Emily

22 Apr Emily

It all began with the words, “It’s cancer.”

That is where my journey with infertility began. 4 and a half years ago I was diagnosed with stage 4 Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Scary words, but a good prognosis with it having a 95% cure rate and clear cut treatment plan. In a blur of doctors and social workers and care managers, I met with a newly founded fertility team set on guiding patients at Cincinnati Children’s through the mess of reproductive nonsense during their cancer journey. We discussed, and ultimately decided against, taking measures to preserve my fertility because my risk at the time was low and it seemed like an unnecessary amount of money to spend and time to waste. 

Skip ahead a few months and we have to add radiation to my treatment plan as the chemotherapy didn’t shrink the cancer in my lymph nodes and bone marrow quite enough. More meetings with radiation specialists and a fitting for a creepy goalie-esque mask that helps strap me down to the table so I can’t move a muscle. That’s very important because they pinpoint the exact locations you receive the radiation and any minuscule movement disrupts how it attacks the cancer. Somehow in all of this, everyone fails to mention to me that they’ll be radiating almost on top of my ovaries because that’s where some of the infected lymph nodes are, and this bumps my infertility risk from low to high. 

Jump ahead about 3 years. I’m sitting with the fertility team again as they apologize over and over for their mistake and inform me that I have no function in my ovaries any longer. My chances of conceiving a baby are slim to almost none (never say never, right?). All my girlhood dreams of birthing a baby that’s an exact mix of my husband and I are shattered. I remember the shock I felt and just sitting there, half listening to them, the feel of my husband’s hand wrapping around mine and squeezing tight. I would have burst into a million pieces if he hadn’t been there holding my hand.

 I was later diagnosed more formally with premature ovarian insufficiency, which is just a fancy way of saying early menopause. 

I was in denial for a long time. I denied receiving care from the fertility team at Cincinnati because I told them I wanted someone closer to home. But really I was hoping it was just a bad dream or a misdiagnosis. I made an appointment with my gynecologist and she ran the tests again. Still the same. She told me she wanted me to see a different OB in the office, as she has more experience with hormone therapy. I didn’t call that doctor for 6 months. I was depressed and grieving. I grieved the babies I never got a chance to have for a long time. I felt this emptiness deep in my soul that I didn’t know how to fill. I think I’ll grieve for the rest of my life the babies with my husband’s blue eyes and long legs and my blonde hair and dimple chin, his laugh and my sense of adventure, our stubborn, yet easy-going nature.

I kept sinking into the black hole of my depression with no end in sight. I finally called a local therapist and set up an appointment. She really helped me sort out all my emotions and confusion and guilt. She helped me find ways to manage my anxiety and move past my grief and accept what is. She helped me find my happy again. I made the phone call and set up my appointment. 

It’s coming up on a year since I started hormone replacement therapy. My husband and I decided we want to adopt our babies. I feel at peace with my decision to adopt versus trying to become pregnant. I can’t wait to start our family that way, actually. We also think about fostering kids once we get some parental experience under our belts. With all of my current health problems, being pregnant would actually be super stressful on my body and I’d be a really high risk pregnancy. I also feel it is selfish of me to try so hard to become pregnant when I would only be passing on such poor health genes; a silly notion to many but I can only imagine the guilt I would feel if I birthed my child only for it to have the same health issues as me. So I look at adopting as a blessing in disguise in that aspect. And just a blessing in general.  

My infertility is a big part of my life because it has a domino effect on my body and how I approach life these days. But it doesn’t own me any longer. It doesn’t consume me and drown me. I sometimes still feel like I’m lacking something essential that makes me a woman, but I quash that voice and remind myself how badass I am. Positive thinking will get you everywhere. Even through the ordeal of infertility.