Coming to Terms

 “How are you doing with that aspect of things?” my friends ask cautiously and kindly. I’m quiet for a minute as my mind flashes back to that small, tiny, windowless room where I sat on the paper stretched across a chair, perched above everyone else.

“I heard that you were about to start trying for a second baby.” The doctor says matter-of-factly.

“Yes.” I reply quietly. “We were supposed to start trying this week.”

“That’s probably not a good idea now.”

“Yes,” my voice breaks. “I know that. We’ve come to terms with that.”

“It wouldn’t be wise to go off medication again, not with a recurrence this soon since your initial diagnosis.”

I nod. Unable to form the words. They come out between tears.

“Yes, I know we won’t be having any more children.”

Sure, we have “come to terms with it” in a sense, yes, but how can one ever prepare for this reality? For the news of cancer but also the news that you will never again carry a baby in your womb? That just as you had prepared yourself to feel new life growing and to do the miraculous feat of birth, you are now preparing to fight to live for the child you do have, wondering if you will get to see them grow up.

Yes, I’ve “come to terms” with it as best I can.

I’ve reminded myself that I am so blessed to have Emma. I remind myself that she is a miracle, that she is amazing, that she is enough. I think of all my lovely and wonderful friends who have not been able to conceive or carry a baby of their own. I think how lucky I am to have one. I know I am blessed.

And yet.

My heart mourns. As is natural. As is to be expected. In a home where the siblings are loud and chaotic, I mourn that our home may never be like that. When friends get pregnant with their second or third baby, I mourn that I will never get to make that announcement. When I think about my own siblings, I mourn the loss of that for Emma.

“How are you doing with that aspect of things?” my friends ask, cautiously and kindly.

I tell them the truth. That it hits me in random moments. That sometimes I let the tears fall. That at other times, I am ok because I have my Emma. I tell them that I haven’t had time to fully mourn that yet.

And I tell them that this wasn’t how it was meant to be.