When I decided to become a mother, I approached it as I did most things in my life: with thorough preparation. I scheduled doctor appointments to ensure everything was normal, stopped drinking a year before trying to conceive, and ramped up an already intense workout schedule. I wanted my body to be a temple for my future children.
As a type A professional, I thought I’d have it all under control. I did not appreciate how challenging it would be or where the journey would take me, physically and mentally.
The first surprise was that I was carrying twin boys—a blessing, but also a shock my husband and I hadn’t anticipated. The second surprise during what would become a grueling pregnancy was being diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a type of blood cancer. My medical team recommended termination, but I refused. The connection I felt with my babies growing inside of me superseded anything else, including my health. I couldn’t give up on them.
As the cancer progressed, my doctors wanted me to start treatment, but I insisted only on those that wouldn’t harm the babies. This left limited options, and the cancer spread further. By the second trimester, I needed a cane to walk, and soon I was in a wheelchair. I was given morphine for the pain but stuck mostly to Tylenol, fearing the effects on the babies. Most days, I was home with my husband, and my primary goal: carrying my sons to term.
At 29 weeks, my fight reached a breaking point when a tumor the size of a grapefruit was found on my spine. If I didn’t deliver, my boys wouldn’t have a mother.
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