Kate said it was. The words “your child” rang in her head, so that she had to concentrate on responding.
“The insemination procedure itself is quite straightforward,” the counsellor went on. “The sperm’s kept frozen in straws, like a tiny drinking straw, until we need it. Then we use one of these …” she picked up a slender metal tube, which reminded Kate of a blunt-ended knitting needle, from the coffee table “… to introduce the sperm into the cervix.” She smiled. “We leave it to thaw out for a few minutes first. But that’s basically all there is to it. It doesn’t hurt, you don’t need an anaesthetic, and there’s no more risk of miscarriage than with a normal pregnancy. You don’t even have to get undressed, except for your pants and tights. And you can carry on as normal afterwards just as you would after ordinary intercourse.”
Kate sat forward to examine the tube. Her nervousness was forgotten now. “How do you know when to do it?”
“Obviously, it has to coincide with your ovulation cycle, which you’ll be responsible for timing yourself. We’ll double check ourselves when you come in for your treatment, to make sure the egg’s about to be released. If it was, and we were satisfied everything was okay, we’d go ahead.”
“How many, uh, treatments does it usually take?”
“It varies. Some women become pregnant in the first cycle, but we can go up to nine. Other clinics might do more, but we take the view that if it hasn’t worked by then, it probably isn’t going to. And at three hundred pounds per cycle it wouldn’t be fair to carry on indefinitely.”
She gave Kate an apologetic look. “I should point out that as a single woman you won’t be eligible for any help with costs from the NHS. You are aware of that, aren’t you?”
Kate said she was. She hadn’t expected any help anyway.
“In that case I’ll move on to the donors themselves,” the counsellor said, and Kate felt some of her earlier nervousness return. “To begin with, we screen every one for relevant medical and family history, and test them for HIV, hepatitis, and other sexually transmitted diseases. Then the sperm is frozen and stored for a minimum of six months, until a second HIV test has been carried out, to reduce the risk of infection.”
Kate had been listening intently. “Are the donors all anonymous?”
“If you mean as far as you would be concerned, then yes. But of course their identity’s known to the clinic.”
“But there’s no way I could find out who it was? If I wanted to, I mean,” Kate persisted. She had gathered as much from the magazine article, but she wanted to be sure. “Absolutely none. We’re forbidden by law to reveal who they are.”
“But what if there’s a mistake, or something goes wrong?”
The counsellor was clearly used to such anxieties. “If we had any doubts about a donor, we wouldn’t use them. That’s why we check with their GP and carry out all the tests beforehand. But we have to protect their interests as well. It’d hardly be fair if they had to worry about the Child Support Agency knocking on their door in ten years’ time. We can’t disclose their identity any more than we can disclose yours. And I’m sure the last thing you’d want would be for some stranger to turn up and announce that he’s the father of your child and wants visiting rights.”
“Has that ever happened?” Kate asked, alarmed.
“Not so far as I’m aware. But that’s the whole point of the donors remaining anonymous, so that problems like that don’t occur.”
Kate accepted that, but she still hesitated before asking the next question. “How much would I know about the father?”
“It’s better to think of them purely as the donor, not the father,” the counsellor corrected her, with a smile. “We’re allowed to divulge certain non-identifying information, such as their hair and eye colour, occupation and interests. But any more than that would risk infringing the donor’s anonymity.”
“So who decides which donor to use? It isn’t just a random selection, is it?”
“Oh, no! We only use donors from the same ethnic group as the recipient, and we try to get as close a match as possible as far as body type and colouring. Even blood group, if we can. We can’t guarantee a perfect match, but we do our best.”
Despite the reassurance, Kate felt her unease growing. “Supposing I didn’t want the same physical type as me? Can I specify what sort of donor I want?”
“Well, we try to co-operate with your preferences within reason, but there are limitations. For one thing we only have a limited donor panel to choose from, so if we have to change the donor during treatment it might not be possible to find exactly the same physical type again.”
“You mean you might use more than one donor?” That was something the magazine article hadn’t mentioned.
“We’d try not to, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. If, for example, we ran out of samples by the donor we’d been using.” The counsellor’s face grew concerned. “You look as though you have a problem with that.”
Kate struggled against the growing tide of disillusionment. “It’s just that … well, I know the donor has to remain anonymous, but I thought I’d have more say in who it was. Or at least be told more about them. What sort of person they are. I didn’t realise I’d have to let someone else decide for me.”
“I’m afraid we can’t let people pick and choose to that extent,” the counsellor said. She sounded genuinely sympathetic. “It isn’t the same as a dating agency. There are strict guidelines we have to follow.”
Kate couldn’t bring herself to look at the other woman.
“It still seems like I’d have to take an awful lot on faith, that’s all.”
“We do vet the donors very carefully.”
“I know, it isn’t that.” She shrugged, embarrassed. “I just can’t imagine having a child by someone I know so little about.”
The admission made her feel stupid and naive, but she recognised the truth of it. She knew now that she could never accept having a child if she couldn’t choose the father herself. She felt her face beginning to burn. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve wasted your time.”
“Not at all. That’s what these sessions are for. It’s a big decision, and you need to be sure before you make it.”
“I suppose it’s the same at every clinic?” Kate asked, without much hope.
“More or less. You certainly wouldn’t be able to find out more information about the donors, wherever you went. Unless you go abroad, perhaps. The law might be different somewhere like America. I daresay you can even choose the donor’s IQ and shoe size over there.”
Kate forced a smile. Even assuming that that was true, she couldn’t afford either the time or the money to go to another country for treatment. She prepared to leave. But before she could, the counsellor, who had been watching her worriedly, seemed to reach a decision.
“Of course,” she said, carefully, “some women don’t bother with clinics at all.”
Her expression was guarded as she looked across at Kate. “It isn’t something I’d recommend, obviously. But you find that some lesbian couples, for instance, carry out DI on themselves because a lot of clinics refuse to treat them. They ask a male friend to be the donor.” She paused to let that sink in. “It really isn’t all that difficult when you think about it. All you need is a paper cup and a plastic syringe.”
Kate knew why the counsellor was telling her this, but she was too taken aback to say anything.
“I’m not suggesting anyone should try it, you understand,” the counsellor added quickly, seeing her expression. “It would mean using fresh sperm, so there wouldn’t be any of the legal or medical safeguards there’d be at a clinic. I just thought I’d mention it as a matter of interest.”