SCOOP: Largest Cryobank in the U.S. to Offer Ancestry Testing
Sharon Kochlany and Vanessa Colimorio's four-year-old twin girls had a classic school assignment recently: make a family tree. They drew themselves and their one-year-old brother branching off from their moms, with aunts, uncles, and grandparents forking off to the sides.
The recently-gained sovereignty of queer families stands to be lost if a consumer DNA test brings a stranger's identity out of the woodwork.
What you don't see in the invisible space between Kochlany and Colimorio, however, is the sperm donor they used to conceive all three children.
To look at a family tree like this is to see in its purest form that kinship can supersede biology—the boundaries of where this family starts and stops are clear to everyone in it, in spite of a third party's genetic involvement. This kind of self-definition has always been synonymous with LGBTQ families, especially those that rely on donor gametes (sperm or eggs) to exist.
But the world around them has changed quite suddenly: The recent consumer DNA testing boom has made it more complicated than ever for families built through reproductive technology—openly, not secretively—to maintain the strong sense of autonomy and privacy that can be crucial for their emotional security. Prospective parents and cryobanks are now mulling how best to bring a new generation of donor-conceived people into this world in a way that leaves open the choice to know more about their ancestry without obliterating an equally important choice: the right not to know about biological relatives.
For queer parents who have long fought for social acceptance, having a biological relationship to their children has been revolutionary, and using an unknown donor as a means to this end especially so. Getting help from a friend often comes with the expectation that the friend will also have social involvement in the family, which some people are comfortable with, but being able to access sperm from an unknown donor—which queer parents have only been able to openly do since the early 1980s—grants them the reproductive autonomy to create families seemingly on their own. That recently-gained sovereignty stands to be lost if a consumer DNA test brings a stranger's identity out of the woodwork.
At the same time, it's natural for donor-conceived people to want to know more about where they come from ethnically, even if they don't want to know the identity of their donor. As a donor-conceived person myself, I know my donor's self-reported ethnicity, but have often wondered how accurate it is.
Opening the Pandora's box of a consumer DNA test as a way to find out has always felt profoundly unappealing to me, however. Many people have accidentally learned they're donor-conceived by unwittingly using these tools, but I already know that about myself going in, and subsequently know I'll be connected to a large web of people whose existence I'm not interested in learning about. In addition to possibly identifying my anonymous donor, his family could also show up, along with any donor-siblings—other people with whom I share a donor. My single lesbian mom is enough for me, and the trade off to learn more about my ethnic ancestry has never seemed worth it.
In 1992, when I was born, no one was planning for how consumer DNA tests might upend or illuminate one's sense of self. But the donor community has always had to stay nimble with balancing privacy concerns and psychological well-being, so it should come as no surprise that figuring out how to do so in 2020 includes finding a way to offer ancestry insight while circumventing consumer DNA tests.
A New Paradigm
This is the rationale behind unprecedented industry news that LeapsMag can exclusively break: Within the next few weeks, California Cryobank, the largest cryobank in the country, will begin offering genetically-verified ancestry information on the free public part of every donor's anonymous profile in its database, something no other cryobanks yet offer (an exact launch date was not available at the time of publication). Currently, California Cryobank's donor profiles include a short self-reported list that might merely say, "Ancestry: German, Lebanese, Scottish."
The new information will be a report in pie chart form that details exactly what percentages of a donor's DNA come from up to 26 ethnicities—it's analogous to, but on a smaller scale than, the format offered by consumer DNA testing companies, and uses the same base technology that looks for single nucleotide polymorphisms in DNA that are associated with specific ethnicities. But crucially, because the donor takes the DNA test through California Cryobank, not a consumer-facing service, the information is not connected in a network to anyone else's DNA test. It's also taken before any offspring exist so there's no chance of revealing a donor-conceived person's identity this way.
Later, when a donor-conceived person is born, grows up, and wants information about their ethnicity from the donor side, all they need is their donor's anonymous ID number to look it up. The donor-conceived person never takes a genetic test, and therefore also can't accidentally find donor siblings this way. People who want to be connected to donor siblings can use a sibling registry where other people who want to be found share donor ID numbers and look for matches (this is something that's been available for decades, and remains so).
