Meet the Family
Health Magazine, April 2005

In 1975, a year into marriage and well into a campaign to get pregnant, I sat with my then-husband in the office of a Berkeley urologist we'll call Dr. Nuts. Having run a battery of what seemed to us impossibly sophisticated tests-sperm count, sperm motility, compatibility of sperm and egg-the physician delivered our dismal results: my husband was unlikely to father a child. Then he made a suggestion that I found startling, even as a 24-year-old, even in Berkeley, even in 1975. "Go to a bar together," Dr. Nuts said. He looked at my husband: "Pick a man who looks like you." He looked at me: "Go home with that man. Do that till you get pregnant. No one will ever know."

That was our last visit to Dr. Nuts (who subsequently lost his license) and the beginning of a journey through the world of infertility treatment, which was just being born. Over the next 4 years my husband and I tried every established and cutting-edge intervention available. For him, that meant surgery. For me it meant hysterosalpingograms, DES, also known as diethylstilbestrol (a thought that still makes me shudder), Clomid, and intrauterine inseminations. I spent a lot of time crying in supermarkets, longing for a pair of chubby little legs kicking against my cart; a lot of hours flipping through the phone book looking for the rare doctor who treated barren women like me; a lot of money carrying my grief and my medical records from one clinic to another.

Then one day, lying on my gynecologist's table-my legs in the air, my husband's sperm swimming in useless circles inside me-trying to summon a post-insemination glow, I had a revelation. What if we asked my husband's sister, who had ample proof of her fertility, to be inseminated with sperm from my brother, who had ample proof of his? And what if this baby, genetically related to both my husband and me, was then delivered to us as ours? True, I admitted to my brother's dubious wife, this would make my brother the father of my child. Yes, I acknowledged to my sympathetic but mortified sister-in-law, she would be known as "aunt" to the child she'd carried and birthed. But couldn't they do it for us, for love, for family, anyway?

I'll never know whether it was divine intervention or a fluke of shifting hormones, but negotiations were halted for the best possible reason: I got pregnant the old-fashioned way-not once but twice in 17 months. Now I am the mother of two sons old enough (but not, apparently, thoughtful enough) to give me grandchildren. Many of my 40-something friends, on the other hand, are just now having babies born of reproductive technologies that even the imaginative Dr. Nuts could not have foreseen.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have gone into the twin-stroller business. But would I have gone the distance? Would I have submitted my body, soul, and checkbook to the fantastically futuristic, expensive, and complex interventions that my friends and so many other women are undergoing? Would I have given myself shots in the stomach to stimulate my egg production, and had those eggs removed and fertilized with the sperm of the man I loved or a man I'd never met? Would I have decided to have one or six embryos implanted into my womb-or a stranger's, or my lover's? Would I have gone to my first ultrasound hoping to discover one heartbeat, maybe two, but no more, for fear of facing the heartrending Sophie's Choice of fetal reduction? Would I have done, in other words, anything that could have been done in order to know the ecstasy and the agony of having a family-even when biology, and perhaps society and politics, were working against me? You bet, in a heartbeat ... or two.

shotgun pregnancy

Heidi Denton, child welfare worker, 42; Gaydean Valdez, horticultural therapist, 41; Teddy Valdez-Denton, 4

"It was a shotgun pregnancy," says Heidi Denton, laughing. "On our first date, I told Gaydean that I'd been trying to get pregnant for years, and I'd just found out I was in premature menopause. I was about 37 years old. On our third date I asked her if she'd consider giving me one of her eggs. She said 'Sure.' "

"I fell in love with Heidi right away," Valdez says. "I knew how much she wanted to have a baby. I was so happy to be able to do that for her."

"See why I love her? That's the kind of person she is," Denton says.

The women had known each other only 4 months when they made a pact to be co-parents for life, no matter what turn their relationship might take. Then they went to a San Francisco fertility clinic, where Valdez's eggs were extracted, fertilized with donor sperm, and transferred to Denton's uterus. Two weeks later, the clinic called to tell them they were pregnant. "We both fell to our knees, crying," Denton says.

By the time Teddy was born in April 2001, Denton and Valdez were a committed couple determined to raise their child as he'd been conceived: by equally responsible mothers. They hired a lawyer to ensure that they would share parental rights under the 1973 Uniform Parentage Act as adopted by the state of California, which provides for parenthood regardless of parents' marital status. "We had to whip out the court order in the hospital so they'd let us put both of our names on his birth certificate," Denton says. "They still made us list Gaydean as father. We're going to get that amended."

But first they've got another project to tackle: having a second child. This time, Valdez is inseminating with sperm donated by "Daddy Eric," Teddy's donor-father. Valdez will have her turn at pregnancy and childbirth, and their two children will be full siblings.

"We got off to a quick start," Denton says. "But we're in it for the long haul."

