Single Base Life

I was a child that knew what she wanted: a career in the creative field, a house overlooking the ocean with a wraparound porch, a husband who was tall, and children to have adventures with. As I experienced the pains of growing up, I learned that knowing how to hit a curve ball is just as important as a life plan.

At the age of 22, I was on track: I graduated at the top of my class from my dream college, met my sweetheart, moved across the country to New York, succeeded in grad school, established a flourishing career, and moved into our first home together.

Then I was diagnosed with Stage 2a Thyroid cancer. I did not plan for that.

I didn't know what to do or who to tell. I didn't want my life interrupted. I was young, very vain, and even more naïve. I refused to take out my thyroid, due to the incision scar. The only people I allowed myself to tell were my boyfriend and my best friend. I, my family's "golden child", refused help, not knowing how to break the news to a family that held me in such high regard, and to such grand expectations. I had to be "okay" and I thought I could handle it all on my own.

I never wanted to include anyone. I was insecure about having to be so vulnerable and exposed but also refused to face the fear of having cancer at such a young age. I foolishly wanted to believe that if I acted as if nothing was happening, then it wasn't. They say hindsight is 20/20 but really, with age, I've come to learn that even now I have no idea what I'm truly doing and my support group is my everything. But like I said, hindsight is 20/20 and back then I pushed away those that truly meant the most to me. With that, I did my own research, asked questions, but really just wanted to get the treatment, get the cancer out of me, and be done. It was impeding in my life and my career and I wanted to just make it go away. I hid my illness and constantly tried to act strong, whatever that meant.

It was in a cancer support group that I heard about infertility being a common side effect for chemo and radiation. I thought that there was no chance that'd be my scenario. I had what everyone referred to as a "safe" cancer (if there ever is such a thing).

When I finally found a doctor that I was comfortable with, we determined an aggressive treatment course to nip it in the bud: chemo and radiation. Not once was fertility ever brought up. At no time did anyone bother to mention it. My cancer had advanced from 2a to 2b, and ultimately to Stage 3. My doctors found a trial in San Diego that I temporarily relocated for. I went through three cycles of chemo and radiation and came out the other end. It was during one of the last appointments that I finally asked about fertility. I will never forget the look on my doctor's face, which I distinctly remember as pity. I knew what it meant. It was in that moment that cancer had changed me.

Only when fertility was an issue did I finally tell my family. They were disappointed but more hurt that I hid it from them.

As I went through treatment, I realized my mom was the person I wanted support from the most. But because of my secrecy, she felt like she had failed me. Quite honestly, the realization that I hurt my mother stung the most. She's my personal hero and has always made me want to be a mother more and more. My stubbornness and own misconception of what I needed to be, led me to hurt those that I love dearest. When I expressed the fear of being infertile, my family took me to a fertility specialist. As I sat there in the office...