"With genetic testing, you have no control over who reaches out to you, and at what point in your life."
California Cryobank will require all new donors to consent to this extra level of genetic testing, setting a new standard for what information prospective parents and donor-conceived people can expect to have. In the immediate, this information will be most useful for prospective parents looking for donors with specific backgrounds, possibly ones similar to their own.
It's a solution that was actually hiding in plain sight. Two years ago, California Cryobank's partner Sema4, the company handling the genetic carrier testing that's used to screen for heritable diseases, started analyzing ethnic data in its samples. That extra information was being collected because it can help calculate a more accurate assessment of genetic risks that run in certain populations—like Ashkenazi Jews and Tay Sachs disease—than relying on oral family histories. Shortly after a plan to start collecting these extra data, Jamie Shamonki, chief medical officer of California Cryobank, realized the companies would be sitting on a goldmine for a different reason.
"I didn't want to use one of these genetic testing companies like Ancestry to accomplish this," says Shamonki. "The whole thing we're trying to accomplish is also privacy."
Consumer-facing DNA testing companies are not HIPAA compliant (whereas Sema4, which isn't direct-to-consumer, is HIPAA compliant), which means there are no legal privacy protections covering people who add their DNA to these databases. Although some companies, like 23andMe, allow users to opt-out of being connected with genetic relatives, the language can be confusing to navigate, requires a high level of knowledge and self-advocacy on the user's part, and, as an opt-out system, is not set up to protect the user from unwanted information by default; many unwittingly walk right into such information as a result.
Additionally, because consumer-facing DNA testing companies operate outside the legal purview that applies to other health care entities, like hospitals, even a person who does opt-out of being linked to genetic relatives is not protected in perpetuity from being re-identified in the future by a change in company policy. The safest option for people with privacy concerns is to stay out of these databases altogether.
For California Cryobank, the new information about donor heritage won't retroactively be added to older profiles in the system, so donor-conceived people who already exist won't benefit from the ancestry tool, but it'll be the new standard going forward. The company has about 500 available donors right now, many of which have been in their registry for a while; about 100 of those donors, all new, will have this ancestry data on their profiles.
Shamonki says it has taken about two years to get to the point of publicly including ancestry information on a donor's profile because it takes about nine months of medical and psychological screening for a donor to go from walking through the door to being added to their registry. The company wanted to wait to launch until it could offer this information for a significant number of donors. As more new donors come online under the new protocol, the number with ancestry information on their profiles will go up.
For Parents: An Unexpected Complication
While this change will no doubt be welcome progress for LGBTQ families contemplating parenthood, it'll never be possible to put this entire new order back in the box. What are such families who already have donor-conceived children losing in today's world of widespread consumer genetic testing?
Kochlany and Colimorio's twins aren't themselves much older than the moment at-home DNA testing really started to take off. They were born in 2015, and two years later the industry saw its most significant spike. By now, more than 26 million people's DNA is in databases like 23andMe and Ancestry; as a result, it's estimated that within a year, 90 percent of Americans of European descent will be identifiable through these consumer databases, by way of genetic third cousins, even if they didn't want to be found and never took the test themselves. This was the principle behind solving the Golden State Killer cold case.
The waning of privacy through consumer DNA testing fundamentally clashes with the priorities of the cyrobank industry, which has long sought to protect the privacy of donor-conceived people, even as open identification became standard. Since the 1980s, donors have been able to allow their identity to be released to any offspring who is at least 18 and wants the information. Lesbian moms pushed for this option early on so their children—who would obviously know they couldn't possibly be the biological product of both parents—would never feel cut off from the chance to know more about themselves. But importantly, the openness is not a two-way street: the donors can't ever ask for the identities of their offspring. It's the latter that consumer DNA testing really puts at stake.
"23andMe basically created the possibility that there will be donors who will have contact with their donor-conceived children, and that's not something that I think the donor community is comfortable with," says I. Glenn Cohen, director of Harvard Law School's Center for Health Law Policy, Biotechnology & Bioethics. "That's about the donor's autonomy, not the rearing parents' autonomy, or the donor-conceived child's autonomy."
