Childless

My sister got pregnant in 2007 and gave birth to our family’s pride and joy Joseph in February 2008.  I’ll never forget the night he was born.  Our whole family was there as well as his dad’s family – it was a big party in the waiting room! When “little” Joseph finally decided to join us in this world (after many excruciating hours for my poor little sister – crazy kid was almost ten pounds!) his dad brought him out of the delivery room to meet us.  My nephew’s father looked up at us completely awestruck and softly said, “That was the most amazing thing I have ever seen.”  (My sister on the other hand was exhausted and said to me Why would ANYONE ever do that more than once!?)

As time went by and I witnessed my sister bonding with her child, I realized that I wanted that as well.  I won’t say I was jealous – I wasn’t jealous – that word implies negative thoughts towards the object of my desire.  I genuinely was (and still am) enormously happy for my sister, and I love my nephew more than life.  The relationship between my sister and her son and the overwhelming amount of love that she has for him showed me that I too wanted to feel that kind of unconditional love. I can almost understand it when I think about my nephew.  I love him so much sometimes it kind of hurts.  I think about his future and I want to protect him from everything bad in the world and keep him safe from ever being hurt.  At all.  By anyone. Ever!  I am consistently reminded by parents everywhere that I can never fully understand the love of a child unless I have my own (Side note – hey parents – quit rubbing that in to your childless friends!  It’s just mean!)  And I wanted my own, very much.  But cancer has other ideas.

It was never my intention to be childless.  I was careful not to get pregnant when I was in my twenties – never wanting an unexpected pregnancy – always assuming I had time for that later.  Perhaps that was not the right call.  You can plan and plan and plan your life down to every detail but we all know how often plans work out.  I got pregnant (on purpose) in 2011.  I was 30, engaged and going to have the perfect life – wedding, marital bliss and beautiful children to love and raise, surrounded by loving family. I did everything right – I followed the food guide in the What to Expect When You’re Expecting book, I took the pre-natal vitamins, I didn’t smoke or drink, I got plenty of rest.  But still – 9 weeks later I miscarried.

I believe that a miscarriage is one of the most horrible things for a woman to ever have to endure.  We women bond with our unborn children the instant we learn we are pregnant.  I loved my child more than words, even though she was only a mass of cells when I lost her (yes – I refer to her as a girl although I have no way of actually knowing).  She was real to me.  She had a name and a future.  She was so loved.  Losing my baby literally broke me.  And I stayed broken for a long time.  People don’t talk about miscarriage much, which I find strange considering how common it is.  No one seems to acknowledge the grief and pain associated with the loss since the child isn’t developed yet.  You don’t get medical time off work, there are no Hallmark cards and people say insensitive things like, “At least you can try again.”

It is very unlikely that I will ever try again.  Chemotherapy has shut down my ovaries and it is unknown whether it is permanent or temporary.  The Oncologist said that there is a 40% chance I will regain “normal” ovarian function after chemo.  My nurse practitioner Anne thinks that because of my age it is likely that I will become “regular” again within a year.  This gives the illusion of hope – however, once I am finished chemo and radiation, I will then be facing five years of endocrine therapy (commonly yet inaccurately called hormone therapy).  This means I will be taking a drug called Tamoxifin for five years.  I have always avowed that hormones are a woman’s kryptonite and here is my proof - my female hormones (nasty little buggers) promote the growth and spread of the cancer.  From what they tell me, the Tamoxifin basically blocks my body’s ability to produce estrogen.  The benefit is that the drug will help keep the cancer from coming back.  Nasty side effect – the drug can hurt fertilized eggs, induce miscarriage, or cause birth defects.  While my body may be physically able to conceive while on Tamoxifin, it is seriously harmful for a fetus.

So, in five years, I will be 38 – well past ideal baby-making age, although according to my fertility doc, I’m already beyond that and my ovaries are old!  They sent me to the fertility specialist prior to chemo to discuss my options.  Hah.  My “options’” were bullshit.  Option 1:  IVF - I could freeze my eggs (for $10k!!!) then have them in vitro fertilized in 5 years and put back inside me (assuming I had a “donor” - ew.)  In vitro is hit or miss and often unsuccessful.  Option 2:  I could use drugs to put myself into a chemically-induced menopause to help protect my ovaries during chemo.  This option was also pricey and would not guarantee that I would not go into chemo-induced early menopause.  It would require a lot of drugs and would only slightly increase the chance that I would regain normal ovarian functioning after chemo.  Both of those options would mean delaying my cancer treatment for weeks or months.  Or I could do nothing - and this doctor said my ovaries would most likely be destroyed (can’t get a straight answer out of anyone! Grr!) 

Okay - so maybe the options aren't that bad and I should be grateful that they even exist – but I had to decide between my fertility alternatives on the same day I found out I needed chemo and had to choose whether or not to accept the treatment (yes – I could have refused treatment – some people do that and I don’t understand it… but that’s another story).  I made a choice that day that will always be with me.  I gave it to God.  I had been so back and forth for the last few years about the idea of having children.  As you all know, I am 33 and single.  I am already kind of pushing it when it comes to child bearing and I don’t have any potential baby-daddies on the horizon.  If God wants me to be a mom, I will be a mom.  But I decided not to mess with it anymore, chemically or otherwise.  The decision is no longer mine. 

It hurts sometimes (ok often – it’s still pretty fresh).  I tear up now and then when I hear children laughing and my heart hurts when I see little babies – even on TV.  I have to admit though - it’s also somewhat of a relief. I don’t have to stress about it anymore.  I don’t have to feel like my clock is ticking and oh I’d better find a husband quick if I want to have kids!  The pressure is off.  I am free to embrace my life and I don’t have to scrutinize every man I date wondering about his baby-raising potential (What?!? Girls don’t do that!) I can truly enjoy people for who they are without ulterior motives and I can take my time with my life choices without feeling rushed. 

There may be a possibility to adopt at some point.  However my fertility doc also made me aware that adoption agencies frown upon giving babies to cancer survivors.  You know, because if the cancer comes back I could die and the child would be an orphan… again.  I guess that kind of makes sense, but is the kid really any worse off in that scenario??  I mean, better to have loved and lost, right? Seriously though, I understand.  There is always the opportunity to foster or volunteer.  Or maybe one day I will be a step-mom – who knows?   There are always children in the world that need love and I have a lot of it to give.  I’ll find a way.  And I’ll always have my precious nephew Joseph (Courtney will share… I’ll make her!) whom I will love like he was my own even when he becomes a teenager one day and hates us all.

I had my “baby.”  She died in the womb.  I still have the ultrasound pics, the pregnancy test (I know – gross – but I can’t bring myself to throw it away) and a beautiful wrist tattoo to honor the memory of my lost child.  Some people are born to be parents and some are not.  I still don’t know for certain what my fate is in terms of parenthood, but I have chosen to accept and embrace my reality for what it is.  I am no one’s mother.  Chances are, I never will be - but I am someone’s aunt, sister, daughter and friend.  And that’s enough.