Embryos Aren't Like Kittens

When you've never had a baby, your expectations of what it's like to conceive one are sort of romanticized. You imagine it happening naturally with someone you love at the right time in the perfect way. All of this has been framed by "The K-I-S-S-I-N-G Song" that you sang on the playground as a kid.

Love + Marriage = Baby in the Baby Carriage.

I never would have imagined that my song would go like this...

Love... ... ... ? ... ... ?? ... ... ... ?!?!! + Cancer = Produce Your Stuff. Fertilize It. Freeze Your Embryos.

I guess we've never really been conventional.

Cancer, or any terrifying illness, has the power to reveal people for who they truly are. Cancer removes pleasantries, barriers, costumes, and fallacies. All that remains is the person and their true character. Some people run away and other people reveal that they possess a deep well of heroism, compassion, and love. The latter is true for Brian.

As much as we loved each other before all of this, braving this war together has really cemented what we are. Now we're making frozen babies together. Brian has (romantically) administered my hormone injections each morning and opened my pill bottles for me. I have many eggs developing, which he attributes to his excellent injection skills.

Aside from the bloated ovaries, constant discomfort, and mood swings that come from so many growing eggs, there is one more bothersome facet to this gem of a situation. I can't help but want to keep all of the embryos! Babies are like kittens; so cute and squishy and it's hard to just have one when you have an entire litter at your disposal. Plus all of these are our cute little kittens. Good thing using the embryos isn't easy or cheap.

A Big Box of Needles

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

With my cancer, the stages of grief weren't exactly applicable. For me it went more like this:

Numbness. Terror. Xanax. Enlightenment. One big cry. Relief. Three small cries. "Normalcy". F*ck it. Exhaustion. Catastrophizing. Xanax. "Normalcy"....

Once the terror wore off and I knew I would be ok, my biggest concern became fertility. I've always wanted to have kids. I can't handle the sight of squishy, newborn babies... it literally makes my uterus glow. The threat to my ovaries from potential chemo and the reality that I will need to be on Tamoxifen for 3-5 years before I can be pregnant broke my heart more than any of this other stuff.

There are no guarantees in any of this, but when my eventual in-laws offered to help with fertility preservation, I was over the moon.

This past week I went to two fertility doctors. The first one felt like a baby factory. The waiting room was like a space ship, or Epcot in the 90s. Couples moved through the intake rooms and exam rooms. I almost expected a machine to come down from the ceiling and implant a baby into each woman's body.

The second place was smaller. I didn't feel like I was in a factory, but I did feel like I was in a science spa. The waiting room had scenic views on the televisions and soothing music. When we sat down with the doctor, we were offered hot tea from a Tevana style tea set. I really liked the tea!

That's when the explanation of the process began. All I can say is it's bizarre. The things they can do are straight out of a sci-fi movie, but if it means I have a better chance of having my own kids in the future, I'll do it!

After seeing the doctor, Brian and I sat down with a nurse who explained the steps that must be taken before they can even extract my eggs. Here's what I heard... Shots. Needles. Needles. Shots. Needles. Needles. Shots. Needles. NEEDLES.

I don't like needles, but there were bigger things to consider.

Since then I have been preoccupied with whether or not to freeze eggs or embryos (fertilized eggs). The doctor presents you with the "what ifs" regarding you and your partner. Is your relationship solid? What if something happens to one of you? What if this person is the only one you can have a child with and they are no longer around?

My mind has been spinning.

Today, all of the fertility medications were delivered. I'm no longer thinking about eggs vs. embryos because I just received two large shipping boxes of NEEDLES!

The things we do for love...

Things That Shift

Since this little intruder popped up in my boob and my life turned into a science fiction movie, my perspective has shifted on a number of things.

First of all, my already strong distaste for "breast cancer pink" has been heightened. More than ever, I feel that everyone with breast cancer is tied together by this awful pink ribbon and placed on a stage for society to look at. The purpose of this is to evoke certain emotions of fear and pity, while simultaneously getting people to open their wallets and donate money. Don't get me wrong, money for research is fantastic. Research makes this cancer more survivable than ever. For that, I am grateful. For me personally, I would much prefer to be represented by camouflage than pink ribbons. I want to be represented by something that symbolizes strength of mind and body. Something that demonstrates that I am not a weak little victim wearing a head scarf.

Enough of that rant.

The second thing that surprised me in all of this was my immediate need to make sense of it all. That's where God comes into it. I've always believed in something, what that is, I'm still not really certain, but there is something that I can't see that has a strong influence on how things go. I believe we all have a little bit of that "God energy" in us (maybe that's the soul?). When we pray or wish or whatever we do, that energy goes somewhere. Since this started, I have felt stronger than I ever thought I could be, and I attribute that to the outpouring of love that has been sent my way. Love is powerful.

The other thing that shifted was my need to find the bright side to things. I've always done this to an extent, but when you get blown up on a landmine and things feel bleak and you have nothing to look forward to, you absolutely have to change your thinking. The silver lining:

My family has been completely disjointed and spread out for several years. This is going to bring everyone together and make us closer than ever.

If I have to lose my hair, atleast I can get a beautiful wig with my dream hair. I know my hair is pretty, but it's such a pain to manage.

If I have to be on Tamoxifen for 3-5 years and I have to put off having kids, I'm going to take the opportunity to go on some awesome trips and have some adventures.

I am much stronger than I thought. I don't think I would know that if not for this.

I believe I have a guardian angel that made my tumor hurt (breast cancer doesn't typically hurt) so that I would pay attention and catch it early. I have so much more I want to do with my life for myself and for others.

That's all for now.