A moment that changed me: my body seemed like a death machine – until I saw those two blue lines

TYou will not forget the moment you find out you are pregnant. In my case, I was terrified of the idea for years. Ovarian cancer had changed my body when I was young and I was afraid to imagine the future in case something went wrong. So when the white strip released two blue lines in 2022, everything changed in an instant. I was filled with amazement at the thought that molecules were forming a new person inside me.

Because I had lost one ovary and had gone through a temporary menopause caused by cancer medications, I had assumed it was unlikely I would ever be able to have a child. The future I had never dared to imagine had reached a tipping point. Could I grow a baby? Was it safe in me? How would I deal with the birth? Even though the pregnancy was what I wanted, there were so many risks and so few certainties that I didn’t immediately feel overjoyed.

It was mid-2010 and I was 31 when I discovered I had a tumor. One fall morning I woke up with a dull feeling inside me, like period pain, even though it was the wrong time of the month. I pushed back my duvet and tried to get up, but my legs buckled and I found myself on the floor. I managed to reach the bathroom and hoped that emptying my bowels would be enough. Then everything would be fine, I thought. Then I checked the toilet bowl and the water was thick with blood.

In the emergency room, a doctor asked if I could be pregnant. A test quickly ruled it out. Part of me was relieved because I wasn’t ready for a child yet. I was in a long distance relationship and wanted to focus on my career. An ultrasound revealed a large mass extending from my left ovary all the way above my belly button. After a complex operation, the biopsy was conclusive: I had a very rare form of ovarian cancer and would need chemotherapy.

The prospect of a future child is not the first thing you think about in a situation where holding on to your own life is paramount. But the chemotherapy was grueling, and while I would probably survive the cancer, my fertility might not recover. I was told that freezing some eggs for later would not be safe because the cancer cells were everywhere.

The chemo-induced menopause was accompanied by hot flashes, sleepless, sweaty nights and convulsions. After a succession of toxic chemicals were pumped through me, I was fortunate to be told I was cancer free. But what do you do when your world is consumed by illness? I decided to move abroad for a while. I threw myself into my work as a design critic and curator, which gave me a sense of purpose and distracted me from my constant worries about my health.

Ultimately, my partner and I decided to try for a baby, knowing it would soon be too late. This was unlikely to happen, not least because my egg count was very low. I couldn’t believe it when, just a few months later, the test came back positive. A small part of me couldn’t help but imagine a tumor secretly lurking there, but the scan revealed the heartbeat of an eleven-week-old fetus.

Being pregnant was the opposite of having a tumor, but the experiences were strangely similar. Both were about growing something within me. Because of my history I had to have regular scans. I attended the first few with trepidation, just in case something was wrong, but each time it felt like alchemy was happening in my womb. In the abstract blob of the first scan, a face, a body, limbs (legs crossed, to be precise) and a spine emerged – all becoming clearer as the months passed. I had become accustomed to seeing my body as a death machine; here it was, designing a new life.

People’s faces usually froze when my cancer came up in conversation, so the excitement I evoked as a pregnant woman was new. People jumped up to offer me their seat on the subway when they saw my stomach, something that didn’t happen when I was sick and had to sit down. No one tells you that having three rounds of chemotherapy will help you deal with the nausea, constipation, fatigue, and taste changes that come with pregnancy.

My pregnancy ended in an emergency C-section, which was eerily reminiscent of my previous surgery. This time, however, instead of a life-threatening lump, a new person emerged from my abdomen. Her little wriggles and passionate cries filled the operating room with warmth. As I held her and she snuggled against me, I felt a rush of emotions. I expected to connect with my baby, but I didn’t expect the birth to bring strength and power. I have experienced how spectacular the human body is – that it can hold trauma, but also overcome a negative experience and create new synapses that leave you feeling renewed.

Amazingly, given the demands of life as a new parent, I have more energy these days. I don’t think all the time about what could go wrong and enjoy the moment, extraordinary or banal. For years I tried to run away from my body, but it kept catching up with me. I wanted to find a new beginning, but I didn’t expect to find it so close to home. Our little girl challenged my fear that the passage of time inevitably makes us vulnerable. Instead, over the course of a decade, I discovered that I could lose myself and then be rebuilt even stronger.