Then she said something that made me sit down immediately.
“There may be a way for you to carry a child.”
I thought I had misheard her.
For thirteen years, every doctor I had spoken to had told me the same thing.
Impossible.
Yet only days later, I was sitting in a hospital room while a team of specialists explained a procedure I had never imagined could become part of my life.
A uterus transplant.
They were careful not to give me false hope.
The surgery would be complicated.
There were risks.
There was no guarantee the transplant would work.
Even if it did, pregnancy would still require IVF.
And even after pregnancy began, nothing could guarantee I would make it all the way to birth.
I listened quietly while my hands trembled in my lap.
That night, I barely slept.
Part of me wanted to say no.
I had spent years learning how not to hope.