Kochlany and Colimorio have an open identification donor and fully support their children reaching out to California Cryobank to get more information about him if they want to when they're 18, but having a singular name revealed isn't the same thing as having contact, nor is it the same thing as revealing a web of dozens of extended genetic relations. Their concern now is that if their kids participate in genetic testing, a stranger—someone they're careful to refer to as only "the donor" and never "dad"—will reach out to the children to begin some kind of relationship. They know other people who are contemplating giving their children DNA tests, and feel staunchly that it wouldn't be right for their family.
"With genetic testing, you have no control over who reaches out to you, and at what point in your life," Kochlany says. "[People] reaching out and trying to say, 'Hey I know who your dad is' throws a curveball. It's like, 'Wait, I never thought I had a dad.' It might put insecurities in their minds."
"We want them to have the opportunity to choose whether or not they want to reach out," Colimorio adds.
Kochlany says that when their twins are old enough to start asking questions, she and Colimorio plan to frame it like this: "The donor was kind of like a technology that helped us make you a person, and make sure that you exist," she says, role playing a conversation with their kids. "But it's not necessarily that you're looking to this person [for] support or love, or because you're missing a piece."
It's a line in the sand that's present even for couples still far off from conceiving. When Mallory Schwartz, a film and TV producer in Los Angeles, and Lauren Pietra, a marriage and family therapy associate (and Shamonki's step-daughter), talk about getting married someday, it's a package deal with talking about how they'll approach having kids. They feel there are too many variables and choices to make around family planning as a same-sex couple these days to not have those conversations simultaneously. Consumer DNA databases are already on their minds.
"It frustrates me that the DNA databases are just totally unregulated," says Schwartz. "I hope they are by the time we do this. I think everyone deserves a right to privacy when making your family [using a sperm donor]."
"I wouldn't want to create a world where people who are donor-conceived feel like they can't participate in this technology because they're trying to shut out [other] information."
On the prospect of having a donor relation pop up non-consensually for a future child, Pietra says, "I don't like it. It would be really disappointing if the child didn't want [contact], and unfortunately they're on the receiving end."
You can see how important preserving the right to keep this door closed is when you look at what's going on at The Sperm Bank of California. This pioneering cryobank was the first in the world to openly serve LGBTQ people and single women, and also the first to offer the open identification option when it opened in 1982, but not as many people are asking for their donor's identity as expected.
"We're finding a third of young people are coming forward for their donor's identity," says Alice Ruby, executive director. "We thought it would be a higher number." Viewed the other way, two-thirds of the donor-conceived people who could ethically get their donor's identity through The Sperm Bank of California are not asking the cryobank for it.
Ruby says that part of what historically made an open identification program appealing, rather than invasive or nerve-wracking, is how rigidly it's always been formatted around mutual consent, and protects against surprises for all parties. Those [donor-conceived people] who wanted more information were never barred from it, while those who wanted to remain in the dark could. No one group's wish eclipsed the other's. The potential breakdown of a system built around consent, expectations, and respect for privacy is why unregulated consumer DNA testing is most concerning to her as a path for connecting with genetic relatives.
For the last few decades in cryobanks around the world, the largest cohort of people seeking out donor sperm has been lesbian couples, followed by single women. For infertile heterosexual couples, the smallest client demographic, Ruby says donor sperm offers a solution to a medical problem, but in contrast, it historically "provided the ability for [lesbian] couples and single moms to have some reproductive autonomy." Yes, it was still a solution to a biological problem, but it was also a solution to a social one.
The Sperm Bank of California updated its registration forms to include language urging parents, donor-conceived people, and donors not to use consumer DNA tests, and to go through the cryobank if they, understandably, want to learn more about who they're connected to. But truthfully, there's not much else cryobanks can do to protect clients on any side of the donor transaction from surprise contact right now—especially not from relatives of the donor who may not even know someone in their family has donated sperm.
A Tricky Position
Personally, I've known I was donor-conceived from day one. It has never been a source of confusion, angst, or curiosity, and in fact has never loomed particularly large for me in any way. I see it merely as a type of reproductive technology—on par with in vitro fertilization—that enabled me to exist, and, now that I do exist, is irrelevant. Being confronted with my donor's identity or any donor siblings would make this fact of my conception bigger than I need it to be, as an adult with a full-blown identity derived from all of my other life experiences. But I still wonder about the minutiae of my ethnicity in much the same way as anyone else who wonders, and feel there's no safe way for me to find out without relinquishing some of my existential independence.
