The first time I sat down with my oncologist, he gave me bad news:
The cancer was very rare.
It was highly aggressive.
My only chance of survival was a year long clinical trial of experimental chemotherapy, and weeks of radiation.
I was prepared for this news, but not what followed:
There was only one place to get the treatment, and it was too far to stay with my daughter.
As he said the words, I looked down at my baby, nursing on my breast, my tears resting on her cheek.
Only a few days had passed since her first birthday.
I knew weaning was inevitable. I knew our time would come to a premature end.
Nothing could have prepared to lose almost every moment of her second year of life.
The doctor continued.
I listened to the lists of side effects -- ones I knew all too well having watched my father suffer through leukemia and a stem cell transplant.
It briefly extended his life.
I hated chemotherapy. It was a poison. It was torture.
But I had a daughter.
I needed to live.
I chose to give up a year of my life -- a year of my daughter's life -- to save the rest.
That was almost six years ago.
The decision was my greatest gamble and my greatest victory. It forever changed the way I view the world, myself as a woman, and the beautifully fragile nature of life.
Before treatment began, I had the option to freeze my eggs. Given my age and the drugs, there was a good chance my period would never return.
I refused. I was terrified to delay treatment. I was scared to put my body through additional trauma with hormone therapy.
Beyond the logistics I was petrified of becoming a mother again.
I wondered if becoming a mother caused the cancer.
More than that, my marriage was more toxic than the cancer growing in my body.
It couldn't survive another child.
After treatment ended, I began a quest to find health. True health.
I invested in every possibility to heal my worn down body, and broken heart.
I found many amazing practices, my consciousness grew in uncomfortable ways.
I reached out beyond my comfort zone, I left my unhealthy marriage, I embarked on single motherhood.
My period remained elusive.
I celebrated my health. I celebrated my sexuality. I celebrated the divine nature of life.
I traveled. I studied. I prayed.
I fell in love.
I remarried.
I wanted kids.
I wanted to experience the joys of raising a child with a true partner.
I wanted to give my husband the gift of a baby.
I had about six periods in the course of five years.
Numerous blood tests revealed the same news: menopause
I had two early losses. They gave me hope.
The hospital had a different opinion -- I had no more viable eggs. A donor egg would be my only hope at giving birth again.
"I believe in miracles." I said to the nurse as I walked down Wall Street, tears streaming down my face.
I went to see my spiritual teacher.
He told me I would be a mother again.
He gave me a meditation practice. I did it every day.
I believed in my teacher. I had known many miracles.
I had a positive test in August.
My husband and I stayed quiet about the news. We had already known early losses. As much faith as I had, I was scared.
I meditated daily.
I filled my unborn baby with love. I filled my heart with faith. I filled my soul with hope.
At twelve weeks, we could see our baby's heartbeat. At twenty weeks, we knew we'd have a boy.
Today, about one month away from his birth, I am amazed, grateful, and petrified.
I'm going to be a mother again.