Fertility Treatments Were Too Expensive, So I Chose to Conceive with a Friend Instead

Money, or having money, can open the door to almost anything. Your small business dreams. Your dream trip. Your garden gnome collection. It can even help you start a family. But if, like me and millions of other Americans, you don’t have a ton of money, it’s natural to feel like you’ll never achieve any of your goals, especially when it comes to raising children.

This is how I felt as I explored my options for becoming a single parent by choice. It was May, and the thick snow on the streets of Minneapolis was finally starting to melt. I was 33, soon to be 34, and ready to become a mother. I’d been preparing for years. There was just one problem: I had a terrible history with relationships. After my last attempt at romance failed and fizzled out (despite what I’d read was a great match), I knew I needed to reevaluate.

In truth, my desperation was costing me my chances of finding a partner and father for my children. In my late 20s, I learned that female fertility typically declines after age 35, so with each birthday I felt a little more despair. And somehow, the people I dated picked up on that.

Just add sperm

At 33, I finally decided that I was going to make raising a child my number one priority, even if it meant remaining single. I knew I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t try.

Single parents by choice are people who happen to be single when they’re ready to have kids. They can be moms, dads, and non-binary people. Some are single because they want to be. Some are single for reasons beyond their control. (Yes, that’s me.)

But this group has one thing in common: Their conception process is a little different than usual. It requires some outside product. In my case, all that was missing was sperm. But as I would soon learn, this tiny vial of abundant natural resource can cost a fortune in the world of artificial insemination.

I live what you might call a humble life. I’m 33 and a teaching assistant at a university. I make a small income, but I have no debt. I have good health insurance. I have a little savings. But most of that money disappears over a few vials of sperm.

For years, I thought that conceiving a child was just part of a relationship and didn’t require any financial investment up front. My savings were not for the process of pregnancy, but for actually raising a child. Any parent knows that your entire spending profile changes when a baby is born. What you used to spend on daiquiris turns into childcare fees, and so on. For me, having a baby is worth the expense. But I think it’s good to start parenting with some kind of safety cushion.

Late that spring, I drove to a medical facility outside Minneapolis, the fertility clinic my doctor had referred me to. The staff seemed open and nonjudgmental. The clinic’s name was simply “Obstetrics and Gynecology – Fertility.” But the pricing wasn’t so simple. An initial consultation and testing costs about $450; it costs about $350 to test to see if you’re ovulating (some people may need to do this multiple times per cycle); and about $350 per IUI.

It cost us at least $1150 the first month we tried to conceive, and closer to $700 the next few months of trying to conceive, some of which will be covered by insurance so we’re optimistic we can make it. Next we’ll check the sperm situation.

I considered using sperm from an anonymous donor, but then a former roommate mentioned he was going to donate sperm to a gay couple he knew, and I realized I could ask friends, so I started making a list of potential donors. The first person I asked, someone I’d become close with a few years ago, agreed. I’ll call him Robert.

I left the fertility clinic with a glossy pamphlet about several sperm banks. Even if I wanted to use Robert’s sperm, I would have to use a sperm bank. The fertility clinic I chose didn’t accept fresh sperm from donors other than my spouse, only frozen sperm. The clinic staff explained that they had to avoid a potential custody lawsuit over extramarital sperm. Sperm freezing would eliminate any legal ambiguity.

Choosing a Fertility Clinic

After all, the cost of insemination is higher if frozen sperm is required. Cryopreservation sperm banks, which freeze specimens, require thorough screening and testing of all donors, another liability issue. No company wants to be embroiled in a lawsuit over unforeseen health problems caused by any bodily fluids. In fact, the federal Food and Drug Administration (FDA) mandates that a certain amount of donated sperm be tested.

I called California Cryobank to find out more about their current prices. California Cryobank is the largest sperm bank in the U.S. Using sperm from a pooled, tested donor (donors you don’t know) will cost you about $1,000 per vial. That’s just the base price, and you have to select a donor with limited information. Expensive upgrades are required for things like donor photos.

When I found out about it, if you use a “known” donor (someone who’s arranged, like Robert), it can cost over $5,000 for the first set of vials. (A “set” includes everything the donor can produce in one ejaculation. Sometimes it’s one vial, other times it’s eight.) We’re told this is mostly due to mandatory testing. But this means a lot more than a sexually transmitted infection (STI) test panel.

What if you need more swimmers? Each additional shipment would cost about $1,400 per additional set of vials. Plus, every time a donor provides a sample, the clinic requires medical testing in two separate visits, six months apart. The sperm is only released after a six-month waiting period. Oh, and don’t forget Fed-Ex fees, which start at $275 per shipment. I hung up the phone with my head in a quandary.

