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The first person I mention my idea to is my boyfriend, Michael. We’ve been together for four years, both of us adventurous spirits drawn to escapades many wouldn’t even consider like skydiving or snorkling with sharks. After a year of long-distance dating, we took a wild leap together. We quit our stable jobs and moved to Central America for two years to teach. Living abroad wasn’t the easiest baptism into couplehood, but navigating a foreign land and language together taught us to be a team. Michael is better at that than I am though.  My strong-willed independence, an asset in many ways, also makes me less considerate in making joint decisions. So when I bring up egg donation with Michael, it’s not so surprising that I’m more interested in hearing my own voice than in listening to his.

Two hours into filling out the application, I read the question, “Is your boyfriend/partner supportive of your decision to be an egg donor?” and suddenly realize that I don’t know. I’ve just assumed.

“Are you okay with this?” I ask, over my shoulder still fixed on the computer screen.

He chooses his words carefully: “I’m okay with it as long as it doesn’t hurt you.”

Typing his words into the form, I log that in my head as, “If I decide I really want to do this, I have to persuade him that it’s safe.” I don’t give his concern much heed, though, because in terms of health hazards, he tends to be unduly cautious. If food touches the ground, even for a second, he won’t eat it.  He often carries emergency hand sanitizer. He would use 85 spf sunblock if he could. I think his better-safe-than-sorry philosophy is excessive. But most of the time I find a way to appease him. This time it’ll require some research.

After four hours, I’ve logged my medical, family and sexual history and answered a list of questions that seem more suited to an Internet survey:

Favorite color? Blue

Glass half full or half empty? Half full

Blood type? O+

High School GPA? 3.85

At the end I look it over and wonder, “Am I egg donor material?”

Fanning out childhood photos on the floor, I choose ten from ages 2 to 26, as requested on the application, avoiding the awkward pre-teen years of the frizzy perm and tapered, stonewashed jeans. Scanning the pictures, I don’t see anything extraordinary. Nothing really stands out, except my lack of height and my expressive blue eyes, the only feature that garners regular compliments. Otherwise I’m common, too common, I’ve always thought. All my life people have said things like, “You look just like my niece.” People stop me on the street regularly because they think they know me.

Being ordinary can be maddening. I spent my teen years to trying make my appearance stand out, wearing yellow overalls or white go-go boots and dying my hair black when everyone else was going blond. But I can’t help but think that my natural girl-next-door look might actually help this particular cause.

A couple of weeks after I submit my application, I attend the egg consultation, where I notice that the other young women are all attractive, slender and of average height. Two are sisters with black hair that shines like patent leather, standing out against their skim-milk skin. The other woman’s hair is sepia brown. She’s busty with hazel eyes and thick Angelina Jolie lips. They’re all good-looking, maybe too good-looking.  I wouldn’t want their eggs. I’d choose a donor who looks more like me.

“Each couple is looking for something different,” Catherine tells us. Usually couples have already spent as much as $100,000 on fertility therapy using the mother’s eggs. It will cost another $30,000 at least to try to get pregnant through donor eggs. The investment is significant, and they tend to be choosy.  It’s not necessarily superior characteristics they’re after, she tells us.  More often they’re looking for something specific that matches the mother. The deal sealer could be hair color, physique, race, artistic abilities or an affinity for chocolate and classical music. Certain characteristics will bring a higher price though. Right now people are paying more for Asian and Latino eggs. When one of the sisters asks about our chances of getting chosen, Catherine says the agency currently has 300 donors and three times as many couples looking for eggs.

“It’s just a matter of time,” she assures.

As the session closes, I’m still processing everything Catherine has told us. Donation, she has explained, is a simple, 20-minute surgery, in which a thin, hollow, 12-inch needle takes a shortcut through the vaginal wall to the ovaries where 10 to 20 eggs are sucked out, becoming the legal property of the couple. I’ve never had surgery before, never been sedated, but the thought of being in a twilight fog makes the procedure seem much more palatable.

Catherine hands out forms for us to sign giving our permission to post the personal profiles online for couples to view. My pen hovers as I scan the fine print, looking for anything that should worry me. I glance up to see the other donor wannabes scrawling their signatures. I hesitate.

“This isn’t my final decision,” I tell myself. “I’m just joining the pool of candidates.” But as I hand Catherine my signed form, I feel as though I’ve just placed myself on a conveyor belt leading somewhere I am not sure I want to go. I’m standing and staring into space when I notice Catherine’s impatient look; it says, “Unless you have a question, you need to leave.” Loitering at the entrance is the next round of donors to court.

In the hotel elevator, a mirrored box, my own face startles me. The light layer of foundation I thought I ought to apply this morning looks like dried vanilla cake mix under the harsh lights. Make-up isn’t my style. I prefer all natural everything. I avoid antibiotics. I’ve sworn off headache medications, antacids, cough medicine and any other meds that treat the symptoms and not the root cause. I eat organic when I can afford it. I’m not even on birth control.

Could I cope with heavy-duty, ovary-stimulating hormones?

“It would only last for a couple weeks,” I tell my reflection. “You’re tough. You could handle it.”

I hang onto that thought for now, but deeper questions are forcing their way into my consciousness:  Could I deal with knowing a genetically related child of mine exists somewhere?

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