the thing I don't want to talk about (it's a woman thing)

WARNING!
this is not a post for the men-folk!

For any men who might read this blog, you may not be comfortable with the subject matter of this post! (Or, to put it another way, it's not something you're likely to want to discuss with me later.)

In fact, if you know me only casually, you probably shouldn't read this. If you work with me, every day, you may not want to read this.

I want to put this out there, because it's honest, it's part of my experience with breast cancer, and I do, in fact, need to talk about it. For me, if nothing else. It is about the one side-effect of chemo I had never heard of before, and I think other women should know that this can happen.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

(Are they gone yet, ladies? Are we alone? Good. Then I'll begin.)

There is one side-effect that bothers me. Bothers me enough that I really don't want to think about it, let alone talk about it. It's the only side-effect that can (most likely will) be permanent, for me.

Chemo, or, at least, the sort of chemo I'm having, can cause menopause. Usually does, I'm told. And in someone my age, it tends not to revert back once chemo is over. (For me, as well, I will be taking anti-hormone therapy for the next 5 years. My cancer was fed by hormones, so we have to suppress them to be sure the cancer won't come back. In cases like mine, they used to just do a full hysterectomy, which can be devastating in so many ways. I'm grateful that is no longer the case.)

I'm 43. I figured menopause was at least another decade away.

I don't know if I can explain why it bothers me so much. But I'll try.

Partly, I have a good relationship with my body. My periods were regular, relatively mild, and rarely, if ever, disruptive to my life. No wild mood swings. No unbearable cramps. Generally, my period showed up when expected, lasted about 3 days, and that was that. No drama. I was rarely thrown off by travel, roommates, or any of the other usual things.

I know. It's weird. But my body was textbook in that way. And I respected that, and generally tried to keep it to myself. Other women didn't like to hear about it. Which I can also respect.

More than that, though, there is the fact that, despite my age and marital status, I hadn't yet closed the door on having more children. Not mentally, anyway.
I grew up in a big family (8 kids) and I wanted the same. I had always thought I would have more. At least, one more. My ambitions narrowed as I grew older, with no relationship in sight. One more would do, if I could just, please, have the opportunity?
I had a fantastic pregnancy with the twins. Never felt better, as they say. No complications, no problems, went into labor on my own, vaginal delivery, and everything was just as it should be.
Nursing was even easy for me. I breastfed them for about 18 months, and rarely had any problems. We did reach a point when it seemed I couldn't produce any more, around 6 months, even though I tried to up the production by nursing them extra. So that's when we started them on solids. And after that, it was fine. I had no trouble keeping up. And I loved it.
I'd have had more, gone on having kids, even with the possibility of having another set of twins (mine occurred naturally - I'd had no trouble getting pregnant - twins run in my family), if I'd had the opportunity. But their father and I separated shortly after they were born, were divorced a year later, and it was years before I married my second husband. Then that marriage fell apart before we'd decided we might be ready to have a baby. That was over 10 years ago, and I've just not managed to date much. So that was it. I'd wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, with lots of kids. I just didn't end up that way.

You'd think, by now, three years past the recommended cut-off, I'd have crossed the idea of pregnancy off my list. I probably should have. But I didn't feel any different at 40 than I did at 30, and I couldn't see why, if my body was healthy, and the right man came along, I shouldn't at least try for one more. Given the opportunity, I'd risk it. I wanted it that much.

The opportunity never presented itself.

I didn't pursue it with vigor, no. I wasn't willing to lower my standards or adjust my ideals, just to be married again. It wasn't worth it to me if it wasn't the right man. I wasn't about to date just anyone. Being a single mom, working full-time, takes energy. For whatever reason, I didn't seem to meet anyone, and I didn't push it. It felt right to me to focus on raising my boys, so I did. I didn't know I'd miss my chance. I never felt that I was making a decision to not have any more kids. I thought I was just waiting for the right time, the right man. And since I felt that wanting more kids seemed like a backward reason to be looking for a husband, I didn't approach it that way. It had to be right, I had to be head-over-heals in love, or forget it.

I didn't know.

And now, having had my last cycle just before my first chemo, it looks like I'm done.

I don't care that this way is easier. I don't care that it's quicker. I don't care that the usual way of going through the "change of life" could have been drawn out for years, messy and unpredictable.

I wasn't ready for this.