The author and her mom in spring of 1998.
"People obviously want to participate in 23andMe and Ancestry because they're interested in knowing more about themselves," says Shamonki. "I wouldn't want to create a world where people who are donor-conceived feel like they can't participate in this technology because they're trying to shut out [other] information."
After all, it was the allure of that exact conceit—knowing more about oneself—that seemed to magnetically draw in millions of people to these tools in the first place. It's an experience that clearly taps into a population-wide psychic need, even—perhaps especially—if one's origins are a mystery.
Your Genetic Data Is The New Oil. These Startups Will Pay to Rent It.
Perhaps you're one of the 12 million people who has spit into a tube in recent years to learn the secrets in your genetic code, like your ancestry, your health risks, or your carrier status for certain diseases. If you haven't participated in direct-to-consumer genetic testing, you may know someone who has.
It's for people who want more control over their genetic data--plus a share of the proceeds when and if that data is used.
Mountains of genomic data have been piling up steeply over the last several years, but according to some experts, not enough research and drug discovery is being done with the data collected, and customers rarely have a say in how their data is used. Now, a slew of ambitious startup companies are bringing together the best of blockchain technology and human genomics to help solve these problems.
But First, Why Is Your Genome So Valuable?
Access to genetic information is an obvious boon to scientific and medical progress. In the right hands, it has the potential to save lives and reduce suffering — by facilitating the development of better, safer, more targeted treatments and by shedding light on the role of genetics in countless diseases and medical conditions.
Research requiring access to direct-to-consumer (DTC) genomic data is already well underway. For example, 23andMe, the popular California-based DTC genetic testing company, has published 107 research articles so far, as of this May, using data from their five million-plus customers around the world. Their website states that, on average, of the 80 percent of their customers who have opted to share their genomic data for research purposes, each "individual contributes to 200 different research studies."
And this July, a new collaboration was announced between 23andMe and GlaxoSmithKline, the London-based pharmaceutical company. GlaxoSmithKline will be using data from 23andMe customers to develop new medical treatments, while 23andMe will receive $300 million from the four-year deal. Both companies are poised to profit significantly from their union.
Should 23andMe's customers share in the gains? Peter Pitts, president of the Center for Medicine in the Public Interest, believes they should. "Are they going to offer rebates to people who opt in, so their customers aren't paying for the privilege of 23andMe working with a for-profit company in a for-profit research project?" Pitts told NBC. So far, 23andMe has not announced any plans to share profits with their customers.
But outside of such major partnerships, many researchers are frustrated by the missed opportunities to dig deeper into the correlations between genetics and disease. That's because people's de-identified genomic information is "essentially lying fallow," siloed behind significant security blockades in the interest of preserving their anonymity. So how can both researchers and consumers come out ahead?
Putting Consumers Back in Control
For people who want more control over their genetic data -- plus a share of the proceeds when and if that data is used -- a few companies have paired consumer genomics with blockchain technology to form a new field called "blockchain genomics." Blockchain is a data storage technology that relies on a network of computers, or peer-to-peer setup, making it incredibly difficult to hack. "It's a closed loop of transactions that gets protected and encrypted, and it cannot be changed," says Tanya Woods, a blockchain thought leader and founder of Kind Village, a social impact technology platform.
The vision is to incentivize consumers to share their genomic data and empower researchers to make new breakthroughs.
"So if I agree to give you something and you agree to accept it, we make that exchange, and then that basic framework is captured in a block. … Anything that can be exchanged can be ledgered on blockchain. Anything. It could be real estate, it could be the transfer of artwork, it could be the purchase of a song or any digital content, it could be recognition of a certification," and so on.
The blockchain genomics companies' vision is to incentivize consumers to share their genomic data and empower researchers to make new breakthroughs, all while keeping the data secure and the identities of consumers anonymous.
Consumers, or "partners" as these companies call them, will have a direct say regarding which individuals or organizations can "rent" their data, and will be able to negotiate the amount they receive in exchange. But instead of fiat currency (aka "regular money") as payment, partners will either be remunerated in cryptocurrency unique to the specific company or they will be provided with individual shares of ownership in the database for contributing DNA data and other medical information.
