"So, really you only have about a two percent chance of conceiving a baby each month. And if we look here...."
I had already stopped listening. I was staring at the little "2%" she'd squiggled on the pamphlet in front of her; my mouth fell slightly open in horror and tears burned the back of my eyes.
I was at the doctor's office for a post-op checkin several weeks after my surgery. We were talking about next options when she slipped the statistic in, sandwiched between two completely innocuous sentences, like a misshelved library book.
She finally realised I was upset. "Now dear, what's wrong?" She reached out, stroked my hand and smiled.
"Two percent?" I whispered, "I only have a two percent chance of having a baby?"
"No, no... see here if you get IVF it goes up to 30% or even 40%!" She circled the IVF option on her paper with gusto, but I only saw the $7,000 price written right next to it.
I looked at her smiling face, then promptly burst into tears.
It wasn't my finest moment, I'll say that. It was an overflowing slurry of emotion compounded by the fact that I had just realised that I will be facing many months alone, as Jon goes back to finish his assignment. He'll be in Australia, and I'll be in London for school. It feels like an never-ending dark tunnel.
That being said, I got my first spot of sunshine this morning as we landed back in the UK. Jon will be here with me for the next week or two while his new Australian visa gets sorted and it feels so good to be home again. It feels amazing to be in a physical space that feels emotionally secure.
I don't know how I'll get a baby. I don't know when. If it didn't cost a small fortune to adopt as expats, we'd have done it already. So, all that is left now is to save our pennies for IVF and pray that it works. It is massively discouraging, but I'm holding on to this little flicker inside that says it is going to happen. Two percent isn't zero. There is still hope.