Kate Paterson

When I started chemotherapy for Hodgkin’s lymphoma, I was told the chances of it affecting my fertility were slim. My doctor advised me against egg harvesting because she didn’t feel comfortable delaying my chemo and because fertility treatment failed more often than it worked.

Unfortunately, the chemo didn’t work the first time, so we set about preparing me for a stem cell transplant, which included two preliminary rounds of ICE chemotherapy. It was horrible stuff but the big one was still to come—a high dose chemo over six days that usually had long-term side-effects.

There would be enough time to harvest eggs before starting it, so I called the specialist, excited, as soon as I realised it was an option. My period was to start in three days’ time and I had to be in hospital in five weeks’ time to start chemo. The timing seemed perfect.

One of the first things the specialist asked when I called him was if I was married or in a committed relationship. Apparently the chances of any of my eggs becoming a live baby were infinitely higher if I could store a fertilised egg. My boyfriend had recently broken up with me, because life had dealt both of us blow after blow, but I knew that he still loved me and saw a future with me. I also knew that this was the only chance we could have a child together.

It was a strange conversation to have, to say the least, but he didn’t even hesitate when I asked him to father my child. I think he was excited about it too— to have a little embryo tucked away somewhere could have been the first positive thing to happen in months. The specialist warned me not to get too excited—we still had to do tests to see if I was capable of harvesting—but I knew better. I knew that this was going to work because it had to work. It had to work like I had to live.

The doctor first had to check my hormone levels to see whether my ovaries had the potential to release eggs. I knew that, even if the levels were perfect, there was still a chance that my eggs would not be harvested, but I truly believed that hope and determination would get me through. I had been through a lot and I deserved this; God was going to give me a break. We sat in the waiting room for what seemed like forever, my ex-boyfriend and I filling out forms amongst the married couples and mothers-to-be. Feeling awkward and out of place, I wished I had someone that I could really share this problem with.

At two that afternoon we went back for the results. This time we were the only people in the waiting room and the doctor came straight out to welcome us. He was a tall, elderly man and was smiling from ear to ear. My heart was beating quickly, but just looking at him gave me a wave of relief and I knew that everything would be fine.

I wouldn’t have to worry anymore. We followed him into his room and sat down. His huge smile made me smile.

“It’s not good news,” he said.

It took a second for it to hit me and then I was crying uncontrollably. My usual first reaction to bad news is to think, ‘What am I going to do about it?’ When I was told I had cancer I immediately had a string of questions to help me figure out a way forward. This time I had nothing.

The doctor went through my other options—egg donors, adoption—and said I could also come back in a couple of years and maybe things would be better. Miracles do happen. But, he said, my oestrogen levels were exception-ally low and I was, in fact, peri-menopausal. He asked me if I’d been feeling hot, dry and emotional. I didn’t know. I couldn’t think at all. I couldn’t speak. I felt like I was a totally different person or perhaps not a person at all.

Back at my ex’s house, I suddenly became aware that he had been speaking continuously since we left the doctor. He was trying to comfort me but I didn’t want to be comforted, I didn’t want to know about the other options. It was the only time in my life that I didn’t want to talk about an issue. The next day I was functioning like a normal person— moving around, eating and speaking— but it took me a long time before I was ready to talk about my infertility. I didn’t tell any of my friends for about a month.

I have spent a lot of time thinking about the benefits of not having children, of which there are many, as well as the possibility of adopting. Both these had always been options, even before I found out that I couldn’t have my own children, but that is not the point. The point is that I have been horribly cheated. I have had an essential part of me ripped away and it is very, very difficult to redefine my future and myself as a woman. I feel as though my lack of oestrogen makes me less attractive, as if men can instinctively tell that I am infertile and will take no notice of me as a result.

More than that is the fact that my partner in life will have to be someone who is contented not to have children with me. As for me, I will never be able to look at a baby and see my eyes, my nose or my knobbly knees. I will never have the miracle of another person growing inside me or the excitement of a baby’s first kick. I don’t fully understand what it means for my body, physically, to be going through menopause from the age of 22, but my mind is simultaneously frantic and empty.

I refuse to believe this has happened for a reason. It has happened because I had chemo, because I have cancer. It has stolen away the story of my life I’ve been constructing since childhood, but I am starting to see it has also set me free from it. I know that I will use this to rediscover what I really want from my life.

But first, I mourn.

Kate Paterson is a budding lawyer who loves pizza, wine and Indian literature.