Read time: 6 minutes.
After a few unimpressive encounters I experienced in real life, I tentatively returned to the Match dating app. That’s where I stumbled upon a very sweet, kind-hearted, nerdy, and compassionate man. Then I met Nate (Ha! Just joking). It was Nate. We bonded so quickly during which we identified our life goals.
One goal was to have a family.
Yes, we did the whole “let’s get ready” experience. We invested in a new SUV. We were eyeing new housing arrangements. Our parents’ first names would become our kids’ middle names.
But then big, blackened, billowing clouds filled and covered our clear thinking.
We started talking with my doctors first due to my medications. We’d have to be careful if we were trying to conceive. That first conversation is as clear as glass in my mind. I outlined my questions carefully and practiced my reactions, thinking I could restrain my emotions within a delicate conversation.
Telehealth helped many people continue receiving care without unnecessary exposure to COVID-19. For me it was a miracle because it meant I’d be punctual for once as we met virtually with my doctor to talk about our plans. My motto is “this is the earliest I’ve ever been late.”
I brought up our intentions to start trying for a baby. My doctor’s words were sharp and abrasive, even though spoken in a soft and gentle tone. It would be complicated to wean me off my medications, wait the standard interval, and then have a safe pregnancy. He continued saying it wasn’t possible for me to conceive while on one of my medications because of the adverse effects. I hung up saying I understood. I lied.
Like a black spot on a rug, this news stared at me with malice and wouldn’t leave. It made its home there for at least three months. Today, I was going to vanquish it forever! Gathering my cleaning supplies, I tried to push all thoughts of my doctor’s words. I settled in to attacking the stain.
I jumped.
The phone was ringing. I didn’t want to answer, but I did. As the conversation commenced my friend noticed I was oddly quiet. “Are you okay? You’re really quiet today.” I broke down, whispering, “No.” I rattled off the conversation with the doctor and noted I hadn't talked to Nate yet. After what seemed like a million years, I calmed down.
It was time to tell Nate.
Later that night I gathered up every nerve I had. Nate was busy on his computer. Happily playing a game, oblivious to the earth-shattering news I was about to lay on him. “Nate?” My voice quivered. Swinging around his eyes met mine. His eyes instantly softened. I broke down, collapsing into his arms. His voice reassured me there were other options. Little did we know those options wouldn’t be available after July 2021.
When Lung Cancer Changed Everything
July 8, 2021, ended our dream life, plunging us into an alternative reality which slowly became our new reality. Nate’s lung cancer diagnosis was given to us. It hurt so much that my entire heart broke only to be showered with the shattered pieces of my soul.
Our thoughts were rerouted to focusing on his treatments and the coming appointments. Life continued moving forward. For me in a more depressing way.
(Cue 1960s flashback effect and music):
“Mary” my friend called.
“Yes?” I called back.
“Hang on.”
I waited. “Do you want me to come see you?” I asked.
“Nope. I’m coming.” Swinging the chair backwards she plopped down. She smiled. But a short five-minute conversation changed the upcoming school year.
“I know you need consistency. You thrive on it. I’m pregnant, and due in January. I will be on maternity leave for the rest of the school year,” she said.
She continued talking, but I was mentally vacant. My mind floated back.
(End 1960s flashback and music)
Sitting in a small exam room with those dull-colored walls saturated with varied posters reminding me of where we were made me feel I was crawling out of my skin. The door opened, and Dr. Bailey, Nate’s oncologist, sat down. After a moment of pleasantries, she retrieved Nate’s scans.
In the blink of an eye, the conversation turned to having a family. Taken off guard, we expressed wanting a child. Dr. Bailey plunged into IVF treatments and the emotional cost. She spoke of creating and selecting an embryo without cancer-causing genes. It was a tornado of complications we weren’t ready for.
As she continued, my heart was racing out of my chest. Could we honestly take care of a child while Nate was in treatment? We didn’t know what the next day would bring, never mind caring for another person.
Emotional cost. Those words snagged my attention. What would be the emotional cost? Driving home, my thoughts bounced around like a caffeine-charged superball. Nighttime was the worst. Laying there as a superball scattered my thoughts into a chaotic, scrambled mess. Sleep brought no comfort in shutting my mind off. It was evasive. The darkness seemed scarier and darker somehow, even though it was the same.
There was a time long ago when I couldn’t even get the words past my quivering lips accompanied by plunging tears. Even now, my eyes are welling up. Very slowly I was able to talk to my family and friends. No longer am I ashamed to cry and express my sadness. As my courage grows, I tell our story to a wider audience hoping to show people they aren’t alone.
Focusing On What Nate and I Have, Not What We Don’t
Summertime brings everyone out to enjoy the beautiful sun and warm weather. In our complex, there’s a great trail. It’s perfect for biking, running, and meandering slowly. It’s also great for pushing your child in a stroller, helping your child learn to ride a bike, and watching your children race each other. I walk when fewer children are around to avoid the negative feelings.
In stores, I walk the long route to my destination to avoid the children’s department. Hearing people talk about various outfits and items is too hard. I try to avoid the toy sections, but let’s admit it, those are the fun aisles! I started shopping more online, and at times when fewer children are out.
The most painful experience I’m encountering as of late are people having babies. Three families I know added beautiful babies to their families. And I’m so thrilled for them because all the children were born into very loving, devoted, and caring families.
But there’s still a pang sitting ever so still in the depths of my heart. Only pulsing when I hear new arrival news. It’s smaller than before, but it’s still there. How long will it be there? Who knows... but I hope it will free me soon.
Everyone’s story is different. This is one story out of thousands. I am happy for those who have children. I miss having a family, but I am thrilled to continue making memories with Nate. Celebrating the here and now is a much better way to channel my energy than grieving the life we thought we’d have. That’s what counts.
More stories from the lung cancer community: