The Black Satin Maternity Shirt

There is a black satin maternity shirt that my best friend wore the night she attended a “Girls Night Out” cancer fundraiser with me.

It was in October of 2010, a few months after I had been diagnosed. She and I sat quietly at a table for two in the back of the small comedy club. I was wearing an itchy wig and wondering if the food would make me sick; she was 7 months pregnant with her third and probably also wondering if the food would make her sick.
 
Early into the show, she took my hand and placed it on her belly; her baby girl was moving and she wanted me to feel. I quickly felt through the satin and the skin, that little life shift under my palm. I stopped hearing the act and it was just the three of us in that moment, which might sound lovely and idyllic, but was actually brutally difficult for me. I was just beginning to deal with the dichotomy of what my life had become as compared to everyone else’s continuing down their normal tracks. And I was deeply hurting at the idea of not having another child. 

So there, in the back of the darkened club, with my hand on my friend’s baby-belly, I started to cry. I remember it distinctly; amidst the laughter and the applause, I swiped the tears away. 

It was only a brief moment that passed between us and then we both turned back to the stage. 

Eleven months later, almost to the day, I’m sitting in the same comedy club with my husband. This time though, I am eight months along with my own baby girl. We’re here on what we figure will be our last date for a long time.

I lean back against the wall - where we have strategically seated ourselves for the evening due to the proximity to the ladies bathroom. I’m trying to elongate my abdomen and alleviate the pressure my increasingly tight maternity jeans are placing on my already impeded bladder. (Can I get away with unbuttoning the top button? Didn’t I buy these jeans a size too big just a couple months ago?) 

As I stretch back and look out across the club, remembering those two girls at the back table, I feel a world away. And so grateful. 

I am alive; the worst may be over for me. I’m sporting my own hair this evening. And there is a healthy baby squirming around underneath the palms I have placed on either side of my flattened bellybutton. I look down at my shirt and realize I’m wearing that very same black satin maternity shirt, borrowed from my friend.

So close, but a world away.

From So Much

It's strange how you can go half a lifetime, or a quarter of a lifetime, with so much normal, and then near-bouts lose sight of it altogether - suddenly, like it was never there. Like, you wake up one morning and your body is different and you never go back; the life you knew just starts to fall apart from there.

At about 11 weeks along I dream I lose the baby. It’s one of those vividly real dreams that scares you even after you’re rescued with wakefulness. The despair of my dream-world loss remained palpable well after that night, periodically coming to haunt my thoughts. Two weeks later to the day, in spite of a series of tests indicating a normal pregnancy, I start to bleed.                                              

It starts with a disconcerting spotting that becomes progressively heavier over a short period of time, sending me to the Emergency Room within the hour. 

Bobby, Little H, and I sit together in the crowded E.R. waiting room on a Thursday evening. My son is hungry for dinner and quite unaware as to why we have decided to spend a couple hours sitting in this boring room. Bobby and I are completely tortured by fear. He keeps looking over at me. I stare straight ahead at a TV screen of a fish tank. I’m watching the one-dimensional fish swim back and fourth and trying to coach myself into continuing to believe that the world still makes sense. Mostly though, I’m just feeling utterly broken inside. 

When we’re called back, we meet doctors and nurses, I give samples of body fluids, and we do a lot more waiting. Bobby eventually leaves to feed Little H dinner and put him to bed. I continue to wait. Eventually I’m taken back to the ultrasound room where we will determine if I am, in fact, miscarrying. They put the ultrasound wand inside me and immediately I look over to the screen to see the baby squirming around, it's heart beating rapidly, and it's tiny arms flailing. Amazing!

I thought that miraculous little life had already ended, but there my baby was, moving around and making it through yet another trial. 

13.5 weeks

It turned out that I wasn't dilating and I wasn't going into labor/miscarriage. There was a small gap between my placenta and uterine wall, which is abnormal. That pocket was bleeding, essentially emptying itself. But if the bleeding, which is already slowing by the time I’m released that night, stops and there is no dislodging, everything will be okay.

It’s just a scare that falls on already shell-shocked shoulders.

Our baby is okay.

I Think It's Called Hope

My husband is angry. I think all the bad in our lives is starting to get to him. He’s somewhere between, Haven’t we been through enough? and How could we have let this happen?

I don’t share his anger - defeated resignation, perhaps. But even more than that, a welcome composure has nestled into my broken body; I seem to be navigating the circus around me with a calm, a calm not of myself.

I think it’s called hope.

Sometimes I question God’s movement in my life. Actually, if I’m honest, sometimes I question the very idea of God. But, sitting with my radiation oncologists, in this wild predicament, I feel a confidence (that is usual for me) that God has brought me to this place. By this place, I mean this extremely unlikely conception, this rare and astounding pregnancy, and this very radiation oncology office.

The office has paused my treatment and spent three days scrambling to learn facts and risks. Where other offices have institutionalized mandatory abortions for any pregnancy arising within treatment, my doctors are scouring medical journals to learn risks and ratios and then are going to let me decide how I will proceed.

They never present my ceasing treatment as an option, which is helpful to Bobby and me as we’re sorting through a myriad of ethical considerations and raw emotions. When we tell them (adamantly), yes, we want to continue with this pregnancy, they stand behind me in every perfect way they can. They bring in experts to calculate possible scatter radiation with my exact measurements; they redo my radiation blueprint, bringing the beams into a tighter area; they give me as much information as they can garner, (there’s not a lot of applicable statistics out there, as this is extremely rare); and, they bring in every lead blanket in the area to pile across my abdomen in an attempt to reduce scatter exposure to the fetus. They find me a geneticist, an OB-GYN, and a Neonatologist.

They tell me they believe the chances may actually be good the baby will make it through without harm. Perhaps both of us can survive.

Perhaps there will be a rainbow at the end of my storm.

Perhaps God is still moving amidst my life.

Against All Odds: Two Blue Lines

There are two pregnancy tests in the very back of my bathroom cabinet. They are from an era long gone, a time before I had 2 diseases and had not yet lost all expectation for a normal progression of life.

On February 16, 2011, I was thinking about throwing them away.

Bobby and I had been told that having another child would be complicated and improbable for us. Months of chemotherapy was so likely to damage my eggs that I was advised even fertility specialists may not be able to help us conceive again. Not to mention, it took us nearly a year of trying to get pregnant with our son; months of disappointing pregnancy tests with only one blue line taught me that I don’t conceive easily in the healthiest of circumstances.

So, I had resigned myself to having an oophorectomy (for future cancer prevention) within the next couple of months, the surgery that would permanently remove my ovaries - and with them of course, any possibility of a future pregnancy. In the meantime, as recommended, we had been using contraceptives, (a natural family planning/barrier combination) - on the rare occasions it was an issue during this time of extreme tumult.

On top of all of that, I am only 2 months out from taking Lupron, the drug that shut down my hormone production completely; I’ve had only 1 menstrual cycle since ceasing that medical menopause.  

But it’s been longer than a month since that 1 cycle, and I’m just going to toss them out anyway…

I open the box. I am a little bit curious about this inkling I’m feeling. Or maybe I’m just being nostalgic. For whatever reason, I take the test.

After months of fixation and then a painful release of hope for a second pregnancy, I am a bald, skinny, scarred, and unhopeful woman in the middle of radiation treatment – who watches two blue lines show up on the pregnancy test.

Incomprehensible.

Cheap tests; they must be expired or something. I take the other one. Again, those two blue lines.

A thick fog of confusion is rolling in, clouding my consciousness. I pick up the phone and call the Oncological OB-GYN. He returns my call immediately. Are you giving me a medication that would make a pregnancy test come out positive? I ask, believing this is the explanation. Is pregnancy even possible? 

I hear his words through the haze, “possible….get a blood test…..radiation exposure…miscarriage…abortion…”

I’m staring out the window of my dining room. The sun is shining. The eucalyptus leaves are blowing in the coastal breeze. And the world is spinning without me. I have left. I don’t recognize a thing in this life anymore.    

I call my husband at work. Somewhere amidst a sob I say the words, “I am pregnant… but can’t have the baby.”

