My Ironic Life Story

Just to start the ball rolling with a hypothetical question: what if there were no hypothetical questions?
A blog's a diary, right? So...the meaning of life...mine as a case in point.
At 25 years of age, a well meaning medical undergraduate (now a well-connected doctor) persuaded me that I should donate sperms to a fertility clinic because:
(a) I would help childless couples;
(b) I would get paid ( a pittance - $180.00 per six shots over 2 months).
At 25, I thought no more beyond an assurance that I would never get to know the recipients' identities and the chances of consanguinity are infinitesimally small. (Just to be safe, note the year you donated, and the year your own child is born. Don't encourge my child to date anyone with that age difference).
For the record, the clinic contacted me to convey news that the recipient of my sperms was successful, and they were passing the receiver to let me hear the thank you from the couple - but no more than that. Absolutely.
Oh, and my first test revealed a low sperm count (possibly because I masturbated the night before - or an ominous sign. See the later part of this post.)
I wasn't a very thinking person back then.
Then came the octo-mum, who had been artificially inseminated , had 6 babies; and now wanted more and ended up with 14 babies she cannot afford to raise on her own.
Then came a book, Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland, about a baby boy, given up by his mother, who tracked her down 20 years later, for her to find out he had multiple sclerosis (lke Stephen Hawking). Like the octo-babies, the boy had foster parents who just couldn't heck child rearing responsibilities.
Also, like her, he had a natural talent to sing any song backwards (like when you play the recording backwards on a record player/open reel casette tape player). He then dies on her, but thereafter reunited her with the biological father - whom she could not remember earlier (because she was stoned drunk when it happened).
Well, what if my "baby" had been donated to a couple who are either naturally incapable of parenting , or met with some accident? Shouldn't he/she be told how to find me? As it happens, I'm financially better off- compared to 20 years ago, but am disgnosed as suffering from an extremely low testosterone level for a 45 year old (it's worse than a 60-year old's, I'm told). Or what if, like me, he/she is extremely timid and shy and does not know that some undefined lifechanging moment is just waiting round the corner for him/her. How can I let him/her understand that each of us, like the humans in the Matrix, has something unique, even if we are not in the headline news? We could still be the vote that brings the next Roosevelt or Hitler to power? The soldier or official who disobeyed a tyrant, or fired into Tiananmen protesters, in any event sparking a historical riot or revolution. Each of us carries the DNA to be the One. It just needs an awakening. By the right one.
In the case of my offspring, I'm quite sure there's an innate ability to remember the long forgotten tune and lyrics of a song sang in the kindergartens in 1969. and freeze in our memory events which happened more than 35 years ago. Believe me, this might be pretty useful if you have classmates who are likely to make the news headlines. Or simply recalling at will an old episode of Rockford Files. Or Petrocelli. Or the Rookie - with Kate Jackson before she was Sabrina in Charlie's Angels. Scary , huh?