This was the summer every month that Nick and I would discuss trying for # 3. Each month would come and we would decide “ah, we’re just not ready quite yet.” It was truly a weekly conversation in our marriage. Not a matter of “if” but “when?” Trying to get pregnant with Porter was anything but easy. Multiple miscarriages and so much waiting, it broke me in so many ways. But it was all worth the wait. The last few years have been a little intense for us. Finally getting pregnant with Porter, suffering a traumatic birth, I had to have surgery, Porter had to be seen at childrens for a birth injury. It was hard. But we healed and we had Nolan. And then 2020 came, a hard year for all of us navigating life in a pandemic. Both Nick and I lost our jobs. Months prior we were both at the height of our careers, and suddenly it all crashed down. Honestly, it was scary. It was stressful. And a couple months prior to this is when we learned Porter had special needs. To what extent, we didn’t know. We’re still learning about our sweet boy. When he was evaluated for autism at 3 years old he did not get a diagnosis. The school asked us to do another eval before kindergarten and we are on the waitlist at childrens right now. So in the waiting we decided to get him set up with every service that could benefit him. He’s on an IEP at school where they give him a little extra help. He did OT all summer. Receives speech at school. And has a therapist through licking county board of DD (who we are actually in the process of canceling with because he’s made such amazing strides he truly doesn’t need it anymore!) Needless to say, there was about 4 years straight of stress and worry for one reason or another. So when the conversation of baby number 3 would come up, we’d ultimately always decide we just needed a little more time to bounce back from it all. But this summer I was getting the fever, I was itching for that person to complete our family. Now, I am so glad we didn’t try. If we had conceived, we may not have caught my cancer, it could have spread, treatment while being pregnant, so many very scary things could have happened. But one of the first things I understood when the doctor explained my cancer is that there would be no baby # 3 for us. I was crushed. (Nick and I know it’s possible, but have made the personal decision not to take that risk). We’ve literally spent years with this idea that we were going to try for another baby, that we would have 3 kids, and in an instant, it was taken away from us. I remember in that moment feeling “it’s ok, I just need to stay alive for my babies, it’s fine, I’m fine.” But as days and weeks and now months have passed that pain, that loss has really set in.
My cancer is estrogen driven. I’m on a drug called Zoladex that has thrown me into menopause so my ovaries no longer produce estrogen. This is one very important part of treatment to reduce risk of recurrence. To us, the risk is just too high to have another baby. Pregnancy increases estrogen. Going off this drug alone would be risky. It just can’t happen. And we both came to that conclusion together and agreed 100%. But, it’s really broken my heart. So many days and nights since we got the news, my mind has wandered to never being pregnant again, never feeling your baby inside you again, never experiencing the magic of meeting your child for the first time again, never nursing again, removing that third person from visions of our future dinner table, never going through all the firsts again, never seeing Nolan as a big brother, never never never. It’s shattering.
Yes, cancer has this amazing way of changing your perspective so you can see things differently, your gratitude explodes, you no longer sweat the small stuff, you love harder, you feel deeper, you see the world in a different and more beautiful way. You want to tell everyone in your life how much you love them and the great impact they have had on you.
But, can we acknowledge the loss and the grief? Sometimes, it all just feels like too much. I’m loosing my hair, my breasts, my mental stability, my fertility, my confidence, my ability to picture the future. There is life before cancer, and there is life after cancer. I will never ever be the same. I hope cancer brings out beautiful things in me. I hope I work a little less, slow down more, read more, savor every single moment with my kids and my husband, be more light hearted, I hope I can see every single day as a gift, marvel at good weather, do a cannon ball in the pool, eat too much dessert, grow way too many flowers, love harder and deeper, and find peace in my soul. I truly hope cancer will give me that.
But the reality is, right now cancer has given me a ton of fear and anxiety, some horrible side effects I have to manage every single day, and stripped me of a lot of things I used to identify with. The James has so many resources, and as I was chatting with a sweet woman who works specifically with young women diagnosed with breast cancer and helps them navigate survivorship, she really did put my heart at ease. I told her I’ve always seen the future. I’ve always had this perfect vision for what we would do, where we would go, things we wanted to accomplish and how we wanted to live, and suddenly, since this diagnosis, I can’t see anything. I don’t know what happens from here. I don’t see me on the other side of this. Not because I don’t believe that will happen, I do very much. But I don’t know who she will be. I can’t envision myself after all this. It’s cloudy. What will I do? How will I feel? Will I be able to work as much? What things will make me, me? And she so sweetly said, “how could you know that yet? You won’t know that for a long time. You have to walk this path first, and give yourself time after to rebuild, slowly, brick by brick.” It was like she gave me permission to not need that answer yet. And it felt good. Because since my diagnosis I have been so disoriented. My body and my mind are in fight or flight. The symptoms of treatment have me down mentally and physically. It’s so hard not to care for the kids the way I normally would. It’s so hard to feel like I am letting my family down, making everyone in my life pick up so much slack. I want to be a shining light. I want to project hope and positivity. But let’s be real, I’m living most peoples worst nightmare. And I think acknowledging that grief is such an important step in healing. Can’t we just say “THIS SUCKS.” I’ve lost 15 pounds, I struggle to eat every day, walking up the stairs feels like climbing a mountain, my mouth sores hurt, my tummy hurts, my head hurts and my heart hurts. But I know, it is SUCH a small price to pay to be able to stay here on earth with my family. And so I fight every day. I fight through the symptoms and the tears. Every day I am truly fighting for my life. Fighting to get out of bed, to eat, fighting off anxiety, fighting off fear. It’s a fight because it’s hard. It’s so damn hard. That word actually perfectly describes this process. Friday night things got bad, I got sick, couldn’t eat, I was losing nutrients way too fast. By Saturday morning I was so depleted I could barely walk, I was shaking. We almost went to the ER. It’s the most scared I’ve been. I sobbed in the bath tub looking in Nick’s eyes “it’s so hard to feel this awful all the time.” This is no walk in the park. A fight I never wanted to be in, but was left with no choice. In the beginning I didn’t feel strong enough. I was scared I couldn’t do it. And truthfully, a lot of days I still am. But tomorrow starts treatment 4. I’m doing it. It’s not always pretty but I’m showing up every day fighting. I’ve lost a lot, I have a lot more to lose. A lot to grieve, a lot to mourn. But I also have a lot to win. A lot to gain when this is all over. So much worth fighting for.
I’m still here, showing up every day doing my best. Showing up honestly. Showing up as me. Thank you for letting me do just that. I love you all so much and can’t tell you what your support means 🤍
Ps: A few sweet moments that brought me to tears this week.
•Porters bus driver giving me the most sincere and genuine hug the morning after I shaved my head. Her words and kindness had tears streaming down my face.
•An old friend from high school that is now a firefighter was stopped behind the bus one morning this week, he honked and yelled out the window of the fire truck after we got Porter on the bus “keep fighting Ashley!!” My head fell to my hands and I bawled.
•A meal being dropped off by one of our oldest family friends. She told me how much she loved my shaved head, looked in my eyes and told me that she loved me multiple times before leaving. How often do we look an old friend in the eyes and say “I want you to know how much I love you.” I wept when she left. My heart was so full of gratitude. I have so much love and support.
-Also, we want to get a dog :) Since losing Scout our hearts just weren’t ready. But Nick and I both agree, once I’m through treatment and surgery it’s time for us to raise another puppy. My heart feels excited about that. So hey, I guess I can see something after this 🤍
