Let’s set aside for now the motivations. The nights spent thinking, making lists, comparing options. Let’s just talk about the process itself, as if I had suddenly came up with the decision and magically found myself in a fertility clinic.

I was lucky enough that, for a short period of time, Québec government paid fertility treatments. For everyone. It was a rather interesting program, aimed at reducing the number of multiple pregnancies leading to higher health insurance costs. But now, we’re enjoying austerity policies, so that program is off. More on that at a later time.

So I made an appointment. It was the end of 2012. The first hospital I went to didn’t “do” single women, even though the program allowed for it. It was a false start, but coming just after news of the tragic death of 3 children of my very extended family, it was ok.

The second appointment happened at the beginning of 2013. The doctor was very matter-of-fact. Asked a few questions, never as much as I had expected. He didn’t really look me in the eye, but I figured he was just shy. I would have to meet with a few specialists to rule out issues, or determine how my now issues could influence the process. The nurse I saw after gave me the road map: I would have to go through many tests to check the functionality of my organs.

I basically had to go through three categories of tests: the plumbing, of course, needed to be proved efficient (ovaries, tubes, uterus, endocrin system). The electrician would determine if I was fit to be a parent (a consult with a shrink was mandatory since I would use donor sperm). And internal medicine would go over my medications and known issues and determine how they would influence my fertility. The foundation. At the end of the process, during which any doctor/test could decide that a child wasn’t in the cards for me, I would hopefully get the green light.

To be honest, the first appointment was rather underwhelming. I had expected something along the lines of “ms D., we’re so happy to be with you for this journey”, or even “we wish you the best of luck”. Instead, I had entered the medical system as if I was having a mole removed. Ok. I’d follow the steps.

 

Most of the tests had to happen at precise moments during a cycle. It meant that I had to be lucky enough to be able to get an appointment in a very short window, which, in Quebec’s health system, is not an easy feat. There were a few false starts. I also discovered that I needed to have my uterus cleaned up of a few polyps. Surgery it was. By August, through, nine months later, I had managed to snag the all-clear from every single Doctor/specialist I saw. The menacing cloud of someone being able to deny me a child was over.

Next step would be the donor choice.