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WHY I CHOSE TO FREEZE MY EGGS
When I was diagnosed with cancer at 36, the last thing on my mind was family planning
By Lindsay WarnerHEALTH
THE DAY I felt the lump was one of those
white-hot summer days we rarely get in
Vermont. My boyfriend and I were packing
to go canoe camping to celebrate my 36 th
birthday that day, so when I casually tucked
my hands under my armpits and felt a small,
slightly painful bump, I shrugged it off.
But when the breast surgeon slid an ultra-
sound probe over my breast the next month,
she wasn’t smiling. An inconclusive biopsy
led to a lumpectomy, then a call a few days
later: “I’m sorry, Lindsay. We’ve got a little
bit of cancer here.” From the surgeon’s atti-
tude, it sounded like something that could
be tackled with a few rounds of radiation
and minimal disruption to my life.
Unfortunately, a second surgery revealed
that the cancer had spread to a lymph node,
meaning that it was on the move. And suddenly
my treatment plan included radiation, 10 years
of endocrine therapy...and chemotherapy.
I knew nothing about chemotherapy except
that it makes you sick and bald. In the barrage
of information that followed—likely side
effects; potential physical, mental, and sexual changes; recurrence
rates—one question pierced the fog: Did I want to delay my
cancer treatment and try to preserve my fertility by freezing eggs
or embryos? And if so, I needed to start the process immediately.
I was lucky I even got asked that question. According to the
American Cancer Society, less than five percent of the estimated
269 , 000 women diagnosed with invasive breast cancer each year
are under 40. The median age for the disease is 62. So, at 36 , I was
an outlier. And now my boyfriend, Chris, and I had to figure out
if we ever wanted to have kids together. And we needed to know
within a week, as my oncologist was itching to begin chemo.
It’s not a straightforward decision for anyone. Women choose
to freeze eggs for a variety of reasons. But as a cancer patient with
a deadline and the real possibility of infertility post-treatment,
I didn’t have the option to “wait and see” before taking action,
even though my oncologist wouldn’t let me consider trying to
get pregnant for a minimum of 18 months after treatment. Com-
plicating matters further, Chris already had a daughter from his
previous marriage, a bubbly, joyful little girl who we both loved.Neither one of us relished the idea of
creating a baby via hormone injections
and petri dishes, and then of putting those
cells on ice for almost two years. Chris is
Catholic, and the thought of handcrafting
potential human beings made him cringe.
I felt the same but also feared for my future:
What would my health, fertility, and per-
spective look like after six months of in-
tensive treatment and years of chemically
induced menopause? Could I help raise
another child with my partner in two
years? I didn’t know.
We didn’t have the luxury of time to
find out. And maybe it was better that way.
I couldn’t agonize over the what-ifs, and
Chris didn’t have months to wonder whether
IVF was a gift or an expensive way of play-
ing God. Ultimately we resolved to do it.
At this writing, four rounds of chemo and
30 radiation treatments later, we’re still at
least 18 months away from testing the resil-
iency of my body with a pregnancy. I don’t
know if we’ll implant one of those tiny
embryos, or first try to conceive naturally when—and if—the
time comes. Every woman on the maternal side of my family
has had breast cancer. I’m the youngest in my family to be diag-
nosed, but I’m BRCA-negative, so my doctors don’t know why
I have it. The thought of having a child who could inherit
whatever unmapped aberration I have terrifies me. Still, those
seven embryos are something to cherish, representing hope for
the future, for our continually strengthening relationship, for a
sibling to the little girl who’s already brought us so much joy.
I recently asked Chris why he agreed to move forward with
the IVF. After a playful quip that he’d be “crazy” to say no to
having a child with me, he likened it to poet John Keats’s
“negative capability” concept—the willingness to embrace
uncertainty and make peace with ambiguity. The scientific
precision with which our IVF procedure was carried out was
awe-inspiring, and having those embryos is an enormous gift.
But I don’t know what comes next, and neither does Chris.
That leaves us with one option: to lean on Keats’s uncertainty
principle and find joy in the mystery. ■“As a cancer patient with a
deadline and the real
possibility of infertility post-
treatment, I didn’t have
the option to ‘wait and see’
before taking action.”TRUNK ARCHIVE