I used a sperm donor for my son. Why is the government abandoning us?

As I watched my nine-month-old wobble to standing for the first time, I realised it was time to find out who his father was.

In 2019, after much deliberation, I went to a fertility clinic to be inseminated with donor sperm. I had scant information about the donor, just his medical history and a letter to his future offspring. But I’m now the parent to an adorable, infuriating human with a messy head of ringlets that stops strangers to ask: is that hair from mum or dad? I pause before answering because my kid doesn’t have a dad. In fact, I don’t use the word father at all. My son has a donor. And now I was ready to find out who he was.

The changes remove valuable supports for people seeking to connect with their biological parents.Credit: istock

I was proud to discover I lived in one of the most progressive jurisdictions worldwide when it came to donor conception. Victoria was the first place to regulate IVF and human embryo research. In 2016, Victoria enshrined a groundbreaking law that all donor-conceived people, no matter when they were born, had the right to know their genetic heritage.

The rest of the world looks to our regulator, the Victorian Assisted Reproductive Treatment Authority as the gold standard for fertility issues. According to VARTA, their role “prioritises the best interests of people receiving treatment and their future children”. Many of those future children are born to single women, who are easily the largest group to access donor sperm in Victoria.

Like many of those single women, I wanted to connect with my child’s donor. The first step was to contact VARTA – which safeguards the state’s donor registries. This process of contacting my donor would be safely mediated by VARTA through its service that protects the privacy of donors and donor-conceived families.

I was assigned a counsellor with specialised expertise. A regular therapist wouldn’t have the experience in dealing with the complexities of donor conception. Nor would they understand the sensitivities of the parent of a donor-conceived child.

I had so many questions. Would this man care about my beloved child who had been created with our shared genes? Would the donor live up to my expectations or disappoint me, and my son? How would I communicate with a stranger?

The counsellor understood my anxieties. She joked, “Most women think they’re meeting George Clooney.” She helped me to craft a letter to be sent to the donor. It would be crucial, she explained, as it was the first contact he would receive from me. I was, after all, a stranger he knew nothing about. Thankfully, the donor would have received some counselling prior to donation, which I hoped would guide him in this fraught process.

I write for a living, but spent hours agonising over this letter. How could I accurately express my gratitude and describe my baby? How could I impress upon this stranger the profound, heart exploding experience of having “our” son?

I had hopes of a joyous meeting. I had heard stories: a donor who had cried upon seeing his child; a solo mum who had a yearly Christmas event with all the donor’s offspring; a woman who fell in love with her donor leading to a happy, normie family.

With trepidation, I submitted my letter to VARTA and awaited a response. During this process, I was protected by Victoria’s groundbreaking legislation that supported my family.

But now, the Victorian government is abandoning donor-conceived people. Despite the opposition of the fertility sector, they have this week voted to disband VARTA and dismantle the organisation’s services that it was legislated to provide, including research and education and the mandatory provision of counselling. In place of VARTA, the donor-linking services that remain will be whittled down and subsumed into the department of health – a regulator without the knowledge, expertise and resources to adequately manage the specialist field of donor conception.

Victoria is one of only two jurisdictions where donor linking is available for minors. Before my son is 18, if approved by a counsellor, he can reach out to his biological parent. But how will he navigate the nerve-wracking process? Who will protect him and guide him without VARTA’s expertise?

In future, instead of a supportive counselling service, the growing number of donor-conceived children will receive some information. What will that look like? A website link? A flyer? A pamphlet cannot adequately prepare our children for what is, arguably, one of the most momentous interactions of their lives. Given how recently donor information has been made available in Victoria’s legal history, deserting donor-conceived people now is cruel and shortsighted.

Not only that, it’s dangerous. Professor Fiona Kelly, a former board member of VARTA, writes that she “has witnessed VARTA managing a number of ‘complex donor cases’ where the donor has criminal convictions, severe mental health issues, or has sought to harm their offspring”. Putting hope-filled minors in touch with strangers who are their biological parents, with no protections in place, is risky.

When my donor’s return letter finally arrived, I opened it with trepidation. He had attached a photo. I stared at this man in sunglasses for a long time trying to find some trace of my son in his face. I felt discombobulated. His accompanying letter was kind but distant. There would be no joyous reunion.

But thankfully the VARTA counsellor guided me through my complicated feelings. Without their support, I would have been adrift during this singular experience. As will the many adults still discovering they are donor-conceived because of the shame and secrecy that historically shrouded donor conception.

As donor conception continues to rise, the government should be investing more resources, education and support into this complex field, not dismantling the gains that have been made. For the sake of my child and every child and adult yet to uncover their origins.

Alexandra Collier is the author of the memoir Inconceivable: Heartbreak, Bad Dates & Finding Solo Motherhood.

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