The question lingered in the air like a cloud of uncertainty at a holiday gathering: “What if something happens to her?” This was voiced by a tipsy acquaintance at my partner’s office Christmas party, and it resonated deeply with my greatest fear.
After four years of marriage, my partner and I decided to expand our family. Five years later, we were still a duo. Following nearly a decade of heartache with miscarriages and fertility treatments, we finally welcomed a beautiful baby girl who had a head full of curls and porcelain-like skin.
However, just a year later, I faced a life-altering diagnosis: Cushing’s syndrome. My doctor informed me that I would require surgery to remove a macroadenoma from my pituitary gland, and I would never carry another child to term. As the words left her lips, I began to mentally prepare for this new reality. At 34, I thought I could accept it; after all, my doctor assured me that the surgery would help me shed the lingering baby weight and eliminate my menstrual cycle forever. I told myself this was a fair trade.
But at a dinner party shortly after receiving that news, her question pierced through my defenses. Initially, we chatted about the usual topics, and when she asked about having more children, I smiled and explained how blessed we felt with our perfect daughter. Then, she uttered the words I had been pushing to the back of my mind: “What if something happens to her?” I was left speechless, standing there until her husband awkwardly pulled her away.
On the drive home, I shared the encounter with my partner. True to form, he reacted with anger and threatened to confront her. Yet I pressed him, asking, “What would we do if something did happen?” He dismissed it, attributing her comment to too many drinks. “It’s a ridiculous question,” he said.
Yet, to me, it felt profoundly valid. What if something did happen to our daughter? How would we cope? Would we grow closer as a couple or drift apart? Could we ever return to the life we knew before? Our pre-parent life had been filled with adventure, laughter, and a sense of freedom. But life after our daughter was infinitely better, and the thought of a world without her was unbearable.
The following months were a struggle as I grappled with this new reality. Each outing filled me with anxiety about potential accidents. I concocted rescue scenarios every time we crossed a bridge or approached railroad tracks. I became increasingly protective, hovering more than I wished to admit, yet I was skilled at hiding my worries—so much so that my partner remained unaware of my internal struggle. To him, the issue was resolved; a drunken comment from a stranger didn’t merit further thought.
However, for me, the fear of losing my child had been brought to the forefront. Looking back, I realize that many parents probably share this unspoken fear. I wonder if having more children alleviates this anxiety or simply distributes it among all siblings.
Now, as I watch my daughter grow and gain confidence, I feel a sense of security knowing she understands the dangers around her. At five years old, the thought of life without her still seems impossible, but how am I managing? I still drive cautiously, according to my partner, and I inspect everything she eats. Yet, the overwhelming panic has subsided, replaced by joy. I treasure the miracle of her existence, especially knowing I received this gift before my health situation changed. I also hold onto the hope that I may never have to confront that dreadful question.
If you find yourself seeking guidance on topics like home insemination, resources like Mount Sinai’s infertility page offer invaluable information. Additionally, if you’re exploring self-insemination options, consider this article. For parents curious about transitioning their baby from a bassinet to a crib, this resource provides expert advice.
In summary, grappling with the fear of losing an only child is a journey filled with worry and love. As parents, we navigate our reality while hoping for the best and cherishing every moment with our children.