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Newly minted doctors--some beaming, some brooding--stared up at me from their yearbook's glossy pages.

Self-conscious, I scanned photo collages for any recognizable feature. Like those deep creases that form when I smile and my cheeks puff out too far over my mouth. Or perhaps a short stature ran in that side of the family. (I'm very nearly 5'4".) Scrutinizing the male fourth-years for hair lighter and straighter than my mom's, I felt uneasy.

I wasn't looking for a dad. I was looking for a donor.

In 1984, my mom wanted to have a baby. She was unmarried and 38 at the time, with a Ph.D. in educational psychology, but adoption agencies denied her an infant because her household would have only one income. Artificial insemination became her only recourse. She was, as they say, a single mother by choice.

She was also a pioneer. In 2005, the most recent year for which data is available, 52,041 infants were born as a result of assisted reproductive technologies, according to the Centers For Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). Experts estimate the fertility industry is now worth $3.3 billion.

There aren't comparable figures for 1984, but it's telling that the CDC only started tracking these procedures in 1995. Today, women can peruse baby pictures, SAT scores and page-long descriptions of potential donors. Two decades ago, none of this elaborate scaffolding existed.

My search--which my mom blessed because, heck, she was curious, too--started off on a promising note. The two doctors my mom saw are both still practicing. I called one twice and even stood in his office lobby so I could catch him between patients. He looked at me kindly and said, vaguely, that he remembered my mom and would call me back. He never did.