Courtesy of Autumn Gavora
In October 2019, I got the news that I was in remission after two long years of biweekly blood draws, infusions, a full thyroidectomy, the removal of four tumors and six lymph nodes, treatment, and more scans than I could count. Unfortunately, the joy only lasted a month when imaging of one of my lymph nodes came back with shadows. For the next year and a half, the same lymph node was flagged as suspicious, leaving me in a constant state of limbo.
On July 13, 2021, after my sixth-month scan, I was told I was in remission again. The lymph node still showed shadows, but the doctors were confident. They'd compared my last three scans and concluded there were no changes, which meant I was stable. Still, I couldn't shake the lingering doubt. My life had been paused for so long, and I was afraid to press play again. My doctor scheduled another scan that November, just to be sure.
I'll never forget the morning of that scan. Driving to the hospital, my heart was pounding and my mind full of anxious thoughts. I had a full-blown anxiety attack on the phone with my mom before my scan, praying that the one remaining lymph node would finally be clear.
A week later, just before Thanksgiving, I sat in my doctor's office, awaiting the news. My doctor, the one who had walked alongside me for five years and listened to my dreams of one day having a family, came in smiling. Her first words: "When are we going to start trying for babies?"
After everything, it was finally real. The lymph node that had caused me so much anxiety — the last holdout — was clear. I was truly in remission, and my life, which had felt like it was on hold for so long, was finally beginning.
Almost a year later, I had what I thought was the stomach flu, but something inside told me this was different. After months of negative pregnancy tests, I didn't dare hope. But that November day, I ran downstairs with three positive test strips in my hand, barely able to speak.
My husband, wrapped in a blanket, looked at me in shock and asked, "How did you get COVID?" I laughed, realizing he had misunderstood what kind of tests I was holding. Finally, I told my high school sweetheart we were having a baby. We both cried.
Two weeks later, we heard our baby's heartbeat for the first time. Seeing that tiny beanpole on the screen didn't feel real. I didn't want to get my hopes up, but that moment triggered a spiral of anxiety that wouldn't end until eight months postpartum. Even though my scans had remained clear, cancer still took a place in our lives during my pregnancy.
With my history of cancer, no thyroid, and all the radiation I had been exposed to, I was considered high-risk. I was at a higher risk than most for spontaneous miscarriage. Every appointment, every blood test, every scan, and every monitor felt like a battle against a foe that was both unseen and deeply feared. And still, I made it to 40 weeks. After 36 hours of labor, a failed induction, and a C-section at 4 a.m., I finally saw my beautiful boy.
Motherhood changes you, but I never considered what it would be like as a cancer survivor. There is an extra layer of complexity added to it. Being in remission and starting a family has been such a gift, but it has also made me fearful. My anxiety, amplified by the responsibility of caring for this new little person, often leads me to worry about the future.
When my son laughs, my mind sometimes wanders to the what-ifs. I wonder whether the cancer I fought will ever return. Will he, too, face what I faced? Did the treatment I underwent, the very thing that saved me, somehow leave its mark on him? My biggest fear is that cancer will return, that this time it will be fiercer, more relentless, and that I won't be able to watch my son grow.
These fears are heavy, but I've learned to face them. I sought help, determined to live fully in the now rather than become consumed by those "what ifs." Therapy taught me to write my fears down, confront them, and then let them go. I spoke in depth with my doctor about the statistics of cancer coming back and preventive measures to take.
Daily walks and deep breathing methods have helped quiet my mind. I've also been dabbling in new hobbies, everything from crochet to pottery to trying different fitness classes around town. Most of all, I've learned to enjoy the life that I was given a second chance to live.
I am in awe that after everything my body endured to fight cancer, I was able to grow this beautiful little boy. Now, I am determined to do whatever it takes to see him grow up, hear his laughter every day, tell him how much I love him, and witness everything he accomplishes in life. As a new mom, that fear lingers in my heart. I've learned to cherish this incredible gift while hoping to be here with him as long as possible. Cancer may have been the beginning of my story, but it will not be the end.
