‘You will need chemotherapy, your hair will fall out two weeks after your first treatment and you cannot go back to work for at least 6-10 months,’ Dr. L says.

One year ago today, my oncologist’s words ripped through my hospital gown, past my scarred breast and lodged directly into my heart.

Until that moment, I had convinced myself that she would give me good news. She would say that after careful deliberation, she couldn’t permit my tiny little tumour to cause any further disruption in my orderly life. She would refuse to let chemo steal my auburn locks, separate me from my livelihood, or leave me with dark under eye circles and hemorrhoids the size of golf balls (yes I said it).

But now, she has pulled the trigger and shot me with reality. I reel from the impact and plead silently with her for some good news. Thankfully, she reads my mind.

‘On the upside, we don’t need to get started until after Christmas, so you can enjoy the holidays with your family. Also, this type of chemo should not dramatically impact your fertility. Your periods should return to normal 3-6 months after chemo ends and plenty of women your age have gone on to have healthy babies,’ she continues.

Thank God! Last night, K had to come over to help me select my baby daddy finalists. (My sweaty palms and chest pain at the thought of opening the sperm donor website meant that I needed an accomplice). After running multiple contenders through her eight criteria system, she helped me settle on: 64573, a lawyer who likes to swim, read, and travel and 53296, a teacher who has a wife and two kids, but wants to provide other people the opportunity to experience the joy of children. He also enjoys photography and long walks on the beach (obviously with his wife and not me).

I had hoped that narrowing down my choices would give me the incentive to take the plunge into pseudo-motherhood. It hadn’t. (See my posts: Chemo and my Biological Clock and Finding a Baby Daddy to catch up on the fertility conversation) Now, I smile in gratitude that one day in the distant future, I will have the opportunity to create babies the old fashioned way.

My smile disappears as she outlines chemo’s side effects and hands me a stack of brochures with topics like: what to eat when everything tastes like a mouthful of dirty pennies, how to tie a scarf around your head and add one earring for an ‘interesting touch’, and how to keep your energy levels up by incorporating exercise into your chemo routine (do I look like Lance f*^@ing Armstrong to you?)

My Aunt and I inundate Dr. L with questions because we know that when she leaves, I will have to transition from the information portion to the ‘holy crap how did this become my life’ portion of the day. Dr L. humours us for a while and then gracefully makes her exit. After she leaves, I turn to face the bed, rip off my gown and pull my sweater over my shaking shoulders.

I grab the pamphlets, hide them in my purse, and turn to face my Aunt with a broad smile and a face dripping with tears. She mirrors me and we begin our manic routine of alternating between giggles and sobs for the next twenty minutes.

She suggests Starbucks and I mumble ‘yes please’ so that I can avoid my empty apartment. Besides, chemo will hopefully make me scrawny (finally, one fringe benefit), so why not take advantage by loading up on an Oat Bar and a Caramel Macchiato with extra whip cream? Let the good times roll!

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