The Collateral Damage of Cancer
If I could sum up cancer in one word I would say “sacrifice.”
As any survivor knows, cancer takes a lot from you and in order to live, you must pay a hefty toll at the sacrificial altar of survival. We sacrifice our time, our jobs, our sex lives, our money, our hormones, our youth, our hair, our future health, and most often our body parts.
For me, that sacrifice meant losing my uterus, my ovaries (goodbye estrogen, hello menopause), my cervix, and one-third of my vagina. However, the whirlwind of cancer — and the prospect of death — has not allowed me much time to mourn what is truly gone. When you’re told the odds of you dying greatly outweigh the odds of you living your number one focus is staying alive.
In fact, “Take it all” is the exact phrase I said when my oncological surgeon explained my radical hysterectomy. There was no time for discussion, second opinions (literally), or fertility preservation. In a 15-minute meeting, I went from being a married 34-year-old who thought she *might* want kids someday to a soon-to-be barren, menopausal cancer-lady.
The fear hit once I got to the hospital’s cafeteria at UCLA and broke down crying — which I assume is a common occurrence. The reality was setting in. My body would never be the same.
I’ll admit, prior to cancer children were not a priority for me and I was very much on the fence. I still had dreams of traveling, drinking Negronis in Italy, sleeping in ‘till 11 am and keeping my bank account above zero. To me, children would put an end to all of this. In fact, caring for a newborn terrifies me. So when my life was on the line, there was no hesitation. When it came down to me or my uterus, I chose me.
If I had waited, I would be dead.
However, as treatment comes to a close — after 5 months of surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation we are 25 days away from freedom! — I am now starting to mourn all of the things I’ve had to sacrifice, children included.
I will never know what it feels like to be pregnant or give birth, to breastfeed or stay up all night with my newborn. I will never see what a Max-Taryn baby would look like or pass on my DNA. This might sound silly but I have an Indigenous MtDNA haplogroup (B2B) and I think about my failure to keep it on this planet. After all my ancestors sacrificed to get me here, I will be the last of my B2B line (men, i.e. my brother, can’t pass it on). I had one job and I couldn’t complete it.
I understand adoption is an option — my mother was adopted and that’s always been something I am interested in. But adoption is also fraught with its own hardships — time and money come to mind.
Don’t get me wrong — I am happy to adopt. The idea of giving a child a loving home they may not have had otherwise fills me with joy. But the idea of never having biological children, of having the option ripped away from me to save my own life, has left me feeling sad. Like something that could have existed no longer does.
I imagine thousands of women — even outside of cancer — who learn they cannot conceive must feel similarly. Suddenly, I am not saying “no kids for me” instead it’s my body saying “you can no longer create a child.” There’s a difference.
I hear women speak of the “magic” of pregnancy or that having a child is a feeling that “can never be replicated” and it makes me feel like I’ve been left out of the secret club of womanhood. As I write this, my eyes well with tears. As a woman — despite my lack of body parts — there’s something deep down that tells me I’ve lost something sacred.
But Taryn, you say, you’ll be fine, you can still love a child, you’re still a woman, there’s still so much life to live!!! I know. I know all of these things.
So why write this? I suppose my thought was, for any woman or any cancer survivor who feels like they’ve lost too much I wanted to say you’re not alone. Your sacrifice was not in vain — it’s okay to put survival above all else — and it’s okay to be sad about it sometimes. I know I am.
And don’t even get me started on my menopausal vagina — that’s for another post, most likely titled “The desert of all deserts.” :)
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For those who don’t know, I was diagnosed with Stage 3C Small Cell Neuroendocrine cancer in October 2019 at age 34. There are less than 200 cases per year. There is no research, funding, or clinical trials for this cancer. If you would like to learn more please visit https://necervix.com/facts/.
I also have a GoFundMe here: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-taryn-beat-cancer. (No pressure, anything and everything is appreciated.)