Carolyn was told she couldn't have children. Months later, her ex-husband's girlfriend was pregnant.

Listen to this story being read by Laura Jackel, here.

In my twenties, I was told I would never have children.

And I did not care.

If I am honest, truly honest, I was relieved.

By the time the doctor delivered his diagnosis, without making eye contact and whilst typing notes into a computer, I’d had more surgeries than I could count and was so ravaged by endometriosis I was consuming pain killers daily.

My body had been poked, prodded, injected, cut open and scraped out. There was no specialist I hadn’t seen and no procedure I hadn’t tried. My body no longer felt like it belonged to me. It wasn’t something I worshipped but something I suffered.

Watch: Being the mother of a son is like someone breaking up with you really slowly. Post continues below.

The idea that my body could do something as miraculous as create a life was inconceivable to me. I was so tired. I took the news as it was delivered. Without emotion. Without care.

My husband, on the other hand, was devastated. He too was tired. He loved me but he was tired of me. And I didn’t blame him. When our marriage ended, he expressed regret. He cried as he packed his belongings. He spoke of simply needing time. Of still being there for me. Six months later, he announced his new girlfriend was pregnant.

*****

In my thirties, I threw away the pain meds. And my job.

I lived like I wished I’d done in my twenties.

I took risks, I danced, I tried new things and new men. I had fun.

For as long as I could remember, Africa had called to me. I decided it was time to answer and went on safari.

I swam with crocodiles. Canoed with Hippopotami.

I walked through the savanna, searching for lions.

Flew in a helicopter over Victoria Falls. I danced on bar tops.

Watched the sunrise over the Okavango Delta.

My pain reduced. My body healed.

And when I returned home, I surprised myself by realising, the man who had been the Harry to my Sally for the last 10 years, was the love of my life.

We kissed in the middle of a dance floor and two months later we purchased one way, open-ended airfares and travelled the world.

He knew my medical history. He knew everything about me. He loved me anyway.

Somewhere between the coral beaches of Mauritius and the cobbled streets of Paris, something unexpected happened. An internal clock came to life. A yearning began to build. A need so raw, so instinctual it was impossible to ignore.

I wanted a child with this man I loved and I knew I had to ask my body to do the very thing I was told it never could.

And so began another journey.

There was more poking, prodding, injecting, cutting and scraping.

More specialists to see, more tests to run.

More doctors who told me no.

My body was failing me again.

My thirties and our two-year deadline for conceiving, was coming to an end.

Our final round of egg retrieval resulted in just 12 viable eggs.

Only half the eggs survived the insemination process.

Of the six inseminated eggs, only two developed into embryos.

Five days after the retrieval, with my uterus prepared for implant, I arrived at the hospital. I removed my clothing and put on a stiff, cold hospital gown. I walked barefoot into the theatre, laid down on the surgical bed and placed my legs in the stirrups.

A doctor entered the room.

She checked my name and date of birth against the barcode they gave me when harvesting my eggs. She looked me in the eye.

'Your embryos are not viable,' she said without emotion. 'You can go home.'

It took a moment for her words to compute in my brain. Their meaning felt too big an obstacle for me to scale.

'What does not viable mean?' I asked.

'Not likely to survive transfer. It’s not worth spending the money.'

'Not worth it? How much are we talking?' I asked.

'$500,' she replied.

I looked at my husband. We didn’t need to speak. We both knew how much getting to this point had cost us and I’m not just talking about dollars.

'Pick the most viable and transfer it,' I told her.

And she did.

And nine months later, my son, my only child, was born.

Image: Supplied. 

Adam is 17 years old now.

Almost an adult.

Always my baby.

I am now in my fifties, and my body is again starting to fail me.

There are many things I can no longer do and I am in pain. Every day, I am always in pain.

But I am now and forever will be, Adam’s mother.

Carolyn is a writer, NFP professional and runs a writers' group with over 130 members. She lives on the picturesque Mornington Peninsula with her music loving husband, Lego obsessed teen and a dog who's afraid of everything. Her writing is heartfelt and focuses on the complexity of women's lives, their relationships and those who love (and sometimes hurt) them. 

Feature Image: Supplied.

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