Luna DNA, one of the blockchain genomics companies, "will allow any credible researcher or non-profit to access the databases for a nominal fee," says its president and co-founder, Dawn Barry. Luna DNA's infrastructure was designed to embrace certain conceptions of privacy and privacy law "in which individuals are in total control of their data, including the ability to have their data be 'forgotten' at any time," she said. This is nearly impossible to implement in pre-existing systems that were not designed with full control by the individual in mind.
One of the legal instruments to which Barry referred was the European Union's General Data Protection Regulation, which "states that the data collected on an individual is owned and should be controlled by that individual," she explained. Another is the California Privacy Act that echoes similar principles. "There is a global trend towards more control by the individual that has very deep implications to companies and sites that collect and aggregate data."
David Koepsell, CEO and co-founder of EncrypGen, told Forbes that "Most people are not aware that your DNA contains information about your life expectancy, your proclivity to depression or schizophrenia, your complete ethnic ancestry, your expected intelligence, maybe even your political inclinations" — information that could be misused by insurance companies and employers. And though DTC customers have been assured that their data will stay anonymous, some data can be linked back to consumers' identities. Blockchain may be the answer to these concerns.
Both blockchain technology and the DTC genetic testing arena have a glaring diversity problem.
"The security that's provided by blockchain is tremendous," Woods says. "It's a significant improvement … and as we move toward more digitized economies around the world, these kinds of solutions that are providing security, validity, trust — they're very important."
In the case of blockchain genomics companies like EncrypGen, Luna DNA, Longenesis, and Zenome, each partner who joins would bring a digital copy of their genetic readout from DTC testing companies (like 23andMe or AncestryDNA). The blockchain technology would then be used to record how and for what purposes researchers interact with it. (To learn more about blockchain, check out this helpful visual guide by Reuters.)
Obstacles in the Path to Success
The cryptocurrency approach as a method of payment could be an unattractive lure to consumers if only a limited number of people make transactions in a given currency's network. And the decade-old technology underlying it -- blockchain -- is not yet widely supported, or even well-understood, by the public at large.
"People conflate blockchain with cryptocurrency and bitcoin and all of the concerns and uncertainty thereof," Barry told us. "One can think of cryptocurrency as a single expression of the vast possibilities of the blockchain technology. Blockchain is straightforward in concept and arcane in its implementation."
But blockchain, with its Gini coefficient of 0.98, is one of the most unequal "playing fields" around. The Gini coefficient is a measure of economic inequality, where 0 represents perfect equality and 1 represents perfect inequality. Around 90 percent of bitcoin users, for example, are male, white or Asian, between the ages of 18 and 34, straight, and from middle and upper class families.
The DTC genetic testing arena, too, has a glaring diversity problem. Most DTC genetic test consumers, just like most genetic study participants, are of European descent. In the case of genetic studies, this disparity is largely explained by the fact that most research is done in Europe and North America. In addition to being over 85 percent white, individuals who purchase DTC genetic testing kits are highly educated (about half have more than a college degree), well off (43 percent have a household income of $100,000 or more per year), and are politically liberal (almost 65 percent). Only 14.5 percent of DTC genetic test consumers are non-white, and a mere 5 percent are Hispanic.
Since risk of genetic diseases often varies greatly between ethnic groups, results from DTC tests can be less accurate and less specific for those of non-European ancestry — simply due to a lack of diverse data. The bigger the genetic database, wrote Sarah Zhang for The Atlantic, the more insights 23andMe and other DTC companies "can glean from DNA. That, in turn, means the more [they] can tell customers about their ancestry and health…" Though efforts at recruiting non-white participants have been ongoing, and some successes have been made at improving ancestry tools for people of color, the benefits of genomic gathering in North America are still largely reaped by Caucasians.
So far, it's not yet clear who or how many people will choose to partake in the offerings of blockchain genomics companies.
So one chief hurdle for the blockchain genomics companies is getting the technology into the hands of those who are under-represented in both blockchain and genetic testing research. Women, in particular, may be difficult to bring on board the blockchain genomics bandwagon — though not from lack of interest. Although women make up a significant portion of DTC genetic testing customers (between 50 and 60 percent), their presence is lacking in blockchain and the biotech industry in general.
