The Death of Biological Motherhood

I sat, in the lotus position, on his exam table arms crossed. Draped in a pale green hospital gown, barely covered, head hung low as if all muscles suffered the fate of atrophy. Tears poured from my cheeks, clutching only worn damp tissues. The man who would save my life sat adjacent. With grace and well–seasoned technique he said, "There's one more thing we need to talk about … Do you want to have children?"

I silently wept oceans and he said, "Your tears tell me your answer."

That day was Friday May 13^th, 2011. I was 33 and single. Beside me were my mother and my dear friend J. It was on that day I learned I would need to have surgery performed by my Gynecologist Oncologist. Several weeks prior my GI doctor had ordered an emergent CAT scan due to severe lower abdominal pain. He discovered I had large bilateral cysts on my ovaries. At least, they were thought to be cysts at the time.

My surgical consent did not include the removal of my ovaries. I was schooled meticulously by my surgeon and was very clear he was to preserve my fertility, at all costs. There was no time for any methods of fertility preservation prior to surgery.

My mother disagreed with my decision to keep my ovaries. Being that he is such a close friend and a surgeon as well, I sought the advice of my friend J. He said something like, it's your right to make that decision I would just feel better if Psychiatry said that you fully and willingly understand the potential consequences of your action. I obliged and was blessed with Psychiatry's feedback that I was fully decisional and aware that I was willing to die in lieu of surgical sterilization.

I was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer, stage IIIB on June 9, 2011. My surgeon excised many cancerous tumors that day, over many hours. My memory recounts waking from anesthesia, already being in my hospital room at about 1:00am, looking at my mother, feeling numb and asking, "Well what happened?"

"You have cancer; he thinks he took it all out."

"What am I missing?"

"Nothing. You are ok."

I went to sleep.

After an arduous year of suffering and recovery—that is really putting it lightly—I resumed life, work, and dating. As years passed from my initial diagnosis my view of motherhood transformed to thoughts of parenting with cancer. Being a parent no longer meant relation by blood. Family is love and my deep appreciation for life and continuing to walk the Earth extends to all people and things.

I was sharply sobered in the fall of 2015 finding myself in a familiar seat at my surgeon's office for what was supposed to be my last six month checkup before the tether loosening to one year appointments. I was told that he believed my tumors may have returned. After further testing I was once again scheduled for surgery. This time I relented, signing consent for the bilateral removal of my ovaries. I had one request: could I have a few weeks before surgery to live a little more life. He granted the request. I posed the question of seeing a fertility preservation specialist. It so happened he knew of a highly trained Attending setting up her practice at the same location where I was being treated.

I found myself in her office several weeks later, depositing tears. She was lovely, kind, and very thorough in her detailed explanations of new state of the art treatments. She agreed to some hormone level testing at my request, as an initial step. She called a week or so later to tell me that my 37 year old ovaries were like those of an 80–90 year old woman and thus not eligible for any type of fertility preservation.

The importance of this visit and information was, and remains, immeasurable. This time I felt a sense of control. I was better informed. After everything my scarred and chemically treated body had been through, it had made the decision about...