Why I Didn't End Up Donating My Eggs

Two five-inch syringes with bright orange caps have been placed atop the white linen of the grand banquet table, like little sterile centerpieces.

The table sits in an elegant meeting room – arched floor-to-ceiling windows, rich floral carpet – on the second floor of a posh downtown Portland, Oregon, hotel.

Although I pretend not to notice, I can’t stop staring at the needles, and neither can the three women seated to my left. The four of us have never met, but I know we have more in common than aichmophobia. We’re all height-and-weight proportionate, cancer-free, non-smoking, college-educated twenty-somethings.

And we’re considering donating our eggs …

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Two five-inch syringes with bright orange caps have been placed atop the white linen of the grand…