Infertility cost me being a mom, but honestly a lot of what you said also is relatable. Not cancer, but mental health and different physical health issues. I did try clomid… and spent about 2 1/2 years trying to get pregnant, and then another 2 or so just kinda hoping, maybe, I might.

I wasn’t willing to undergo more extensive fertility treatments because my husband was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis about six months after we began to try. I felt strongly he could still be a fabulous dad (and I still do), but he was worried. He also worried about the genetic risks, like you did with your issues.

I have a nephew I didn’t get to know until he was three. He lives 1800 miles away, but on top of that, my sister — who is bipolar type 2 — and I had a massive fight when she was late into her pregnancy. She’s the child I will never have. I call her my sisterchild, in fact. But she had to go off her meds for the safety of the baby (it was an unplanned pregnancy). She was a senior in high school, just 18.

One day she was complaining about not feeling well and a teacher (one whom I’d had and who was a mentor to me — but who was, without a doubt, tough) was being firm about a deadline. I was trying to be helpful, but she was in a terrible, hormonal fueled, lack of meds, mood.

I said something about how it was good practice for the times when she’d have a baby but be sick. She ended up telling me I was simply jealous because she could get pregnant and I couldn’t. Yeah, she went there.

We didn’t talk for two horrible years. During which time, I missed out on the remainder of her pregnancy. I missed out on my nephew’s birth and infancy. And I just plain MISSED my sister… in a way that was a physical ache.

Why am I sharing what might not seem related? Well… first, I understand the rollercoaster of emotions around friend and family pregnancy announcements and births. Even when everything is ideal for the new baby and family, it’s hard. When it’s someone I know who went through infertility, I am doubly happy for them — to a point I’ve cried for them, even if they’re not super close friends. Simply because I get that struggle. But if I’m honest, part of me is also crying for me. Why couldn’t I have been one of the lucky ones?

I’m also sharing because I want people to understand what happens when someone with mental health issues has to go off their meds for the sake of the safety of a growing fetus. My sister lashing out at me was very atypical for her. She DOES have issues with patience and she WILL take her frustrations and anger out on people who don’t necessarily deserve it… but NEVER at me.

My nephew turns 10 next month and I’m flying back for his birthday. My sister and I are good again, and strangely enough, we reached out to one another at the same exact time, without intent or planning. I sent her a Christmas gift I’d bought her two Christmases before (our fight was in early December) and I wrote her a long letter. While that was in transit, she emailed me, apologizing.

I have my sisterchild back in my life. I have my sweet, smart nephew. I’ll never have my own child. I can’t say I am okay with it. But I AM okay with my decision to stop TRYING to have one. I’m okay with having had a uterine ablation that would mean that if, somehow, by some miracle, I got pregnant now (considered so unlikely my gyno said backup birth control wasn’t needed) I’d have to terminate the pregnancy because it would not be safe for me or a growing fetus.

But part of me will always ache. Part of me will always have episodes where I cry. Even though, for a multitude of reasons, if I was given a chance now to be pregnant — with no risks or consequences, by some fairy godmother or something, I’d turn it down… it will always hurt that I couldn’t conceive when I so desperately wanted to.

I’m sorry for the incredibly hard, painful decision you had to make. For what it’s worth, from what you’ve shared, it sounds like one hell of an unselfish decision. It’s like… you thought of your hypothetical child and realized, I can’t be what you need. I can’t promise you won’t develop my issues and suffer as I have. So I can’t bring you into this world.

Which means, at least to me, as someone who worked in daycare for many years and saw far too many terrible parents… you’re an amazing mom.