I’m 37 and a half – a childlike unit I’ve recently added to my age since becoming obsessed with it. I’m single, childless and wake up every day to the sound of ticking. In my early thirties I turned to dating apps, flipped through countless mirror/bed/gym selfies, men looking for a gal who looked “hot in heels and sweats!” and even dated a few. When I worked in corporate Canada, having my colleagues flock in a semi-circle around my desk for the latest dumpster-fire story was a regular occurrence. 

But let’s fast-forward through the men to the important stuff. I take you to January of 2025, as the promise of yet another relationship fizzled away and that ticking was the loudest it had ever been. The little girl in me was like “wtf? This is not what we’d planned.” And I agreed with her! But the universe had other things in store, that bitch. 

Now, if we’re being honest, the head-scratcher for me in all of this was that I was happy. I had a job that I loved, the best friends and family that anyone could ever ask for and, quite frankly, was A-OK being alone. And when I say ‘alone’ I mean, without-man. Yet the twinge in my uterus told me I still wanted kids. 

So, I had a decision to make. Could I freeze my eggs? Absolutely. But I did the quick napkin math. The chances I was going to meet a man tomorrow and convince him to marry/pro-create with me in the next three to four years – when it hadn’t happened naturally in the past 36 – were slim-to-none. And I just wasn’t prepared to put all my eggs in someone else’s proverbial basket. I decided, in that moment, the future that I wanted. And I was going to get it regardless of whether another human chose me. I decided I was going to have a baby on my own. 

 

I will be the first to say, I know this wouldn’t be everyone’s alternative first choice. I know that juggling a job, a house, finances and a child – all on my own – would be challenging. But whenever I come to a fork in the road, I picture 90-year-old me, in a hospital bed, and ask her what she regrets not doing. And I knew I would regret not trying. If it didn’t work and wasn’t in the cards, that’s okay. But I needed to try. 

After a few quick Google searches, I chose a fertility clinic, proceeded to get poked and prodded and learned I was a candidate for an IUI. The turkey baster of the fertility world. The next step: finding a donor. Girl, you thought the dating apps were bad. 

Now, I knew this was going to be a challenge, because the “buy Canadian” movement hadn’t made its way to reproductive rights. In Canada, in fact, it’s actually illegal to pay other Canadians for egg or sperm donations. It’s considered “ethically unacceptable,” same as if I wanted to buy someone’s kidney. It isn’t, however, unethical to pay and import sperm from another country – if my government deemed them “Canadian compliant.” 

My first stop was the California Cryobank. I clicked on the box to tell them I was Canadian, and my options dropped from 700 to under 300. I went through every single profile and found someone after a couple months of looking. I contacted the Canadian Cryobank, filled out the paperwork, and they coordinated with the California bank to have it imported. At that time, I was told two months. I anxiously waited as 2 months turned to 4, with very little communication or answers from either bank. I finally got the call: “Good news! It’s coming in September.” Then, September came and went. I followed up for what felt like the 78th time, only to be informed of the bad news: my sperm was gone. Given away to someone else, lost in the mail, used as a prop in Saltburn – I don’t know. All I did know was I was back at square one. 

This time, I went to the European Sperm Bank, found another great donor from their 900 options and contacted the Canadian Cryobank to have it imported. “Sorry!” they said. That donor wasn’t Canadian compliant. But I was given a list of forty donors who were. Forty. Forty from the 900 that were available in the sperm bank. 

Now, if I were buying shoes, I would’ve chosen from the forty – but I was procreating. So, in October I reached out directly to the European Sperm Bank and learned that if I had the IUI performed in Denmark, where the bank operated, I could choose any donor I wanted. For me, the craziest part was in three weeks I found a donor, coordinated sperm delivery, found a new fertility clinic and planned a two-week trip—what took me 8 months to attempt to do in Canada. 

So off I went, alone, to Denmark for two long weeks. To the land where not only was paid sperm and egg donation allowed, but it was also advertised on the sides of city buses: ‘If you can, help those who can’t’ the ad read. 

You should’ve seen me. I was so bright-eyed and optimistic. I went in November so I could take advantage of their adorable little Christmas markets, bought a souvenir for my future child so they’d have a memento of mommy’s adventures and a little piece of their Nordic heritage. Even when I was about to have the procedure and the sweet nurse reminded me of my whopping 20% chance of success, I dismissed it. I’d already bought the wool-woven stuffed animal for my soon-to-be child, after all! Ten thousand dollars lighter, I returned home, and two weeks later, I tested to find a negative pregnancy test. 

