My donor and me: What it was like meeting my sperm donor after years of wondering

NZ Herald

4 days ago

'One day, if you want to meet him, you can. Now, who wants McDonald's?'
At eight I couldn't really grasp what my parents were telling me about donor conception.
Eight years old was the recommended age to tell children these things, according to research my parents had read - before they develop a full sense of self. And so it was for us.
There wasn't an earth-shattering moment when I started to panic about who I was; I just enjoyed my nuggets along with my siblings and we carried on with our childhoods.
Now, I'm not going to go into detail as to why my parents used sperm donation; that's not my story.
My story began later, at around 11, when I finally started to have questions about who I was and what made me, me.
I became obsessed with the show Missing Pieces. I loved it - I'd picture myself meeting my donor with the help of David Lomas. Dramatic music would crescendo as we walked across a field into each other's arms, the camera panning around us…
When I started dating at around 16, it dawned on me that the sperm donor might have helped other families across New Zealand. What was stopping me from accidentally falling for my half-brother or sister?
Tiptoeing around the subject of biology became routine for me on a second date. Careful questions about genetics. I'd ask which parent they thought they looked the most like. Anything to try and confirm they knew their entire make-up.
I reached out to Fertility Associates in 2019 after becoming sick of trying to figure out if I was genetically related to every potential date.
But even then - what if their biological dad was my sperm donor?
By 2019, I had had enough of that routine and I contacted Fertility Associates. They told me I had a half-sister born in 2000 like me, and a half-brother born in 2001.
Reaching out
It wasn't until March this year, at 24, that I decided to finally find my sperm donor, and learn about the other half of my genetics.
I had realised I would be devastated if I waited longer and he died while I bided my time.
I emailed the donor-linking team at Fertility Associates and they told me the process usually began with the donor-conceived child writing a letter to the donor.
Include a bit of detail, they said: first name, where you grew up, a few interests and a small explanation of why you are are reaching out.
I wondered, who should I address it to? To my biological father? Dear Donor? A simple 'Kia Ora' is what I landed on.
'My name is Rachel, and I am here today because of your generosity, possibly over three decades ago,' I wrote.
'I would love to learn a bit more about your personality if you would be open to it, and how that might have made up who I am today.
'I understand you said at the time you were okay to be identified. I hope this is still the case.'
I wasn't prepared to feel such a need to be liked.
A daughter wanting her father's approval is nothing new, but this felt complicated and foreign.
I suddenly feared he would be disappointed his genetics made me.
On the flip side of that - what if I didn't like him? What if he embodied all the things I most hated about myself?
I chose to soldier on.
After I sent the letter into what felt like an abyss, I heard nothing for weeks. I had been warned that even identifiable donors moved or changed phone numbers without updating their information, making it impossible to find them.
Little did I know, I was in luck. Just as Fertility Associates began the process of trying to track him down, my donor updated his information for the first time in years.
He would later tell me he 'just knew' he had to. I've never been religious but it made me consider whether there really could be a higher power.
In May I received a reply: and started crying as soon as I realised it was from him.
'I'm just so glad he's sane! And nice!' I cried to my friend later that day.
His name was Wayne. He said he was a '64-year-old blue-eyed Virgo' (I mean, what boomer man knows his star sign!?)
'I would certainly like to learn more about you and share some of the many happenings that I have accumulated in my life,' he wrote.
A few more emails revealed his full name. For several days and three sleepless nights I resisted the urge to search him up online - determined to have my moment and see him for the first time in person.
But I was too curious - and when I laid eyes on his photo, all the wind was knocked out of me. As I looked at him, I saw my own eyes staring back at me.
My coworker - who I'd been updating on my progress - peered over at me, and my screen, and said 'Holy s***, that's him.'
When I look at photos of me and Wayne together now, I still find small similarities between our looks, like our cheeks and how our eyes are an identical shade of blue. Photo / Michael Craig.
A few weeks, emails and texts later, a date to meet was set. King's Birthday weekend at the Mission Bay fountain.
It was a good mid-point between Thames (his home) and Whangarei (mine) - and it also had a decent pub nearby.
This was going to be it. 17 years of questions, finally answered.
The Meeting
There is no guidebook on how to feel, what to wear and how bold a lip to apply before you meet your sperm donor (I chose a red jumper, jeans and light makeup).
I decided to share this experience because I have noticed a lack of positive stories about donor-linking.
The headlines tend to focus on the crazed scientist who fathered 500 children, or the donor-conceived adult who accidentally married a half-sibling.
So when I walked across the field and past the fountain, looking at Wayne on the other side, there was no script and I had no clue how to feel.
Would I feel enlightened by our meeting? Would an inner voice say 'now I know who I am'?
My siblings, Wayne and his partner and I enveloped each other in hugs before stepping back and staring at each other, taking it all in. We all had tears in our eyes.
'Not finished yet,' Wayne's partner said as I tried to pull away from the initial hug, and even though I am not usually someone who enjoys physical closeness with others, I felt comfortable staying in her arms.
My parents arrived shortly after we sat down at the restaurant, and the pattern started up again - long hugs, looks of bewilderment and wonder.
Mum didn't just shed a few tears - hers streamed down her face as she held Wayne.
At the end, we fought over the bill (Wayne paid), walked along the beach with ice creams (I paid) and met up with my siblings' partners and my brother's children.
We laughed at my brother's dodgy jokes about sperm, shared stories of our funniest childhood mishaps and learned about Wayne's life.
I felt closure. I felt whole. I felt answered - and I felt like I knew myself properly for the first time in my life.
Our future
That was a few months ago now.
I've since travelled to Te Puru, ten minutes north of Thames, to film and speak with Wayne for this story.
He intends to meet up with us in Whangarei soon too - to check out where we are from.
We have a group chat: Wayne, his partner, my siblings, our parents and me -where we send life updates and photos.
DD and DD - it is still crazy to me how such an easy natural bond has formed.
We have discussed what to call each other. The actual terms 'dad' and 'father' didn't feel right - I have my dad and this was never about looking for another one.
Wayne didn't raise me, I didn't feel like he earned the title, and he felt the same.
We've started referring to each other as DD, for 'donor daughter' and 'donor dad'.
Sometimes when he texts me, he starts with 'Hi young lady'. That's verging on some pretty dad-like territory, but I am happy to let it slide.