‘You will need chemotherapy, your hair will fall out two weeks after your first treatment and you cannot go back to work for at least 6-10 months,’ Dr. L says.

One year ago today, my oncologist’s words ripped through my hospital gown, past my scarred breast and lodged directly into my heart.

Until that moment, I had convinced myself that she would give me good news. She would say that after careful deliberation, she couldn’t permit my tiny little tumour to cause any further disruption in my orderly life. She would refuse to let chemo steal my auburn locks, separate me from my livelihood, or leave me with dark under eye circles and hemorrhoids the size of golf balls (yes I said it).

But now, she has pulled the trigger and shot me with reality. I reel from the impact and plead silently with her for some good news. Thankfully, she reads my mind.

‘On the upside, we don’t need to get started until after Christmas, so you can enjoy the holidays with your family. Also, this type of chemo should not dramatically impact your fertility. Your periods should return to normal 3-6 months after chemo ends and plenty of women your age have gone on to have healthy babies,’ she continues.

Thank God! Last night, K had to come over to help me select my baby daddy finalists. (My sweaty palms and chest pain at the thought of opening the sperm donor website meant that I needed an accomplice). After running multiple contenders through her eight criteria system, she helped me settle on: 64573, a lawyer who likes to swim, read, and travel and 53296, a teacher who has a wife and two kids, but wants to provide other people the opportunity to experience the joy of children. He also enjoys photography and long walks on the beach (obviously with his wife and not me).

I had hoped that narrowing down my choices would give me the incentive to take the plunge into pseudo-motherhood. It hadn’t. (See my posts: Chemo and my Biological Clock and Finding a Baby Daddy to catch up on the fertility conversation) Now, I smile in gratitude that one day in the distant future, I will have the opportunity to create babies the old fashioned way.

My smile disappears as she outlines chemo’s side effects and hands me a stack of brochures with topics like: what to eat when everything tastes like a mouthful of dirty pennies, how to tie a scarf around your head and add one earring for an ‘interesting touch’, and how to keep your energy levels up by incorporating exercise into your chemo routine (do I look like Lance f*^@ing Armstrong to you?)

My Aunt and I inundate Dr. L with questions because we know that when she leaves, I will have to transition from the information portion to the ‘holy crap how did this become my life’ portion of the day. Dr L. humours us for a while and then gracefully makes her exit. After she leaves, I turn to face the bed, rip off my gown and pull my sweater over my shaking shoulders.

I grab the pamphlets, hide them in my purse, and turn to face my Aunt with a broad smile and a face dripping with tears. She mirrors me and we begin our manic routine of alternating between giggles and sobs for the next twenty minutes.

She suggests Starbucks and I mumble ‘yes please’ so that I can avoid my empty apartment. Besides, chemo will hopefully make me scrawny (finally, one fringe benefit), so why not take advantage by loading up on an Oat Bar and a Caramel Macchiato with extra whip cream? Let the good times roll!

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A couple of weeks ago, I told you about my visit with Dr. H and our conversation about chemo and fertility. If you missed it, I have included the link for you below:

http://www.afreshchapter.com/chemo-and-my-biological-clock.html

When I left that day, Dr. H told me that I needed to book an appointment with a fertility counsellor before I could get approved to use a third party sperm donor. In order to explore my options fully, I took his advice and have included a snapshot from that session below.

I hesitantly push open the heavy door into a wood panelled waiting room and a sign encourages me to take a seat in one of the rickety chairs.  My nerves flutter in my throat. I pick up a dog-eared Reader’s Digest and take a deep breath as I notice the smell of old carpet and mouldy wood. I prefer Dr. H’s waiting room.

She calls my name and I look up in surprise. With bright green eyes, curly black hair, and skinny jeans tucked into her boots, she looks like she could be my age. She beckons me into her office and her positive energy bumps up against me. Still in pain from my recent surgery and overwhelmed by what lies ahead, I am not in the mood for bouncy smiles today.

As I settle myself on the couch, I pre-empt her questions. She sits back wide eyed as I regale her with antidotes about my diagnosis, my surgery, and the upcoming risk of chemo. I keep it light. I already cry on someone else’s couch, I don’t need to cry here.

Then, we move on to my single status. She wants to know how I feel about being alone at this time in my life. She suggests that I am lucky that I have the freedom to make all of the decisions myself. Apparently a lot of relationships break down under the pressure of sickness and fertility preservation. I avoid her smile by looking at my feet. I don’t feel lucky.

She continues her questions. Have I looked through the sperm donor websites yet? Have I come up with my criteria for selecting a donor? I continue to avoid eye contact. I don’t want her to know that I have a paper bag in my closest full of syringes, hormone prescriptions, blood test requisitions, and donor profiles. I keep it in there so that I don’t have to look at it.

I distract her by cracking jokes about dating with cancer. Her peppy smile returns as she tells me that I will meet the right man when I least expect it. I glance at the wedding ring on her left hand and want to reach over and scrub the smile from her face. Does she know a contingent of single 30-year-olds that walk through life not expecting to meet someone? I am pretty sure that any woman over the age of 29, who wants to have a family, has her baby Daddy honing device charged up at all times.

I hide my irritation as she moves our conversation along by sharing tips on how to select the perfect donor, tell my future child about where he or she came from, and explain to a potential boyfriend how I already have babies in the freezer. She suggests that we role play some of these conversations. I smile and tell her that as tempting as that sounds, I would rather wait until I have made some decisions. I am still just reviewing my options. Maybe I won’t need chemo or maybe it won’t affect my fertility.

I stand up to leave and she encourages me to take my time with the donor websites and come back if I want to talk further. I nod, tune her out, and wonder how I got here. Six weeks ago, my biggest concern was choosing a Halloween costume and today I am supposed to decide whether to inject my egg with a random guy’s sperm and then store my future babies on ice?

I walk out the door and leave the conversation in her office. I am still not ready to make any decisions.

To subscribe to ‘A Fresh Chapter’, simply click the subscription link on the right hand side of this page. You will then receive my blog posts directly into your inbox. You can cancel your subscription at any time. Thank you for following A Fresh Chapter.