One day in June 2019, I was getting ready for work when a story on TV caught my attention. A woman was talking about donating her womb to a stranger. She explained why she’d decided to give someone the chance to experience pregnancy. As a mother of two, I was blown away.
At lunch I was glued to my phone, reading everything I could about the procedure: how the first successful uterus transplant had taken place in Sweden in 2013, and how the operation had been carried out in the US since 2016. How it was helping women who had lost their uteri due to cancer, or never developed one because of the congenital condition Mayer-Rokitansky-Küster-Hauser (MRKH).
I was 39, hadn’t experienced infertility, and had never considered organ donation before. But something about it touched me deeply. When I read that Penn Medicine hospital, just 40 minutes from our home in Langhorne, Pennsylvania, had a uterus transplant programme, it sealed the deal.
I told my husband, Brian, about my plans, and applied the next day. For 12 weeks, I was evaluated by a surgical team, an infectious disease doctor and a psychiatrist. They needed to know that I was strong enough to deal with the procedures and the possibility that it might not work.
The risks were set out: after surgery, I could face problems with my bowel and bladder. It was a major operation. It was also made clear that, if it was successful, I wouldn’t know who had received my uterus. I had to agree that I would not try to search for her.
I was accepted on the programme, and they started looking for a match. Then, in January, I got the call that they’d found someone. I got chills.
As we approached the surgery date in February 2020, I thought about the recipient constantly. Our children, Ava, then 10, and Aidan, nine, were amazing. They understood that I was doing it to help another woman become a mum.
Sitting in the waiting room was the wildest feeling. They kept me and my recipient in different wings of the hospital, so we couldn’t accidentally meet. But I couldn’t help looking at every woman who walked past. Could this be her? As I lay down for surgery, I felt my heart thumping – but it was more from anticipation than nerves.
Waking up, my only thought was: did it work? When I heard it had, I cried, overwhelmed with joy. My recovery was tough. I needed a second surgery. But I didn’t regret my decision.
Afterwards, I kept wondering about the recipient. Was it the woman behind me in the coffee shop or on the school run? A few months later, with the help of social workers, we were allowed to send each other screened messages. They were vague, but just hearing that she was well was incredible.
It was clear that we both wanted to communicate openly, and our social workers allowed it. Her first email said, “How wonderful to know the name of the woman who so generously gave me the opportunity of creating life.” I cried.
Her name was Chelsea, and she’d discovered at 15 that she had MRKH. Desperate to become a mother, she’d almost lost hope. Surrogacy hadn’t worked. Then she discovered uterus donation. She and her husband had moved 1,900 miles from Montana to join the programme. It had worked. She was expecting a baby.
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Our messages turned into texts and calls, and then she invited me to visit her in May 2021 to see her maternity photoshoot. Turning the corner, I saw her holding her pregnant belly. We ran into each other’s arms.
Hearing that her son, Telden, had been born shortly after our meeting was joyful. It felt like another member of our family had arrived. When I held him for the first time, I was speechless.
In the years since, my bond with Chelsea has grown. We speak every week and visit as often as we can. I was so happy when she had her second son, Stetson, in October 2022. My kids adore her kids – seeing them all together makes me so happy. They share a unique bond: they were grown in the same uterus, but in different bodies.
I look at them and feel grateful: to the news story that changed my life, to the miracle of science that allowed this, and to Chelsea, a former stranger who will for ever be my soul sister.
As told to Kate Graham
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