'I have 2 embryos on ice. 16 years later, I still can't bring myself to say goodbye.'

Until faced with the prospect of infertility, many of us assume the choice of whether or not to become a mother will be ours to make.

Naively, having children was something I simply expected as a young woman, but it was far from the simple process I'd envisaged.  Each month, anticipation turned to anxiety and eventually, despair, as the realisation set in that fertility issues may be to blame. 

Male factor infertility was diagnosed, with Intracytoplasmic Sperm Injection (ICSI), a specialised form of In Vitro Fertilisation (IVF), the only option offered. (ICSI involves the injection of a single sperm into the egg).

And so, the journey began. Anyone who has been through it will know that IVF is an extraordinarily difficult experience, one that places intense physical and mental demands upon you. At the same time, you're desperately hanging on to hope. 

Watch: Why Do Men Donate Sperm. Article continues after the video.

You become bloated, tired, sore and emotional. There are ups and then there are downs. Daily injections became the norm, along with mood swings, anxiety and desperate longing. Following an uncomfortable egg extraction procedure, 10 eggs were fertilised, resulting in four healthy blastocysts, or five-day-old embryos. 

I was just 27 at the time, which meant the likelihood of pregnancy was high, so only one embryo was transferred. Nine months later, my son, Beau, was born. 

It wasn't until Beau was a few months old that I began to think about those three remaining embryos. They'd been placed in a cryopreservation freezer, where they would remain until we were ready to conceive again.

When I looked at Beau, his existence seemed so intentional. Beau was Beau because the embryologist selected that particular embryo. A different choice, a different baby. At least, that's how it felt at the time, as my hormones surged, and my emotions ran wild. 

It was that thought that triggered a strange feeling deep within me, and ultimately a strong fixation; that each embryo had the potential to become a totally unique baby. Suddenly, I desperately longed to meet them.  The trouble was, I didn't want three more children. 

Then, 10 months after Beau's birth, I unexpectedly – and against the odds – fell pregnant naturally. As I saw the double blue lines appear, my heart surged with joy right before it sank in despair. My embryos had missed their chance.  Nine months later, Bailey, was born, and of course, I adored him. 

Another year or two passed before the embryos returned to the forefront of my mind. Although the six-monthly bills for storage ensured they were never completely gone from my thoughts. 

Over time, I began to fixate on them, unable to stand the thought of them being in the giant freezer. There was no logic behind my thinking, and I knew it, but the thoughts persisted nonetheless.

Nature, of course, guarantees nothing. If transferred, all three embryos may have developed into live pregnancies.  They may have yielded just one.  Or, they may never have resulted in another child at all. They are but embryos after all, and they must survive several stages before leading to a live birth — successful thawing, successful transfer, implantation, then pregnancy.  

When Bailey was three, my fixation had become too much to bear, and the decision was made to thaw and transfer one of the three remaining embryos. Deep down I hoped the process would put an end to my internal struggle — perhaps none of the embryos would survive the thawing process. Problem solved. 

Better yet, maybe just one — the last one, ideally — would take. Three children sounded like a nice number, and the issue of 'what to do' would be taken out of my hands.  But as luck (or lack thereof) would have it, the first embryo removed from the freezer survived the process, resulting in the birth of my daughter, Lee Rose. 

Within minutes of her birth, amid surges of adrenalin, hormones and emotion, I said to myself, 'if I can't have those babies myself, I will donate them to another couple.' Of course this choice, noble as it seems, is fraught.  Donating your remaining embryos to another couple can't be taken lightly. 

The emotional consequences have the potential to be overwhelming, and for me, the thought of having another biological child out in the world, at times, sent me into frightening panic attacks. Other times, the prospect of helping another couple become parents filled me with joy. 

Over time I began to think that maybe, just maybe, I would try again; thaw another embryo. But life took another turn.  My marriage broke down, meaning the choice to transfer an embryo into my own body was taken away.

I grappled with my remaining options – donate them to another couple or discard them. Unfortunately, donating embryos to science is an option rarely available in Australia.

But I grappled too long. 

In Queensland, the option to donate embryos is restricted to within 10 years of fertilisation (aside from special circumstances with approval) – a period of time I have now surpassed.

I didn't think too much about the prospect of remaining embryos when I was trying to conceive my first child; most people don't. They're too focused on producing enough embryos to give them the best chance of becoming a parent. 

Sure, things are explained, but when so much of your life is focused on falling pregnant and coping with the slap of infertility, it all feels like one big what-if that can be dealt with later. 

Whatever a couple does with their remaining embryos will undoubtedly be shaded by personal convictions. It's a judgment call that ultimately addresses core values that shape your everyday reality. But it's not always what you expect. It wasn't for me.

I'm still not sure why I felt so drawn to those embryos, why the thought of them still existing triggers such a strong emotional response. It wasn't religious belief, nor was it scientific reality. 

It just was. Just is. 

My eldest son is now 15 years old and my youngest is almost 11.

My two existing embryos remain frozen at the fertility centre in which they were created, almost 16 years later.

I know what I need to do. I just need to bite the bullet, and make it happen. 

Feature image: supplied.