The Reality of Wanting More Children When My Husband Has Cancer

For the longest time I wasn’t sure I wanted a second baby. Whenever people asked, I’d say what I knew they wanted to hear:

Of course! We’re just waiting until the chemo leaves his system.

Oh yes, Z needs a sibling. We don’t want her to be an only child! 

Definitely. But we’ll only have two — three tops.

But secretly I wasn’t sure I meant it. I remembered the nausea and fatigue that comes with pregnancy and imagined feeling that way while caring for my terribly awesome toddler and a (possibly) ill husband. I worried I might resent another child for taking away what little me time I have. I thought about my anxiety and how much I fret over the state of one baby, fearful I might not survive the stress of two.

I’m tired. Exhausted. Bone-weary. I can’t remember the last time I felt truly rested, peaceful, contented. I know I’m not the only mother who feels this way, but sometimes I feel so alone. I feel guilty for wanting time to write or read or rest. I feel guilty when I ask other people to help me because I feel like I’m supposed to do it all myself. I feel guilty and anxious and tired constantly, and I just don’t know how I would care for two little ones when it’s a struggle to care for myself.

And I’m almost there — I’m almost ready for another baby.

When I asked the doctor last week about trying for a baby this summer (a full six months since the last chemo treatment) I fully expected him to say we were ready to go. I wasn’t ready for the hesitation. I wasn’t ready for him to ask how I feel about abortion. I wasn’t ready for him to tell me they don’t recommend people get pregnant on any cancer medications. I wasn’t ready for the pity I saw in his eyes.

Until that moment I didn’t know I was ready for a baby.

He saw the pain in my eyes, the tightness in my mouth and he told me he’d look for more answers; he reassured me he’d know more the next week at the next visit. He shook our hands and said the usual goodbyes and he left the room. My husband had been on the phone with the pharmacy for most of our conversation and we’d waited two-and-a-half hours to see the doctor, so he was more than ready to go. He held open the door, smiled and motioned me out. His face fell when he saw the tears welling in my eyes and I told him to close the door.

Then I sat in the hard, little chair and I cried.

I cried for the baby I didn’t know I wanted, for the baby I might not be able to have. I cried for my only child and my sick husband and myself. I cried because it wasn’t fair and I didn’t understand. I gave myself five minutes to fall apart, then I let my husband hug me, I pulled myself back together, and we left.

On the way home, we discussed our options — adoption, In Vitro, playing the odds. None of them made me feel any better. I felt a void. I didn’t know I wanted another baby until the doctor told me it might not be an option.

I know we might still have more kids, that the doctor could come back on Tuesday and tell us he was wrong, that the odds aren’t stacked against us. I know this period of mourning might be premature. I know God gave us our little girl early, before cancer, for this very reason.

But knowing those things doesn’t fill the space I didn’t know was there — the quiet space a second baby was waiting to fill.

I may not have the option to fill the space with another child but I know if I leave it empty, it will poison me. So instead I’ll have to fill it with something else, with someone else, someone like the daughter I’m lucky enough to have. Maybe by filling the space with her, I won’t feel like something’s missing. Maybe I won’t even notice. Maybe I’ll be OK.

Because even though I know now I want another baby, the baby I have — she’s enough.

This post was originally published on MichBelleUnderwood.com.

Thinkstock photo by AntonioGuillem