I walk down the street to see a primary care physician for blood and urine pregnancy tests. The group is called “Providence Medical;” their name is emblazoned in huge letters across the exterior of the building. As I am questioning the very idea of God’s guidance and protection, I step through their doors.

“Congratulations,” they tell me.

From Providence Medical Group, a deliriously confused young woman makes her way across the street to her radiation oncology office to tell them she’s pregnant. 

 

Baby. Crazy.

 

Baby. Baby. Baby. The little one I don’t have is invading my thoughts, haunting the equilibrium I am fighting to maintain.

Although he doesn’t say much at the time, my husband will later admit our inability to have another child will be, for him, the hardest residual side effect of my cancer.

Okay, so in our own ways, we’re both a little baby-crazy.

International or domestic adoptions through an agency cost upward of $20,000. And apparently, 1 in 5 couples has fertility problems; it seems there are more than enough families wanting to step in and take healthy babies here in the U.S. Our hope to help someone beyond ourselves through adoption is a little deflated by the apparent lack of need. Fees are less and need is higher for adoption through our county’s family services, but their children consist primarily of older, special needs, and siblings. These little ones really need homes and I would love to step in for such a child, but I question our ability to do so at this point in our lives. Do we have enough remaining fortitude for such a commitment as that?

I will continue to pursue adoption, whatever that looks like.

I will run through the women closest to me, imaging how they might feel about being a surrogate.

I loathe admitting, in desperation, I will concoct such outlandish scenarios as using one male relative on my side with a female relative on my husband’s side - as though these human beings, whom we love most, are impassive instruments.

I will sit at the park with my son and have absurd and disgustingly judgmental thoughts toward the happy, bouncing mothers of mulitples– in their yoga pants and ponytails, with their organic fruit snacks and expensive strollers. They don’t appreciate that baby. They should give it to me.

I’m joking, of course. But I’m marred with desperation.

Lord, I am praying, take this jealousy from my heart. Ease the consuming envy I feel toward every pregnant woman, toward every friend’s birth announcement…  toward every person living their normal life. Accepting my lot is an ongoing challenge, a difficult aim I am perpetually working toward.

Baby Dreams

Standing in our driveway, I look up into the dark sky. Past the maze of telephone wires and streetlamps, I gaze into the stars. I am praying for the child I do not have, as I so often find myself doing these days.

Anyone who has ever faced difficulty getting pregnant, miscarriage, or any other challenges to having a child knows the deep and consuming pain this can produce.

It took me nearly a year to get pregnant with my son. I was approaching obsessed when the pregnancy test finally showed positive. But that year of longing and impatience was just a flicker compared to the fire consuming my thoughts now.

Women with tumors that are hormone-receptor-positive or "estrogen sensitive" such as mine is, meaning the hormone estrogen helps the tumor to grow, are often given an adjuvant therapy (post-primary treatment) to reduce the risk of return. This is usually in the form of an oral prescription that interferes with the activity of estrogen, to be taken over a 5-10 year period – during which pregnancy should not occur, as it would be harmful to the fetus.

So I have 5+ years before I can entertain the possibility of getting pregnant. My children would be spaced with nearly 10 years between them, at that point. Not to mention that I apparently may no longer even possess the ability to conceive, thanks to the chemo. And maybe my body has now been through enough; maybe the higher levels of estrogen from a pregnancy equal higher possibility of recurrence. [This is unknown.] And, would I want to risk passing on a gene mutation for cancer susceptibility to another child? 

My oncologist tells me I should be grateful I have a child already. Which I am. To the depths of all that I am, I cherish and love my son.

But this does not pacify the yearning to be blessed with another child to love so. I feel like I've been told to just be glad I have one ear, when what I really want is two. Of course I'm grateful to have one, probably all the more so. But I really like my ear and still think about having a second.

As I am eeking my way through the cancer treatments, I continually look ahead to what will lie in the thereafter. Can I ever get to a place where life feels normal again? ...Where the ramifications of having cancer are no longer pervasive? …Where my goals and dreams have the possibility of being met?

I read about adoption late into the night. I seek out people with experience adopting. I call private agencies and sign up for public, county-services information sessions.

