Jess Flaherty donated her eggs twice to help those struggling to conceive children of their own, but the process was a lot more than she bargained for and at one point, she didn’t want to leave the house
Since my early 20s, I’ve known I don’t want children of my own. After one of my favourite singers, Cat Pierce, shared she was pregnant with her first child thanks to the help of an egg donor, I decided to look into donating my own eggs to help others struggling with their fertility journey.
It’s not a quick or simple process – is anything related to women’s health ever easy and straightforward?! But I was incredibly eager to get going. I went to the Hewitt Fertility Centre, based at Liverpool Women’s Hospital, and had a series of consultations before embarking on the procedure.
My full medical history was taken – including obtaining enough vials of blood from my arm to leave Count Dracula salivating – and I was booked in for a compulsory counselling session to discuss the ramifications of the decision to donate my eggs. It could work, meaning my genetics would be out in the world but I’d have zero legal claim to any child conceived from my eggs or any way of tracking them down.
It could also mean in 18 years, I might be contacted by any donor-conceived children who wanted to know more about their biological ‘parent’, as all donor-conceived children are permitted access to their donor’s records once they reach adulthood. It also might not work. I could go through injecting myself with hormones for weeks, multiple tests and scans, getting prodded and poked, being sedated for the extraction procedure, pain, and much more – all for nothing.
It didn’t matter what anyone told me, I’d made the decision to donate and that was final. Of course, you’re warned extensively about the side effects but I think my eagerness to do a good deed and my overall naivety about the process meant I didn’t fully absorb everything I was told. It was a little like clicking the box marked ‘tick here to confirm you’ve read our terms and conditions’ – how many of us actually read any of these War and Peace-length documents?
The first issue I faced after injecting myself with hormones for weeks with was extremely heightened emotions. Now, I’m not talking it’s-that-time-of-month-so-don’t-f’ing-test-me kind of emotions, oh no. I’m talking completely unhinged, crying and sobbing over anything and everything, kind of emotions.
I stood in my kitchen weeping over the thought of my perfectly healthy, young dog dying someday. I was practically hysterical when the corner shop sold out of my favourite sweets. My cousin’s daughter’s gymnastics routine being set to a song from The Little Mermaid (my favourite childhood Disney film) had my eyes red raw.
Some days, I didn’t want to get out of bed. Other days, I felt irritable and as though everyone on planet earth existed solely to annoy me. Let me tell you, I was a real joy to be around.
For the procedure itself, I was heavily sedated so the raging insomniac in me actually found this to be the most enjoyable and least stressful part. I slept for a full 12 hours afterwards – what bliss! Despite some intense cramping and a little pain, I was high enough on the praise I’d received for doing “such a wonderful thing” that when they asked if I’d like to volunteer to donate again, I – stupidly – said yes.
The second donation – and second batch of hormones injected into my stomach on a daily basis – led to the other most impactful side effect which, for me, was a serious breakout of angry red pimples all over my face. As a teenager, I paid my dues when it came to spots; my chin was an angry, red blob for three years thanks to a seemingly endless array of little red pimples that all blurred together. It was, as I’m sure you can imagine, a real hoot for any 15-year-old to endure.
In my 20s and early 30s, I got the occasional hormonal spot on my chin (always, always my chin – it hates me) but for the most part, I consider myself quite lucky in regards to breakouts.
The influx of hormones from the egg donation procedure made me wish for the heinous mega-spot that occasionally pops up every month or so. I felt genuinely upset whenever I looked in the mirror – itchy, sore, red spots covered my whole face and what’s more, they hurt. My skin felt uncomfortably tight so even while sitting on the sofa watching television, or sitting at my desk typing away on my laptop, I was always aware of the spots and the sorry state of my face. I didn’t even want to leave my house.
A friend popped around to pick my partner up for a football game and I vanished to the kitchen and wouldn’t turn around to look at him. In true millennial fashion, he texted me asking if I was mad at him.
Thankfully, my doctor was able to prescribe a cream which cleared it all up in around a week and a half but it was a tough time on top of everything else the hormones had dished up.
I am glad I donated my eggs and tried to help people in their fertility journey, but if anyone reading is considering doing it, I’d advise going into it with your expectations thoroughly managed. It’s lovely to try and do a good deed, and it’s even lovelier to think you’re able to help someone get something they want so desperately, but it’s not an easy or straightforward process and some of the side effects can be a lot more serious than you may have envisioned.
I had fantasies of being this great, noble stranger donating this wondrous gift to someone out there in the world. Sadly, both my egg donations didn’t work, and I was left feeling impossibly sad, a bit useless and like I’d failed – and my face was ferociously itchy and red. Still, it’s the thought and intention that counts, eh?
If you’d like to donate your eggs, I’d advise researching local centres and making enquiries with them to get the ball rolling. You’ll meet for a consultation first where your eligibility will be assessed and then you can move forward from there.