I think I may have to try for four consecutive ovulation cycles before I can get pregnant. Typically, it takes four to six intrauterine inseminations (IUIs) to get pregnant if you’re under 40. When you add in clinic, sperm bank, and Fed-Ex costs, you can expect to pay $6,000 to $7,000 for an anonymous donor and over $8,000 for a donor you know and choose yourself. Sure, insurance can help with this to some extent, but with sperm so readily available, it just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do.

So I decided to fly to California to try to get pregnant using the new medicine Robert had given me. I paid for a Dixie cup and a container to grind up turkey, plus had him tested for sperm motility and STDs. But booking a flight is harder. My menstrual cycle tends to be unpredictable; if anything, its length seems to be determined by my stress-level preferences. With a new period starting, I bought a ticket last minute, and a few days later I was basking in the cool, mild California June sun, surrounded by the citrus trees and night cherries that line the sidewalks of Berkeley. I was nervous but excited to follow through with the plan.

I trust Robert completely — he’s not attracted to women so there’s no chance of any bad feelings for either of us — and I know he’s happy to help me achieve my dreams and is happy to have a part of him out in the world (he’s not sure if he’ll have kids of his own).

When the digital smiley face appeared on the ovulation test, we tried our best to conceive. Every afternoon, he would leave me a Dixie cup and I would leave it in the right place. We continued this for at least nine days, which in retrospect may have been too much. I flew back to Minneapolis. But a few weeks later, the pregnancy test I used showed only one disappointing line.

Change of course

After that experience, I decided that my next attempt should be closer to home. This is not a question of the general cost of flights, but of the fact that the flight is unlikely to arrive on time. Plus, stress levels skyrocket during travel, which is not good for conception. If I wasn’t going to freeze and ship Robert’s sperm and rely on a clinic, I needed someone I could call into my studio apartment when I needed them. So I decided that next time, I would have sex for sperm.

Sex eliminates some problems, but also increases others. I know that it gives the sperm the best chance of surviving and reaching their destination. But it also means embarrassment, maybe feelings, or other pesky human emotions.  Maybe I’ll try the Dixie Cup again? I wonder. But at the end of the day, generally speaking, I’m comfortable having sex with men, so it seemed logical to me to go down this path next. 

I started telling friends that I was looking for a sperm donor in Minneapolis. Within a few weeks, around August, a friend introduced me to the man she was dating. He is sweet, quiet, blonde, and an experienced man. He works in computer programming and enjoys yoga, polygamy, and healthy eating. When we met for coffee, he seemed like a principled, thoughtful, and sincere person. He said he wanted to do good for the world.

He was tested for STDs at the VA clinic. We arranged for him to come during my next ovulation period. And we also decided to use the “natural way” of conception – sex. I don’t know what would have happened if I had asked him to use a Dixie cup. But I didn’t. Finally, here is the most scientifically effective method: cervical mucus works wonders.

Moreover, he is interested in unconventional relationships, intimacy without the constraints of conventional love. I don’t subscribe to his polyamorous leanings, but in that moment, I could appreciate this philosophy. His unconventional lifestyle is a perfect fit for my unconventional family plans.

When the time came, we stood there for a while, admiring my bookshelf and sipping the bottle of Malbec I had saved to get me in the mood, and then, tenderly but very awkwardly, we had sex to procreate.

It’s been two weeks and I still haven’t seen a second line on the pregnancy test, so I’ll try again soon.

But in the meantime, I started dating someone. We date casually. There’s very little pressure and it’s easy being with him. We don’t have sex. But I realized I needed to have a serious talk with him soon. He knew I wanted kids, and I was honest about it at the end of the summer. But I realized it was impossible to date one person and try to get pregnant with another at the same time.

After perhaps the most important relationship conversation of my life, we decided to make him our donor. We utilized a donation agreement to make our intentions clear and provide as much legal protection as possible. No strings attached.

And I realized that I was using conventional sex to get pregnant. The day I received the positive test result, I was so happy. A few months later, my donor and I broke up.

I think I made the right choice. I only spent a few hundred dollars in total on natural methods, and I saw immediate results. But there are still risks. Both the donor and I adhered to the terms of the contract, but it did lead to some awkward and emotional conversations between us, especially during the stressful times of the pandemic. I wish no one had to choose between spending their lifetime savings or taking such risks.

But for the most part, all is well. I have a beautiful daughter. And as soon as that old despair faded, I won the love of my life, and my future husband. And instead of using my savings to buy sperm, I used it to provide for my daughter — to keep her safe and warm in the cold Minnesota winters. Eventually, the three of us moved to Tucson, where life was a little easier.

In my story, the altruism of a few great men opened the door to a box built by money. But what if we found a way to make donor sperm safe, legal, and affordable for single parents, same-sex couples, or anyone else who needs it by choice? Then we could throw that box right out the window.