My GP broke the news: I had gone to see her to get the results of my sperm test. "Well, Mr Cole," she said, "the volume of your semen is perfectly normal, but unfortunately the number of active sperm is, well, rather low". She passed me the lab results and I discovered what she meant: the sample I had generously provided contained one, solitary little wriggler. A lone tadpole, adrift in the Atlantic. The chances of a natural conception were remote, to say the least. This was not good news.
Months later my wife, Mim, told me that when she heard the news she felt as though she had been hit by a brick. I felt like I had been run down by a train. After all, we had talked about having kids since almost the day we met. We had married, saved up, bought a dilapidated old house, worked hard to turn it into a family home. But here we were, after two years of trying to create that family, hearing categorical, scientific, relentless and undeniable proof that it wasn't going to happen. Let me tell you, the feeling of loss and grief is very real - even if it's for a child you have never had.
Stumbling on, in the hope of some miracle cure, we were referred to the excellent Centre for Reproductive Medicine in Bristol. Another battery of tests only confirmed the worst, without offering any explanation as to the cause of my condition (it's known as azoospermia, a complete lack of sperm). The bottom line was that I was infertile, no one knew why, and it wasn't going to change in a hurry. So what were we going to do?
One possibility was to try IVF, combined with a process called ICSI (Intracytoplasmic sperm injection) in which a single sperm is injected into a single egg to maximise the chances of fertilisation. But in my case the only possible source of sperm was going to be - well - "at source." It was not an option I was particularly keen on. With the pride of my testes already pricked, I didn't think I needed to add a surgical incision, particularly given it carried no guarantee of success. And then there were the various costs, both financial and emotional, and the intrusiveness of the whole IVF and ICSI process. The only remaining choice, short of adoption or childlessness, was to use donor insemination which, as the consultant explained, is a surprisingly straightforward process.
A donor is selected by the clinic who, as far as possible, matches your height, build, eye and hair colour and blood type. Then, on the two days of the month when the potential mother is likely to be most fertile (around the time of ovulation) a small quantity of donor sperm is defrosted and introduced directly into the uterus. In our house it has become known as the "turkey baster" option, in honour of those oversized plastic pipettes you get in John Lewis. (While they bear little resemblance to the actual device used, the analogy seems to help people get the idea.) No drugs, no surgery and a far more manageable financial burden at around £300 a month: but of course, it would mean that any resulting child shared no genetic link with me.
I don't think this was a massive issue for Mim. I may be doing her an injustice but my memory is that she was so desperate to have children that their genetic make-up was not of primary importance. I was less sure.
I turned to the internet, where I found the Donor Conception Network (a support group for those in circumstances like our own). I read a moving account by Walter, one of the DC Network's founders, of his own similar experience which gave me some sensible advice. "Take your time," Walter suggested. I told Mim I wanted three months to just mull it over. "Talk to people," Walter suggested, and talk I did. Sure, it was a bit awkward at times, but everyone I spoke to was supportive and gradually I came to a decision.
In the end there were three things that really helped make up my mind. The first was the strength of my relationship with my stepdad, who had the joyful experience of seeing me through my teenage years. He is a good man and I have learned a lot from him, as well as from my actual dad. They have both helped me through difficult times in different ways, so I had good first-hand evidence that a genetic bond is only a part of the picture of good parenting.
The second was something my aunt said to me: "Your child won't know any different when it pops out." I suppose it's obvious in a way, but it was a tremendously reassuring observation for me.
And the third - well the third is a bit harder to express, but it's something to do with a belief in the challenges and rewards of being a family, whatever that means. And it seems to me that most, if not all, aspects of this aren't really affected by a genetic relationship. It's a very personal thing, but I came very firmly to the conclusion that parenthood was something I wanted to do.
The only remaining question was what any children-to-be were going to make of their own, slightly complicated, origins. Through the DC Network we read about the experiences of many children born using donated eggs or sperm, and learned that they varied enormously. Some were curious about, but certainly not obsessed with, their genetic origins, while others were largely uninterested. It seemed that only when "finding out" was a sudden shock, often very late in life, was it likely to be a truly negative or damaging experience. Our overriding conclusion was that, whatever situations children have to come to terms with in life, the most important factor was that they were loved and cared for, and we both felt sure that this would always be the case. We would do whatever we could to support our children through whatever troubled them. We were ready for DI.
I can't say I felt as involved in the process of conception as most men do, but I went along to each treatment and held Mim's hand in an attempt to ease the inevitably clinical nature of the whole procedure. But I reckon, having compared notes with various mates, that from then on my experiences were largely the same as theirs. The misery when a period arrived, signalling another failure, and the joy (unbridled on her part, rather more nervous on mine) when Mim did, finally, get pregnant. Worrying before each scan. Trying to appear enthusiastic about antenatal classes. Panicking when her waters broke. Crying when our baby was born.
And now we are three. I write this while our beautiful four-month-old baby girl sleeps soundly upstairs. I love her to bits. Bringing Rebecca Evie May into the world has made me tremendously happy, and Mim too - and brought a whole wonderful new dimension to the relationship between us.
The connection with Rebecca was immediate for me, though I'm sure that's not the case for everyone, whether a child carries their genes or not. And while of course it's hard work and there are times when I feel like banging my head against the wall, I have it on good faith that this is a perfectly normal part of being a father. I can't imagine feeling a stronger emotional bond with my daughter. In fact, when a friend asked me recently if we would use ICSI/IVF next time, in the hope of biologically fathering a child, I answered with complete honesty that the thought had never crossed my mind. Now that she is here, that genetic link seems almost trivial - dwarfed by the great adventure of being her dad stretching on, wonderfully, through the years ahead.
· Further information about donor insemination and other fertility treatments can be found in the Human Fertility and Embryology Authority's new Guide to Infertility, which is published today. Copies can be ordered from www.hfea.gov.uk The Donor Conception Network is at www.dcnetwork.org