My husband and I have discussed the valor of adoption since we were teenagers, dating and dreaming about a life together. We were always in agreement that the option should be heavily considered. The world is an increasingly crowded place with decreasing resources and abundances of need for compassion and outreach. How better to save a life from lack than to bring a child into a family of love?

But my understanding of the practice is naïve and simple. It doesn’t take long for the adoption information to get difficult. Our options become clouded by exorbitant price tags, lengthy waiting lists, disqualification by having a history of cancer…

I will not give up. I will not live the rest of my life so bitterly sad that cancer stole my second child from me.

I think about the fourth member of my family with regularity, expectation, and anticipation; she or he will arrive one day and complete us.

Empty Ultrasound

With my new hormone prescription, I begin a monthly injection of a drug that essentially shuts-down my lady parts, as well as an order for a pelvic ultrasound the following morning. 

Like a normal person, I associate ultrasounds with pregnancy.  

My first pelvic ultrasound took place 6 weeks after I learned I was pregnant with my son; it was a standard check on the viability and health of the pregnancy - and it was one of the most joyous days of my life.

We had been trying to get pregnant for several months, approaching a year, and were starting to get consumed with fears and yearning. I was extremely happy when that home pregnancy test was finally positive, but I was also nervous and set my eyes upon the first ultrasound, where they check for the heartbeat, as the real indictor of what was to come. (If a heartbeat develops on schedule, the chances of miscarrying decrease drastically.)

I couldn’t wait to see that tiny little heart pulsing on the monitor and was in a state of pure euphoria when it did. The memories of that joyous day are clear: what my little gummy bear looked like bouncing around in there, what I was wearing, how big Bobby smiled, the flavors of celebratory ice cream we ordered at the ice cream parlor afterward. It was beautiful; it was happiness.

The second such ultrasound of my uterus took place on week 2 of my second round of chemotherapy, under considerably less pleasant circumstances. After 4 days of unnaturally heavy bleeding, I was a deathly anemic cancer patient being checked for fibroids or other abnormalities that might explain my extreme reaction in response to the chemo’s alteration of my hormones.   

My mother and I sat in the waiting room amongst a slew of pregnant women and tried not to be cut by the sadness of my visit in contrast with theirs. This was a demon I had already faced - many times. 

My husband and I had just begun trying for our second child when my health took a dive and began the process of uprooting our life plans. Every medical center I have entered over the last 8 months has had an OB-GYN office within. It’s been cruel. 

I have jealously watched an unhealthy number of adorably pregnant women walk down hallways or enter elevators on the way to their check-ups. “That is why I should be here,” I think. Every time I look up from my little nightmare and upon a round belly, I am tormented with longing. I want to slump down in a ball and scream, “Give me what she has!”

So, as it was, I was far ahead of my mother in coming to terms with that unpleasant contrast on this morning. Nonetheless, nothing prepared me for the torment I was about to endure upon getting the ultrasound.

I entered the little room and climbed onto the table, just as I remembered doing for my previous such visit. The technician, the doctor, and a third woman in scrubs all peered at their computer monitor at my side and discussed what they were seeing in my insides.

My head turned to the opposite direction, where a second monitor was set-up for patient viewing. I was curious to take a peek in there too, maybe attempt to follow their conversation. (Creative measures are necessary in withstanding the dullness of medical appointments.)

When my gaze hit the screen, a stab of sadness sliced into me so completely I stopped breathing. There it was, that same round sack, the inside of my uterus, in black and white, up on the screen. But it was empty. Painfully empty; no gummy bear bouncing around, no tiny pulsing heart. No joy.

I had to look away.

My heart is breaking.

Downward

Winter turns to spring. I’m trying to accept my lot and move forward.

My husband and I decide to try for our second child, the little one who will complete our family. 

I do still have days where I’m lost in contemplation over self diagnosis, and I decide I better have everything I can think of checked out. I make an appointment to see an OB-GYN to have a hard, painful mass in my left breast looked at, get an annual exam, and while I'm there, pick up a prescription for prenatal vitamins. 

 There is a six week wait before I can get in.

When I do finally see the doctor, I leave with an ultrasound referral to look into the lump "just to be sure" and a prenatal vitamin prescription that will never be filled.