At the North American Bitcoin Conference in Miami earlier this year, only three women were on stage, compared to 84 men. And the after-party was held in a strip club.
"I was at that conference," Woods told us. "I don't know what happened at the strip club, I didn't observe it. That's not to say it didn't happen … but I enjoyed being at the conference and I enjoyed learning from people who are experimenting in the space and developing in it. Generally, would I have loved to see more women visible? Of course. In tech generally I want to see more women visible, but there's a whole ecosystem shifting that has to happen to make that possible."
Luna's goal is to achieve equal access to a technology (blockchain genomics) that could potentially improve health and quality of life for all involved. But in the merging of two fields that have been unequal since their inception, achieving equal access is one tall order indeed. So far, it's not yet clear who or how many people will choose to participate. LunaDNA's platform has not yet launched; EncrypGen released their beta version just last month.
Sharon Terry, president and CEO of Genetic Alliance — a nonprofit organization that advocates for access to quality genetic services — recently shared a message that reflects the zeitgeist for all those entering the blockchain genomics space: "Be authentic. Tell the truth, even about motives and profits. Be transparent. Engage us. Don't leave us out. Make this real collaboration. Be bold. Take risks. People are dying. It's time to march forward and make a difference."
Genital Transplants: Is Science Going Too Far, Too Fast?
Thanks to the remarkable evolution of organ transplantation, it's now possible to replace genitals that don't work properly or have been injured. Surgeons have been transplanting ovarian tissue for more than a decade, and they're now successfully transplanting penises and wombs too.
Rules and regulations aren't keeping up with the rapid rise of genital transplants.
Earlier this year, an American soldier whose genitals were injured by a bomb in Afghanistan received the first-ever transplant of a penis and scrotum at Johns Hopkins Medicine.
Rules and regulations aren't keeping up with the rapid rise of genital transplants, however, and there's no consensus about how society should handle a long list of difficult and delicate questions.
Are these expensive transplants worth the risk when other alternatives exist? Should men, famously obsessed with their penises, be able to ask for a better model simply because they want one? And what happens when transplant technology further muddles the concept of biological parenthood?
"We need to remember that the human body is not a machine with interchangeable parts," says bioethicist Craig M. Klugman of DePaul University. "These are complicated, difficult and potentially dangerous surgeries. And they require deep consideration on a physical, psychological, spiritual, and financial level."
From Extra Testicles to Replacement Penises
Tinkering with human genitalia -- especially the male variety -- is hardly a new phenomenon. A French surgeon created artificial penises for injured soldiers in the 16th century. And a bizarre implant craze swept the U.S. in the 1930s when a quack physician convinced men that, quite literally, the more testicles the merrier – and if the human variety wasn't available, then ones from goats would have to do.
Now we're more sophisticated. Modern genital transplants are designed to do two things: Treat infertility (in women) and restore the appearance and function of genitals (in men).
In women, surgeons have successfully transplanted ovarian tissue from one woman to another since the mid-2000s, when an Alabama woman gave birth after getting a transplant from her identical twin sister. Last year, for the first time in the U.S., a young woman gave birth after getting a uterus transplant from a living donor.
"Where do you draw the line? Is pregnancy a privilege? Is it a right?"
As for men, surgeons in the U.S. and South Africa have successfully transplanted penises from dead men into four men whose genitals were injured by a botched circumcision, penile cancer or a wartime injury. One man reportedly fathered a child after the procedure.
The Johns Hopkins procedure was the first to include a scrotum. Testicles, however, were not transplanted due to ethical concerns. Surgeons have successfully transplanted testicles from man-to-man in the past, but this procedure isn't performed because the testes would produce sperm with the donor's DNA. As a result, the recipient could father a baby who is genetically related to the donor.
Are Transplants Worth the Expense and Risk?
Genital transplants are not simple procedures. They're extremely expensive, with a uterus transplant estimated to cost as much as $250,000. They're dangerous, since patients typically must take powerful drugs to keep their immune systems from rejecting their new organs. And they're not medically necessary. All have alternatives that are much less risky and costly.
