It’s all to do with some frozen embryos. A few bits of DNA – my egg, my husband’s sperm, bound together into a day-five blastocyst. Now sitting in a freezer somewhere, wondering if they’ll ever get a shot at life.

I was only 27 when we went through IVF. Young by most clinic’s standards. I had endometriosis and polycystic ovarian syndrome.

After undergoing a laparoscopy to remove my endo it was decided that our best chance of falling pregnant was to start IVF straight away.

Nothing takes the romance out of baby-making like doctor’s rooms and paperwork – and there’s lots of paperwork.

To begin we had to make a decision about each other’s right to the embryos if one of us were to die. A grim thought.

We both gave the other permission to use them, mostly to ensure our kids could have siblings if the surviving parent wanted. It was a futuristic hurdle to leap over before even starting the race.

When you want to start a family it becomes your single focus.

When you’ve been trying for a while and know the odds are stacked against you – it’s laser focus.

I willingly signed up to my IVF counselling session and started treatment within two hours of discussing it with my doctor. It was the express lane to motherhood.

We were blessed with a baby girl from our first embryo transfer. Not to say the pregnancy wasn’t without trauma. We spent part of a holiday to Tasmania in the Hobart emergency department worrying I was miscarrying only to then have the same experience back home in Brisbane. But I’ll spare you the gory details.

When Olive arrived I was 28 years old. Science helped deliver us the biggest blessing.

A few years later – ready to go again – we booked medical appointments and made plans for an embryo transfer only to cancel the surgery four days out because I’d fallen pregnant naturally. Not uncommon for women who undergo IVF. Who knows why?

Now with a pigeon pair and no plans to expand our family, we’re left with an impossible choice. What to do with all the other embryos? To keep them on ice costs about $550 a year. It makes me curious as to how much the IVF clinics are making just in storage fees alone?

The invoice rolls in every six months. Each time I pay it to avoid making a decision. I have several friends in the same boat, all forking out cash in an existential crisis.

Recent data shows one in 18 babies born in Australia is conceived via IVF.

The number of IVF cycles jumped 17 per cent between 2020 and 2021. And more than a third of women give birth after their first cycle.

So, I can only assume I’m not alone in trying to decipher my future and make an educated guess on what to do with my embryos which are sitting on ice.

Right before my latest bill was due, I called the fertility clinic to discuss my options. Donate them to someone else. Have them pulled out of the freezer to defrost. Or take them home in a petri dish. They used to let you donate them to science. I liked the idea of that.

In the end I couldn’t decide. Another six months charged to my credit card in a three-minute phone call.

Infertility affects one in six Australian couples trying to fall pregnant.

Becoming a mother is the closest I’ve come to understanding the world.

But that’s not the story every couple gets to tell. And maybe that’s why I can’t part with the embryos? For those who don’t have a choice, it feels reckless to simply let ours defrost.

For now, I’ve bought myself another six months, because after years clinging to hope, I’m not quite ready to let go of it.