I cried, a lot. And wondered what my next steps would be. Did I have it in me to keep hopping on a 9-hour Toronto-Copenhagen flight every other month? Could my bank account even support it? I felt hopeless, powerless and utterly paralyzed. But what were my options? 

Then, one December afternoon, at peak desperation, I got the crazy idea to message someone I had dated briefly many moons ago. Someone who was kind, smart, handsome and primo baby-making material, and I pitched him on the idea of being a donor. I can feel you cringing through the screen. I was too. But jokes on all of us, because he said yes. 

I was thrilled for many different reasons. I could complete my fertility treatments close to home, have a donor that wasn’t a mystery to my child and save lots of cash – or so I thought. 

We started this journey responsibly. I dropped $1,500 for genetic testing and sperm analysis and completed OHIP-covered bloodwork for transmissible diseases, so the clinic could tell me he was a suitable donor. Then they hit me with next steps – and costs. 

I know what you’re thinking. IUIs are government-funded, right? Well… kinda. You see, the ministry assigns IUI budget to fertility clinics, but at my clinic, the significant increase in patient volume over the past few years means that they can only offer one freebie. After that, you’re on your own. Outside of the cost to physically inseminate you, you’ll be hit with $350 every time your donor “donates” (brutal, considering they’re doing all the hard work), and $550 per year for them to pop that bad boy in the fridge.  

But here’s where it gets really good. You remember that $1,500 I just spent clearing those swimmers? Well, now we get to test for all those things again, but file it under the Ontario Sperm Donor Screening – a $1,750 mandatory health and safety assessment. As part of this, I, and the donor, must participate in Health Canada-recommended counselling to ensure we understood the legal, psychological and social implications of the donation. I use the word ‘recommended’ lightly, as fertility clinics won’t proceed without it.  

I know what you’re thinking: “why don’t you just do it the old-fashioned way? No one stood beside my bed with a clipboard before I got busy with Bob.” I asked that same question, and my lawyer told me, in no uncertain terms, that conceiving naturally would essentially null and void any contract I had put in place. All of this isn’t really ‘giving’ pro-choice. It’s ‘giving’ handcuffs. 

So here I am, with dying eggs, moving forward on the path that, between the clinic and the government, I’ve been forced into. Staring down at a stack of requirements I still need to complete before I can get this show on the road as two capable, willing and consenting adults. And that brings you to present day. 

I don’t have the final conclusion, the happily ever after. But I do sit here, giving you my best Carrie Bradshaw, not to discourage, but in hopes women out there feel a little less alone and to shine a light on how freaking challenging it is as a Canadian to choose an alternate path. In a time where pregnancies in a woman’s forties have outnumbered teenage pregnancies, I ask the Canadian government, how are you supporting us? Or more simply, why are you so up in our grill? 

I don’t have to tell anyone that fertility rates are at an all-time low. We are facing economic pressure unlike ever before and for one reason or another, are having fewer kids later in life. We have come so far in terms of women’s rights, yet our options have not kept up. Why am I forced to buy foreign sperm, travel to have options and seek approval to pro-create? Get with the times, dude. 

In a year’s time, I hope I’m telling you it was all worth it. That the heartache and the headache and the money were just drops in the bucket, because the result was unimaginable joy. But if I’m not, I at least want these thoughts and frustrations that have sat heavily on my chest for the past year to start a conversation about how the system needs to change to keep up with its people. And I’m not even talking funding. I’m talking loosening regulations for imports, allowing Canadians to get paid for their incredibly important contributions and create an infrastructure right here in our own country. I mean, they did it for interprovincial trade, why not for the literal future of our country?

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HAILEY DEDOMINICIS is a creative marketing director turned screenwriter. For 13 years Hailey navigated the 9 to 5 (+) world of corporate Canada, where she managed creative brand strategy and led creative teams for companies such as Walmart Canada, Four Seasons Hotels and Resorts and Tim Hortons. In the down days of COVID, she channeled her abundant time and moderate energy into writing, with her first feature script, OUR LITTLE SECRET, being produced and released by Netflix in 2024. Hailey is a comedic writer, focusing on unconventional families, relationships, and whatever else her sad little dating life inspires. She currently lives in Paris, Ontario with her dog and computer.