pregnant_mama

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.