At 38, Lorena Otes assumed her decision to do IVF would quickly lead to falling pregnant and becoming a mum. But twelve failed IVF rounds and a donor egg later, her dream of solo motherhood took a very different turn.
A disastrous string of relationship failures affected Lorena so deeply, she ultimately decided to pursue solo motherhood. Armed with donor sperm, an expert fertility doctor, and sky-high hopes, she thought she was poised for success.
But the daunting, relentless realities of IVF soon set in, with endless failed rounds proving to Lorena, a Sydney dance teacher, that IVF was not the instant success story she hoped for.
It was Lorena’s decision, seven years later at 45, to go overseas and enlist an egg donor that was the game changer she needed.
‘It was the only positive pregnancy test I ever had in the grand total of thirteen IVF rounds,’ she said.
‘So, it was definitely my age and my eggs that were the problem.’
Lorena’s growing desperation to become a mother came at a high cost. With a strong support network of family and friends, life became a matter of work, rest and on with the next IVF round as she struggled to save for the massive expense of her ongoing treatment.
‘There were consultations, medications, anaesthetic, sperm vials, and then the all-round bill at the end. Some rebates helped, but the costs quickly accumulated,’ she said.
Sydney dance teacher Lorena Otes fell pregnant on her 13th IVF round at the age of 45. She is pictured above with her daughter Bonnie
Lorena (pictured) said women who are thinking of becoming solo mums by choice should do their research, work out their finances, and make sure they have a strong support network
Lorena estimates she spent well over $100,000 on IVF treatments.
‘My deposit on a house, gone. I’ve never actually been able to bring myself to add it all up,’ she said.
And now, with a national sperm shortage, women are paying even more with donor costs reaching tens of thousands of dollars.
Lorena’s experience doesn’t come without warning. Her years of fertility treatment took a huge emotional toll, and on several occasions, she needed to pause for air, regroup, and take a break.
At one point she found herself in the fertility clinic crying hysterically, begging for some respite from the treatments.
‘The nurses were so surprised. I think they originally thought I was some sort of machine. But in the end, they got it, and were gentle and kind,’ she said.
Lorena has a clear message for anyone thinking of pursuing the solo mum by choice route: Do your research; work out your finances; and make sure you have a solid support network.
‘You’re going to need it both when you’re trying to conceive, and after you’ve become a mother,’ she said.
Lorena (pictured with her baby daughter Bonnie) finally fell pregnant at the age of 45 after deciding to use a donor egg
Life as a solo parent to Bonnie, 6, is not without its challenges. Lorena takes it one day at a time and is becoming better at accepting help.
But she is living proof that persistence pays off, and solo motherhood by choice has brought her everything she hoped for – and more.
The following extract is from her debut memoir, Solo Mum by Choice (Hawkeye Publishing).
Unlucky in Love
Winter 2008, age 35
Richie was his name. Richie Hayes. And he captured me instantly.
We met at the climbing gym while I was dangling upside-down by a finger and four toes, trying to reach for a higher hold.
‘Push with your left foot,’ commanded a voice from below.
Following the voice’s order, my body surged upwards. Yelling in exertion, ‘Aaargh!’ I managed to grip the higher hold with a shaky hand. I’d done it. I was at the top!
‘Yes!’ yelled the voice. ‘You got it!’
My hands shook as I released the holds, allowing gravity to drop me onto the crashmat below. Lying there in a sweaty, euphoric heap of lactic acid and giggles, I could see a face peering over me.
‘You’ve been working on that for weeks.’ It was the voice.
‘Yep,’ I replied. ‘And I couldn’t have done it without your help just now. Thank you.’
I’d seen him there a few times. He was a great climber. One of the best; confident and skilled.
‘The name’s Richie,’ he said, offering his hand. Before I knew it, he had swung me to my feet and we were eye-to-eye.
Those big brown eyes seemed to care. His wavy beach hair hinted at impending excitement, and his slightly rough around the edges look spoke to me of untold adventure.
Not my usual type, granted, but it didn’t matter. From that instant, to me, he was flawless. And the parts of him that weren’t? I could easily fix. I knew I could be the one to save him.
I loved his name. It sounded oh-so-cool, like the lead guitarist in a band.
Well, Richie hated it. Loathed it, like his parents had committed the crime of the century by assigning it to him.
‘It’s the name bogans use to describe people who are cashed up,’ he told me over drinks one night after the climbing gym. ‘Richies.’
‘Well, you could call yourself Richard! Or Dick? Ha-ha.’
He wasn’t amused. A shot of sombre hostility flew from his eyes, piercing me in the gut. Those shots would eventually gather and compound into vacuous wounds, but this first time I barely noticed it, full of naïve infatuation.
We soon learned we had motorbikes in common.
‘You’d be the perfect girlfriend,’ he told me.
‘You’re fun, you love climbing, and you’re obsessed with motorbikes. Some guy’s going to be very lucky to have you on his arm.’
I assumed the some guy he was talking about was going to be him, and from that moment on I anxiously awaited his move.
Richie had the motorbike effect: a term coined by a friend of mine, Monica, to describe the instant sex-appeal of somebody riding a motorcycle.
This effect can sometimes wear off at restaurant pit-stops when helmets come off, revealing faces underneath. But not Richie. He had my heart both on and off the bike. He walked, talked, and breathed motorcycles. And riding alongside him was my world for a blissful while.
This was one of the few times in my life I’d been entirely spellbound by a man. An entranced, loved-up mess. I couldn’t see any faults in him and my giddy head orbited his every word. How could it be that he wasn’t already taken? How was Richie still single?
After a while, it became obvious that my time wasn’t his priority. His time, however, was a coveted trophy. Something I had to win, earn, and compete for. Always busy. Sometimes available. Work. Friends.
One night we were on a ride with friends. This was in the early days of his company. I often think back to those happy times when I see people on motorbikes at traffic lights, flicking their gears into neutral, having a natter.
Back then, I was more rapt in wonder as to whether Richie was thinking of me as his girlfriend yet. We hadn’t talked about it, and I was way too scared to bring it up. I let it ride, so to speak.
Meanwhile, we’d pulled over and were heading into a huge beachside pub.
‘For a feed,’ Richie said.
I was so lovesick at the time, food was the last thing on my mind, but I made a good attempt at it.
Mid-meal, he stood up – it was his turn to buy a round of drinks. He took me with him, leading me to a bar around the back near the poker machines. His hands on my shoulders, he planted me against a wall in the corner near an ATM.
I could feel his lips on mine. It wasn’t a romantic kiss. Or our first. He was making a private show of affection in a public place with a ferocious urgency: the thrill of being seen. The joy of being caught in the act. I was reeled in, absorbed by the rush of spontaneity and passion.
