There is space for those who want children, those who want children and can’t have them, and those who unequivocally know that parenthood isn’t for them.

What about those of us who are right in the middle?

Prior to cancer I was diagnosed with PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome). Despite having a period that came like clockwork it was highly unlikely I was ovulating. And after being in a long-term monogamous relationship where we took no precautions, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get pregnant on my own.

I never could determine if I wanted to be a mom. 

I’d been that girl who fantasized about the man who is head over heels in love with me being even more in love with our baby. A baby who had the best of both of our features. I still have notes in my phone with baby names and when I’m being honest, I can admit that I have a clear picture in my mind of what I hope that bundle of joy would look like. 

When I’m being all the way 100, I still dream of the perfect family with the picket fence and a cat. But at the same time, I don’t have a deep longing for a baby. I did always feel a twinge of sadness when my cycle would come, but I never got the overwhelming feeling that I would do whatever it took no matter the cost to become a mother. 

But now at 42, single, having survived breast cancer with treatment that included chemotherapy, and being on hormone therapy that shuts down my ovaries and puts me in chemically induced menopause I’m even farther away from trying to figure out how I feel and what I want to do.

Whenever I was asked, I would answer that I didn’t want kids. I think I told myself that to take the sting out of the fact that motherhood might never be in the cards for me.

I honestly can’t even recall if there was a real discussion about my fertility when my treatment plan was decided. It’s possible I told them preserving my fertility didn’t matter, but I don’t think I ever had a true chance to fully process all that was happening. I was already worried about all the costs associated with testing and treatment, so even if my options had been presented to me, it would have been all cost prohibitive. 

Now, I know there is legislation being written and passed to assist with the preservation of fertility. There are organizations that will help cover the costs of egg freezing. I feel like I learned about the available options after chemo was making its way through my body.

I truly think there needs to be a pause in all that happens in the weeks following diagnosis to allow women to catch their breaths. There are huge decisions to be made at breathtaking speed and you barely get a chance to process much less really consider the long-term consequences of simply trying not to die.

In addition to being presented with the full range of options available, mental health needs to play a bigger part of cancer treatment. 

Therapists need to be trained to help walk us through our feelings and our options.

We need help to understand what they really mean and how that might affect us.

I don’t mean the scientific stuff or the odds of survival and recurrence. I mean how is my heart going to feel when I’m on the other side and staring into a future that includes only me. Or how my heart will beat fast when I see a beautiful pregnant woman or a newborn baby. And let’s not even discuss the emotional and mental roller coaster that comes with being body slammed into menopause. Our mental health needs to be cared for just as diligently as our physical health.

So much of my life is different now and my future is plagued with uncertainty, but this bright red question mark remains. 

I’ve toyed with the idea of adoption. 

And I wonder what will happen when I’m old and alone. 

But I still can’t definitively say that I’d do everything in my power to have a child and so I sit with the same question that applies to almost every aspect of my life since I heard the words “You have cancer” — what if?