That time it was about the numbers…

June 2019 through December 2019 were some of the hardest and darkest days we’ve experienced. For weeks, and then months, I would have my blood taken to check my HCG levels (human chorionic gonadotropin) were dropping to zero, and staying there. An increase would show that molar tissue from my partial molar pregnancy remained and was continuing to grow. This type of cancer is called persistent gestational trophoblastic neoplasia (GTN). Results day, we would breathe a sigh of relief for the day and by the next, we would anxiously be waiting the following week or month. We never felt safe that my health was out of jeopardy. An elevated number would signal the need for treatment. We both knew all too well how treatment would change our lives and the lives of our kids. Watching my mom go through treatment changed me and broke my heart and the thought of my little babies dealing with it was too much to comprehend for my mind or soul. Even to get through chemotherapy and the accompanying drugs, the chance of another child would be reduced, possibly eliminated. The haunting thoughts crept in on a daily basis, but were quickly pushed away as it was too much to think about when we had so much good on which to focus.

My blood had to be taken on the same day of the month for the most accurate results. For most blood draws, like the majority of events in our life, I would take the three kids with me. The employees at the drawing center began to know us just by looking, or rather hearing us, coming in. One child was usually in a mask or costume, another acting like a doctor asking me my name and birthdate, and another trying to get anyone’s attention to ask if they had refilled the lollipops from the last time. We have always tried to supply our kids with the most honest, age appropriate answers to anything they have questioned or experienced. We were honest that our baby was sick and couldn’t survive. We were honest that my blood had to stay at zero to make sure I wasn’t sick. When I would call my favorite nurse for results, or start getting them dressed to go to the lab, they would ask, “Are you still at zero, mama? How many more weeks until you’re done?” They would tell me I was brave and how proud they were when I didn’t squirm or cry. Little did they know, that they were the ones keeping me brave. As most things in life, it brought up a memory of my mother. I once asked her if she was angry about her cancer, that ultimately took her life. I can still hear her answer.

“How could I be mad at a body that has given me the four of you? It has given me everything.”

My heart was broken after our loss and I often would wish that we never saw her heart beating in the first place; that if something was clearly wrong from the start it wouldn’t have hurt as much. I know it isn’t true, but your mind tries to help your heart sometimes any way it can. Along the journey, I have come to realize that her little heart fighting against the odds for months was the biggest lesson possible of the power of hope. Now that we are almost halfway through our new pregnancy, it is hope that keeps us going. Hope that this baby is healthy, hope that the world is safe when the babe makes its entrance and hope that I will always remember to thank a body that has given me so much.