In early 2016, I was hit with a stage III breast cancer diagnosis. At just 33 years old, my world was turned upside down. When my doctor mentioned the option to preserve my fertility, my partner and I firmly turned it down—not because we didn’t want more kids. In fact, we had been gearing up to try for baby number three right around that time.
We decided against it because taking those steps would have delayed my treatment. I would have needed to undergo hormone therapy to harvest eggs, and after experiencing that before, I knew I wasn’t ready to handle the physical and emotional toll while facing such an aggressive diagnosis. Plus, we already had two wonderful children, and the thought of the high costs of in vitro fertilization loomed over us. Would we even be in a position to afford such treatments later? And would I want to endure another challenging pregnancy after battling cancer, assuming I had a life after it?
We had plenty on our plates. Instead, we plunged into over a year’s worth of chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation. My body endured a relentless fight, and we faced profound emotional and financial challenges. Those days were dark, but we emerged with the unwavering support of friends, family, and even kind strangers.
Now, two months have passed since my last radiation dose. I’m scheduled for reconstructive breast surgery in the fall, but the hardest part—the battle—is behind me. However, what remains starkly absent is my ability to have more children. We knew this was likely the outcome of the treatment, but as we sift through baby items to give away or sell at a garage sale, the enormity of that decision weighs heavily on me.
I’ve been a woman who could conceive, a pregnant woman, one who has lost pregnancies, and a mother of two beautiful girls—our little miracles who arrived after years of trying and medical help. Now, I’m back to grappling with the pain of infertility, but this time, it’s accompanied by the harsh reality of my body post-cancer: scars where my breasts used to be and a short buzz cut from fresh post-chemo hair growth.
As I glance at the toys scattered around the living room, waiting to be sorted, it feels like a thousand daggers piercing my heart. Cancer took so much from us, and it’s exhausting to confront the love we still have to offer that won’t be spent on another child in our home. Yes, we adore our kids; they are everything we could ever wish for. But it’s natural to mourn the closing of this chapter, the days when I could bring new life into the world—a life born from the intertwining of our souls, the end of that indescribably sweet bond born of pure love.
Every mother faces this moment eventually. For some, the decision is straightforward; my friend Sara, who claimed to be done after baby number two, happily passed on her baby gear after baby number three. For others, acceptance is a painful journey. Some have experienced loss, some may never carry children of their own, and others, like me, find that road ending too soon, like a sidewalk that stops abruptly at a cliff. My instincts knew to halt, but my heart plummeted over the edge.
One day, I’ll find peace with the baby who never came home. One day, I’ll reconcile the dream, the wish, and the hope for one more chapter. But for now, I’ll let my husband tackle the toy sorting, and tomorrow, I’ll focus on mending my heart, one small piece at a time.
If you’re navigating similar feelings, check out this excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination. You may also want to explore more about fertility options at this insightful article on fertility treatment. And remember, if you’re considering insemination, you can find a comprehensive guide to the process here.
Summary: A mother reflects on her journey through breast cancer and the emotional toll of not being able to have more children. She grapples with the loss while cherishing her two beautiful daughters and navigates the painful process of letting go of baby items, all while seeking to mend her heart.