived people have every right to know.
I don’t know anything about the people raising my genetic children other than that they live in NSW, but they know a lot about me.
Gary Nunn
I realised I’d be donating into an imperfect system. But it’s evolving, and I want to be part of that change, to make the world better for these children. The outdated stereotype of the male donor – one who thoughtlessly “wanks into a pot one afternoon” then forgets about it – couldn’t be further from my truth. First, I had to do this a total of eight times over the course of a year (slightly delayed by COVID interruptions). I also had to undertake two psychology sessions, answer an extensive questionnaire and pass medical tests to be approved. In one of the psychology sessions, after answering my many lengthy questions, the psychologist told me recipient parents are strongly encouraged to tell their children the truth about their origins at the earliest possible opportunity. The clinics, though, cannot guarantee this will happen. Weighing everything up, I decided to donate.
The day arrived for my first donation and I felt giddy when I saw the date: February 14, 2020. It felt like the best Valentine’s Day present I could give to the universe, and it to me.
I don’t know anything about the people raising my genetic children other than that they live in NSW, but they know a lot about me: my highest educational achievement, my main weakness (not knowing when to stop labouring a joke) and my main strength (a desire to make others laugh or smile). They know my full medical history, that I’m a journalist and author, my sexual orientation, my physical attributes, that I’m left-handed, my favourite food, books, movies and destinations, my temperament (outgoing, warm, chatty), interests, skills and hobbies. How often I go to the gym, and how many alcoholic drinks I have a week. They have a photo of me at age eight.
After absorbing so much information on donor conception, I could finally write that letter. Suddenly, the words flowed.
“I hope with all my heart that you’re happy and have had a good life so far,” I began. “Know this: you were so very, very wanted. Your mum/your parents wanted you more than anything else in the world. To be able to give them the gift of my donation was very meaningful for me, too, and not a day will go by that I don’t think about you, send you my very best good wishes and want nothing but the very best for you.” I finished with a promise. “I’d really love to meet you one day, if your mum/your parents are OK with that and if you feel you’d like to. No pressure if not. I’ll always keep my details up to date with the clinic.”
Do I even have a right to call myself a dad? Their dad is who raises them.
Gary Nunn
Since donating, two things have happened. First, I’ve felt a low-level contentment that wasn’t there before. It brings me joy to know these people are in the world and every time I think about them, I smile. It makes me feel as if my life has meant something. The second is that I’ve stopped being ambivalent about when I die. I don’t want to die – I want to live – but I was ambivalent about when, as long as it was after my mum. Today, I honestly look after my health better because I want to be around for that last chapter, which has a sense of exciting possibility it did not have before.
I’ll never forget the day my first son was born. I excitedly messaged my closest friends and family, tingles running all up my spine and a beaming smile across my face. The birds chirped louder that day. His family has used my donation twice and now he has a biological brother. (Donation is capped at five families in NSW – four recipient families and one in case you want your own. The cap mitigates the risk of accidental incest.)
As I write this, I’m thrilled to say three sons and a daughter have so far been born from my donation. Can I call them that? “Offspring” sounds too cold. Do I even have a right to call myself a dad? Their dad is who raises them. It may be a woman who’s both Mum and Dad. If I discovered my late dad wasn’t my biological dad he’d still be my dad; he was the one who read me Roald Dahl stories and drove me to Scouts.
These are new linguistic and ethical minefields to navigate. One friend told me I inadvertently persuaded her to use a donor after I said I feel, on some level, like I’m their dad, albeit the genetic, secondary one. Another said she’d be uncomfortable if she heard anyone calling her de-identified donor their dad. For now, I’ve settled on the warmer term of “donor dad”.
My one regret is that I didn’t do this earlier. I was 37 when I donated (for men donating sperm there’s an age cap of 45); I’ll be 55 when my oldest son turns 18. But the decision was so big, I’m not sure I’d have been able to handle it at any self-absorbed younger age. I sometimes hope they (or their parents) will request contact earlier than 18. Clinics facilitate this, but they do caution to be clear on any potential financial complications. We’ll see.
One thing I know: if any of my donor children do track me down and choose to have me in their lives at some level, they may go on to have their own kids, at which point I’d love to have earned the right to be called “granddad two/three”. If not? I’ll be a little disappointed, but I’ll still want whatever’s right for them.
It honestly enriches my life to know they’re out there, somewhere. Probably talking someone’s ear off, if they’re anything like me.
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