As I stepped into the delivery room, my gaze was immediately drawn to a jarring note on the whiteboard: “B.C.” scrawled in red, an abbreviation for breast cancer. This revelation created an awkward tension among the nursing staff, who would begin discussing breastfeeding only to suddenly catch themselves and shift into embarrassed expressions of sympathy. I have always detested pity, and in that moment, I was resolute in keeping the reality of my diagnosis out of the birthing suite.
Just days earlier, I had walked through the same entrance for my initial consultation with the breast surgeon. Now, the vibrant families bustling in and out with colorful balloons and oversized teddy bears filled me with a sense of envy. The anticipated birth of my child had transformed into the first step of a challenging journey ahead. The future felt foggy and indistinct; I could not envision what lay beyond my cancer diagnosis.
My pregnancy had been an unexpected surprise, occurring while my son, who was just six months old, napped. I often chastised myself for being careless enough to conceive again. Yet, there was an element of serendipity that comforted me; it reminded me that life is unpredictable and some events are meant to happen, as my grandmother would say. My partner, Alex, and I even jokingly referred to the fetus as “J.C.,” thinking of it as an immaculate conception.
The birth of my first child had been accompanied by an overwhelming obsession with his well-being, to the point where I would keep the light on to monitor his breathing. Alex understood my need for rest, but my mind was consumed with thoughts of survival. I felt compelled to protect my vulnerable baby. However, the stakes were now drastically different. The agency I once had over my pregnancy, my birthing experience, and my own body had been stripped away by my diagnosis. I faced the reality of delivering my daughter three weeks early to accommodate a double mastectomy scheduled for her original due date, all while needing to preserve my strength for the sake of my children’s future. This notion was completely alien to me; I had always believed that being a good mother meant giving my all.
As it was time to push, I struggled to secure my unruly curls with a scrunchie, my thoughts swirling around the impending loss of my hair. I had inherited my thick hair from my father, who had received it from his mother. It was unsettling to realize that along with this genetic trait, the BRCA1 gene had also been passed down through the generations, now manifesting itself in my own diagnosis. The juxtaposition of nurturing life while grappling with malignancy was striking.
After much deliberation about whether to discover the sex of the baby—especially after my diagnosis—Alex insisted that I keep it a surprise. As the baby began to crown, I was convinced I was having another son. Then, with one forceful push, SHE arrived. The daughter I had always longed for was here.
She weighed only six pounds, a stark contrast to my son’s nearly eight-and-a-half-pound birth. I couldn’t bear to look at her tiny, alien-like feet, as they reminded me that she may have preferred to stay nestled in the womb a bit longer. But she was undeniably beautiful, with rose petal lips and a full head of hair. Most importantly, she was resilient. She had defied all odds to enter this world, and I realized that my quick response to the small, seemingly insignificant lump in my breast was likely due to my regular OB appointments.
While my daughter did not erase the reality of my cancer, she illuminated the possibility of joy amidst hardship. Perhaps this joy was magnified by our collective need for it. In that moment, I understood that life might not unfold as expected, but it could still be okay. Our daughter was an unexpected blessing, and she was besheret.
We named her Isla, in memory of my grandmother’s sister who had succumbed to breast cancer. In Hebrew, Isla symbolizes night, while her Hebrew name, Orli, means light. She would serve as our beacon during the dark times.
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In summary, my pregnancy unexpectedly led to a diagnosis of breast cancer, a journey that stripped away my sense of control and agency. However, the arrival of my daughter Isla brought profound joy and a new perspective on life, proving that even in the face of adversity, there is light to be found.