Valdez nods and pulls out a photo. It shows she and Denton getting married at San Francisco City Hall on Valentine's Day 2004 with Teddy between them, holding their hands.

after the cancer, the joy

Nancy Nazzal, realtor, 34; Steve Nazzal, contractor, 43; Christian Nazzal, 2; Maricela Ramos, surrogate, 29

Nancy Nazzal was 28 when she was diagnosed with cervical cancer-2 weeks before her wedding day. "My first question was, 'Will I ever be able to have children?' " Nazzal says. "The doctor's answer was a flat 'no.' "

She and her husband, Steve, were referred to a surgeon who performed a partial hysterectomy, leaving Nazzal's ovaries intact. Two years after Nazzal's cancer surgery the couple began the surrogacy process. Nazzal's eggs were retrieved and fertilized with her husband's sperm, and three embryos transferred to a surrogate, who miscarried after 12 weeks.

"We were devastated," Nazzal says, "but then a few months later we met Maricela and her family, and we knew she was the one who was meant to carry our child."

"The minute I saw Nancy's smile and felt her excitement, there was chemistry between us," Ramos adds. "Not just between Nancy and me, but with our husbands and now our kids, too."

At their shared baby shower, Nazzal and Ramos were both regaled with gifts and congratulations. Their husbands went with them to Ramos's prenatal visits. The four of them heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time and cried together in the delivery room when Christian was born. Ramos, her husband, and their two children were at Christian's christening and his first birthday party. "There's nothing that compares to the bond we share," Ramos says.

"Maricela is our angel," Nazzal says. "I think there's a reason I went through having cancer and having my son the way I did. It made me appreciate the true meaning of life and the true meaning of family."

four moms and a dad

Leslie Perlman, teacher, 43; Amy Haedt, project manager, 46; Kelsey Perlman, 2

Christa Brothers, human resources supervisor, 42; Dedra Chamberlin, technology manager, 40; Bailey Jeslyn Brothers, 2; Baby Boy Brothers, due March, 2005

Byron Russell, dad, 44

When acupuncturist Byron Russell was ready to become a father, he went to Rainbow Flag Health Services & Sperm Bank in Alameda, a city in the San Francisco Bay Area. After a child is born, Rainbow tells the mother who their donor was, so the bank is used by gay men who want the chance to be part of their children's lives, and lesbians who want their kids to know their biological father. Three years later Kelsey was born to Leslie Perlman and Amy Haedt. Next came Bailey, daughter of Christa Brothers and Dedra Chamberlin.

Russell revelled in a connection with the children, driving several hours weekly from his office in San Francisco to preschool meetings and Gymboree classes. He introduced the couples to each other, hosting holiday dinners and picnics. His matchmaking has been successful: The families now consider themselves something of an extended family.

"One of the reasons we chose Byron because his profile said he wanted to be involved with his kids," Perlman says. "But we never dreamed it would turn out as well as it has." Haedt, her partner of 11 years, adds, "I grew up in a big family, and I wanted the same thing for Kelsey: a father she knew and siblings to grow up with. Can you imagine how lucky we got?"

"It's totally uncharted territory," Brothers says. "We've gone into this trying to be open-minded and open-hearted, because we really want Bailey to have that family bond with her biological sisters."

A year ago, Chamberlin and Brothers told Russell that they wanted to try for a second child. "Byron was so excited. He went back to Rainbow and made a special donation so that we could start trying," Chamberlin says. "Then when I started inseminating, he came over every Tuesday morning to give me an acupuncture treatment. He'd put the needles in, then go off and play with Bailey.

"It took us 18 tries to get pregnant the first time. This time it happened the second time," Chamberlin says with a grin. "So I'd say Byron contributed to our family in more ways than one."

"Being a dad is not something you do on a whim," Russell says. "It's a huge commitment. But watching the children grow up, having someone you really love who really loves you are the greatest thing in my life."

the family project

Laura McMillin, salesperson, 37; Scott McMillin, sales director, 41; Tina Martin, 31, stepsister/surrogate

When Laura McMillin had her first miscarriage in 2001, she and her husband, Scott, grieved, waited, and tried again. Two and a half years, two more miscarriages, and several surgeries and experimental treatments later, their doctor suggested they try surrogacy. At Christmas 2003, Laura's stepsister, Tina, offered to carry the couple's baby. Six months, several family therapy sessions, and many doctor visits later, Tina became pregnant with their child.

"I didn't realize how emotional it was till my husband and I were in the psychologist's office and I started crying," McMillin says. "It was such a huge gift for Tina to give to us, the most unselfish thing anyone could do." Although Martin at first refused to accept money from the McMillins, the couple insisted on giving her a surrogacy fee of $20,000, which Martin will use to start a college fund for her own two children, now almost 2 and 4 years old.

When Martin's son asked about her pregnancy, she told him, "Aunt Laura's tummy can't hold the baby, so we're holding it for her till it's born."

"We call it 'The Family Project,' " says Martin, a full-time mom. "We all trooped in to the ultrasound appointment together: Laura, Scott, my husband, my stepmom, and me."

"I've had quite a few ultrasounds before," McMillan interjects. "But that was the first time I got to hear a heartbeat."

McMillan flew to Phoenix to care for her nephew and niece/CK when Martin went into labor. "I always thought our family was close," McMillan says. "But this has taken our relationships to a whole new level." "We're all thrilled," Martin says. "It's so wonderful, sharing this joy with the people I love most."