In February 2016, at the age of 33, I received a stage III breast cancer diagnosis. When my doctor asked about preserving my fertility, my partner and I decisively said no—not because we didn’t desire more children; in fact, we had plans to try for a third child around that time. However, we opted against it, knowing that fertility preservation would delay my treatment and require hormone therapy for egg harvesting. Having undergone that process before, I was acutely aware of the emotional and physical toll it takes, especially while grappling with a serious cancer diagnosis. We already had two wonderful children, and the financial burden of in vitro fertilization weighed heavily on our minds. Who knew if we could afford future treatments or if I could withstand another challenging pregnancy after my battle with cancer?
With so much on our plate, we plunged into over a year of chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation. My body endured a grueling fight against the disease, accompanied by profound emotional and financial struggles. Those dark days were illuminated by the unwavering love and support from friends, family, and even kind strangers.
Now, two months after my last radiation treatment, I look ahead to reconstructive surgery in the fall. The hardest part—the battle—has passed, but in its wake lies the stark reality of my inability to have more children. We were aware that this could be the outcome of my treatment, and we made our choice. Yet, as I sift through baby items to pass on to friends or sell in a garage sale, the full gravity of that decision hits me hard.
I have experienced the full spectrum of womanhood: from being unable to conceive to carrying two miraculous pregnancies, both of which came after years of heartache and medical interventions. These two daughters are treasures beyond my wildest dreams, yet here I am, confronted with the pain of infertility once again. This time, though, I bear the physical reminders of my cancer journey—nipple-less lumps where my breasts used to be and a short hairstyle that speaks of my recent chemotherapy.
As I gaze at the pile of toys awaiting sorting in the living room, it feels as if a thousand daggers are piercing my heart. Cancer has stripped away so much, leaving me to mourn the love that will never be shared with another child in our home. Our daughters are cherished and loved, yet it’s natural to grieve the closing of this chapter—the end of my ability to bring new life into the world, a life born from the beautiful union of our love.
Every mother faces this moment. For some, the acceptance comes easily. A friend of mine, who thought she was done after two children, happily passed on her baby items after her third. For others, like myself, the acceptance is painful. Some of us have faced the loss of children; others may never have the chance to carry a child at all. It can feel like reaching the edge of a cliff—my feet instinctively halt, but my heart plummets into the abyss.
I hope to find peace with the dreams of the child who will never be. I aspire to make peace with the hopes and wishes for one more chapter in our family narrative. For tonight, I’ll leave the sorting to my husband, while I focus on mending my heart, piece by piece, one day at a time. If you’re navigating similar feelings, you might find comfort in this resource and this one as well.
In summary, this poignant journey through motherhood and loss illustrates the intertwined paths of love and grief. While we cherish the children we have, we also mourn the future that will never be.