Dr. Hiten D. Patel, a urologist at Johns Hopkins University, believes these types of factors make penis transplants unnecessary. As he wrote in a 2018 commentary in the journal European Urology, "What in the world are we doing?"
There are similar questions about female genital transplants, which allow infertile women to become pregnant instead of turning to alternatives like adoption or surrogacy. "This is not a life-saving transplant. A woman can very well live without a uterus," says McGill University's Dr. Jacques Balayla, who studies uterine transplantation. "Where do you draw the line? Is pregnancy a privilege? Is it a right? You don't want to cause harm to an individual unless there's an absolute need for the procedure."
But Johns Hopkins urologist Dr. Arthur L. Burnett II, who served on the surgical team that performed the penis-and-scrotum procedure, says penis transplants can be appropriate when other alternatives – like a "neophallus" created from forearm skin and tissue – aren't feasible.
It's also important to "restore normalcy," he says. "We want someone to be able to have sense of male adequacy and a normal sense of bodily well-being on both physical and psychological levels."
Surgical team members who performed the penis transplant, including W. P. Andrew Lee, director of the department of plastic and reconstructive surgery, center.
As for the anonymous recipient, he's reportedly doing "very well" five months after the transplant. An update on Johns Hopkins' website states that "he has normal urinary functions and is beginning to regain sensation in the transplanted tissues."
When the Organ Donors Do It Live
Some peculiar messages reached Burnett's desk after his institution announced it would begin performing penis transplants. Several men wanted to donate their own organs. But for now, transplanted penises are only coming from dead donors whose next of kin have approved the donation.
Burnett doesn't expect live donors to enter the penis transplant picture. But there are no guidelines or policies to stop surgeons from transplanting a penis from a live donor or, for that matter, a testicle.
Live women have already donated wombs and ovarian tissue, forcing them to face their own risks from transplant surgery. "You're putting the donor at risk because she has to undergo pretty expensive surgery for a procedure that is not technically lifesaving," McGill University's Balayla says.
When it comes to uterus transplants, the risk spreads even beyond donor and recipient. Balayla notes there's a third person in the equation: The fetus. "Immunosuppressant medication may harm the baby, and you're feeding the baby with a [uterine] blood vessel that's not natural, held together by stitches," he says.
It's up to each medical institution that performs the procedures to set its own policies.
Bioethicists are talking about other issues raised by genital transplants: How should operations for transgender people fit in? Should men be able to get penis transplants for purely cosmetic reasons? And then there's the looming question of genetic parenthood.
It's up to each medical institution that performs the procedures to set its own policies.
Let's say a woman gets a transplant of ovarian tissue, a man gets a testicle transplant, and they have a baby the old-fashioned way.* The child would be genetically linked to the donors, not the parents who conceived him or her.
Call this a full-employment act not just for bioethicists but theologians too. "Catholicism is generally against reproductive technologies because it removes God from the nature of the procreative act. This technology, though, could result in conception through the natural act. Would their concern remain?" DePaul University's Klugman asked. "Judaism is concerned with knowing a child's parentage, would a child from transplanted testes be the child of the donor or the recipient? Would an act of coitus with a transplanted penis be adultery?"
Yikes. Maybe it's time for the medical field or the law to step in to determine what genital transplants surgeons can and can't -- or shouldn't -- do.
So far, however, only uterus transplants have guidelines in place. Otherwise, it's up to each medical institution that performs the procedures to set its own policies.
"I don't know if the medical establishment is in the position to do the best job of self-regulation," says Lisa Campo-Engelstein, a bioethicist with Albany Medical College. "Reproductive medicine in this country is a huge for-profit industry. There's a possibility of exploitation if we leave this to for-profit fertility companies."
And, as bioethicist Klugman notes, guidelines "aren't laws, and people can and do violate them with no effect."
He doesn't think laws are the solution to the ethical issues raised by genital transplants either. Still, he says, "we do need a national conversation on these topics to help provide guidance for doctors and patients."
[Correction: The following sentence has been updated: "Let's say a woman gets a transplant of ovarian tissue, a man gets a testicle transplant, and they have a baby the old-fashioned way." The original sentence mistakenly read "uterus transplant" instead of "ovarian tissue."]