I had big plans for my daughter and her sister. Our family of four would section hike the Appalachian Trail every year, culminating at the summit of Mount Katadhin the summer before my oldest left for college; my girls would backpack through Europe together as they got older, and my daughter would have in her sister the best friend I had in mine. It was all planned out, down to the cute nicknames I had for my girls.
I started asking my obstetrician at my six week post-partum checkup when it would be ok for me to have another baby. He chuckled and told me to enjoy being a new mom. I quite frankly did not. Hated it is probably a more accurate description, but because I had such very specific dreams for my daughter and her sister I was adamant that I must have another daughter. I never contemplated any other options.
When I went back for my six month checkup with my OB, I shared with him the news that I had just been diagnosed with cancer. My second question after being diagnosed, after confirming it wasn’t terminal, was when I would be able to have another child. I asked at every appointment I had with every doctor for a year. At one point, in the midst of finding out I would have to have another surgery and possibly another round of treatment, my doctor mercifully let me down. She told me the hardest thing I’ve ever heard, “Heather, you need to prepare emotionally to not have any more children.” I wish I could say that I handled that news with grace. I did not.
After a troubling bout of sadness that bordered on depression, I came to the realization that I had to mourn the loss of my daughter’s sister. I needed to feel that pain acutely and then move on to parenting the beautiful, funny, empathetic little artist that I was raising. It took months, but I finally made peace with the idea of my one and only. Then, as I sat staring out at the Chicago skyline from my doctor’s office, she burst into the room with an air of lighthearted happiness I had never seen from her and before even saying hello she smiled and said, “So, you want to have another baby?” I stumbled through a “YES!” and waited patiently for the bad news. There wasn’t any. While I wasn’t actively in remission, the disease was stable and she felt that I had a window of opportunity to try to get pregnant. We had to wait a few months to hit the one-year mark from my last round of radioactive iodine for the safety of my daughter’s sister, but once October came around I was cleared to try.
After a few months of trying, I could feel the effect of the stress on my entire being. My body has been through a war in the last few years, and I was creeping back into unsafe territory that I had no business stepping foot into. See, I had just settled into my stride with my one and only. I had made peace with the loss of a child that never existed outside of my imagination. Those dreams of my daughter and her sister became memories of dreams. I also knew what it meant to parent a baby while battling cancer, and I just didn’t have it in me to risk doing that again. I realized it would be easier to someday explain to my daughter why I made the choice to not give her the sister I wanted so badly for her, than to risk another pregnancy.
I very reluctantly approached my husband and asked for permission to stop trying. My husband, in his sweet and kind way, told me that I didn’t need to have another child for him. My heart literally aches with this decision every day and it is a decision I know I will live to regret. I’ve read the parenting books on the freedom of having an only child. I’ve read the studies on the future success of only children. I’ve talked to only children and friends that have chosen to have one child. I know that this is the right choice, but deep down it wasn’t my plan and that powers the dull ache in my chest.
Every time I’m asked when I’ll be having another child I come up with a new response: “maybe someday” or “we are enjoying our one and only.” The truth is that I haven’t figured out a way to neatly boil down the preceding 6 paragraphs into a sentence that is easy to say out loud. What I finally realized is that it won’t ever be easy, but that’s ok. One of the more profound things to come out of this situation is that ultimately the choice became our choice as opposed to one made for us by a team of medical professionals. That little bit of control after two years that felt like I had no control was empowering to me.
I’m empowered by the fact that I can stand in front of a mom-to-be and genuinely feel nothing but happiness when she shares with me that she is pregnant. I’m empowered by the fact that I know I’m an amazing mother to one little girl. I’m empowered by the fact that there is not the stigma associated with me as the mother of an only child that there once was. I’m empowered by the fact that I got to make this decision. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but I got to make it and I know some day my daughter will understand that the sister I wanted so badly for her could not be, but that’s ok. I’ll summit mountains with her, I’ll take her wherever she wants to go in this big and beautiful world with my backpack in tow, and I’ll always be the best friend she never knew she was missing out on.
The choice was made reluctantly, but I’m empowered every day in many ways by my one and only.
Photo Credit: GLP Photography