Zibby Mag

By Elyse Chambers

A positive pregnancy test, a cancer diagnosis, and an impossible choice.

I couldn’t get comfortable. On my side, fluffing the pillow into the hollow beneath my neck, I kicked my feet from beneath the comforter. My breasts were tender so I slid onto my back but still, they ached, and I was instantly awake. This particular heaviness had the weight of something familiar. When did I last get my period? I slowed my breath as I thought back, staring at the smattering of moles on my husband’s skin.

Three pregnancy tests. Three sets of blue lines on the bathroom sink.

I’m pregnant. I texted my oncologist.

WHAT?!

I had a feeling so I took three different tests this morning. All positive.

I’m going to need you to come in to discuss.

At the hospital, a thickset oncology nurse with a halo of frizzy hair passed me in the waiting room and squealed, hugging me tightly. “Congratulations! It’s a miracle.”

“I don’t.” I smiled tightly. “I mean, I can’t.”

“Of course you can. It’s God’s plan.” She squeezed my arm and plodded through the electronic door towards the infusion room. God’s plan. Indeed.

“Elyse, how did this happen?” Dr. Silverstein asked, arms crossed over his chest. “We tested you the day you received your first round of chemotherapy and it was negative.”

“I can save you the trouble because since getting the chemo, I haven’t exactly been in the mood. The last time I had sex was the Sunday before the infusion. What are the odds that I got pregnant three days before chemo? It’s not possible.”

“It takes six days for a positive reading. I am speechless.”

“The three-day-old embryo suffered through two eight-hour days of chemo? That can’t be good,” I said, an ache pulsing beneath my rib cage.

“I’m calling Candace,” Dr. Silverstein said. “I find myself at a loss for words.”

Candace, the local OBGYN, cried when she heard the news.

“Oh, Elyse, this is so very hard.” She took hold of my hand and I exhaled. “The trouble is, no one really knows what the effects of chemotherapy will be on the embryo. There’s even a chance that your body will reject the pregnancy and, I hate to say it, but that might be the best possible outcome in this scenario. I urge you to speak with a genetic counselor. They’ll be able to go over your options. I’m sorry,” she said, dabbing her eyes, “I’m so very sorry. This, on top of everything else.”

There’s a picture of the three of us, smiling and beautiful, from an afternoon three days before my first round of chemotherapy. It’s an unseasonably warm day in early February and we drove to the coast, letting Faye stuff her mouth with sandy fists as we made castles and dangled her chubby legs in the cold Pacific. We drank wine from plastic cups and ate tuna sandwiches wrapped in oily parchment paper, watching the crest and fall of the waves.

I tipped my face to the sun and closed my eyes. We wiped sand from our feet, placed a sleeping Faye in her car seat, and drove home, tired and full of the knowledge that it was our last normal day. Andrew and I made love that night, clinging to each other like castaways.

++

Two weeks after the thin blue lines on the pregnancy test, Andrew and I sat in a small, windowless room with a genetic counselor. She was so young. She looked like she played intramural sports on the weekends and tanned easily. She had a charming frown.

“I haven’t experienced this particular scenario before,” she said, crossing and uncrossing her long legs. “In advance of our meeting, I researched embryos that received chemotherapy but I wasn’t able to find much of anything. To be honest, I think it’s going to come down to what intuitively feels right for the two of you.”

“What are the possible outcomes? Is this pregnancy even viable?” I asked.

“Again, I cannot give you a clear answer. In your second trimester, we could test for genetic mutations like cystic fibrosis, sickle-cell anemia, and Tay-Sachs, but you would have to maintain the pregnancy for 18 weeks.” She spoke softly, afraid she might startle us.

“Can you tell me if this pregnancy is viable?” I asked again, leaning forward, my fingers pressing into the plastic chair under my thighs.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a better answer for you. What I want to say is that even if the genetic testing comes back normal, there’s no way to tell what would emerge in the first few years of the baby’s life. There isn’t testing for brain damage or severe disabilities — disabilities that could affect not just the quality of the baby’s life, but potentially the length of the baby’s life. It seems likely that chemotherapy three days post-conception would have an impact, but we just can’t say for sure what that impact would be.”

Andrew dragged his fingers over his stubble. “So, there’s a strong chance the baby will have some kind of disability. A severe disability,” he said. “I don’t know if we’re equipped to handle something like that. Not with a one-year-old at home and my wife undergoing chemo. Not to mention the fact that we’d have to postpone chemo in order to see the pregnancy through. And then what does that look like? What if the pregnancy makes her cancer worse? What if we sacrifice her health for the health of the pregnancy and then I’m left to decide between my wife and my baby?”

The genetic counselor lowered her head. “I can’t give you a clear-cut answer, I am so sorry.”

We wiped sand from our feet, placed a sleeping Faye in her car seat and drove home, tired and full of the knowledge that it was our last normal day. Andrew and I made love that night, clinging to each other like castaways.

Outside, I placed my hands on the warm metal body of our car, my chest a heavy, leaden thing. It was a rare bright blue day in the city and I shut my eyes against the glare of sunlight.

“That was a waste of time,” Andrew said, slamming the car door.

We were silent as we drove away.

“What do you think?” Andrew asked, glancing over, his fingers wrapped around my thigh.

“I wanted her to say ‘Yes, have this baby,’ or ‘No, it’s a terrible idea.’ I just want someone to tell me what to do. In my heart, it sounded like she doesn’t think we should have this baby. She can’t say it directly, but that’s the feeling I got.”

“Me too. Let’s call Candace on the drive home.”

Beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, the bay was a dull metal color. I pinched the bridge of my nose and dialed her number.

Candace agreed that terminating the pregnancy was probably for the best. I pictured her thin lips tensing as she spoke.

Idrove myself to the hospital on the morning of the procedure. A talk radio station mumbled in the background. Under a canopy of Douglas fir, I navigated around a mountain, sunlight glinting now and then across the windshield.

At the hospital, the nurse showed me to a room and my eyes swept over the walls papered with birth announcements and baby’s first holiday cards; thank-you notes with pictures of six-month-old babies named Sophia and Olivia and Jackson; happy, carefree families in matching pajamas or tossing giggling infants into the air.

Two shots were administered, one in each hip, and as the nurse poked the long needles into my flesh I stared at those families. Such happy, perfect lives.

On the drive home tears perched on the edge of my eyelids before spilling over. I was devastated and also hot with anger. Angry at the hospital and that room with those cards on the wall. Angry at Andrew for not coming with me, though I know it wasn’t possible — something about work. Angry at my body. Angry at fate. I kept the radio off and looked straight ahead, following the lines of the highway with the dark forest splashing across my windows, trying to outrun it.

++

Elyse Chambers is a marketing professional by day, aspiring memoirist by night. Chambers lives in Napa Valley with her winemaker husband and two daughters. When not providing quality control for her husband’s wines, she can be found walking in the vineyard, making the perfect pot of beans, browsing the farmers’ market, and working to reclaim her health.

This piece has been excerpted from a memoir Chambers is currently writing.