In February 2016, at the age of 33, I received a stage III breast cancer diagnosis. When my doctor inquired about our desire to preserve my fertility, my partner and I resolutely declined—not because we didn’t want more children; in fact, we had been planning to try for a third around that time. However, opting to preserve fertility meant delaying my treatment and undergoing hormone therapy to harvest eggs. Having experienced that process before, I knew it was both physically and emotionally taxing, and I couldn’t bear the thought of going through it while grappling with such an aggressive cancer diagnosis. We already had two wonderful children, and the financial burden of in vitro fertilization was daunting. We were uncertain if we could afford fertility treatments in the future, or if I would even want to endure another challenging pregnancy after cancer, assuming I would have a life beyond it.
We had a great deal on our plates. Instead, we dove headfirst into more than a year of chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation. My body endured significant trauma from the battle against the disease, and we faced overwhelming emotional and financial hardship. Those dark days were filled with struggle, yet we emerged through the unwavering love and support of friends, family, and even kind strangers.
Now, two months post my final radiation dose, I am preparing for reconstructive surgery in the fall. The hardest part of the journey is behind me, yet the reality of my infertility looms large. We anticipated this outcome from my treatment choices, but as I sort through baby items to give away and sell, the heaviness of that decision weighs on me.
I have been a woman who could conceive, a pregnant woman, a woman who has suffered miscarriages, and a woman who has brought two children into the world. My daughters are true miracles, arriving after years of fruitless efforts and medical interventions. Now, facing the reality of my inability to conceive again feels like a sharp knife in my heart. Cancer has taken so much from us—it is both exhausting and heartbreaking to contemplate the love we could have shared with another child. While we absolutely adore our daughters, it’s natural to mourn the closing of this chapter, the end of my ability to bring new life into the world. The thought of creating life from the union of our souls is a profound bond I will no longer experience.
Every mother eventually confronts this reality. For some, the decision is straightforward; a friend of mine happily gave away baby items after her third child. For others, acceptance is a painful journey. Some have faced the loss of children, while others may never have the opportunity to carry their own. For me, the end of this chapter feels abrupt, like reaching a cliff’s edge. My instincts recognized the need to stop, but my heart plummeted into the abyss.
One day, I hope to find peace with the child who will never come home, to reconcile the dreams and hopes for another chapter in my life. For tonight, I will let my partner handle the sorting of toys, while I focus on healing my heart, step by step, day by day.
If you’re interested in exploring more about home insemination options, check out this insightful article on intrauterine insemination. You can also learn about various methods in this detailed post about at-home insemination kits. For further reading on related topics, consider this blog post on the emotional journey of fertility.
In summary, while I cherish my children, the emotional toll of knowing I cannot have more weighs heavily on my heart. Accepting this loss is challenging but necessary, as I move forward in life, focusing on healing and the love I have for my family.