Lately, the song by Peter Gabriel “I grieve” from the movie “City of Angels” plays on repeat when I see babies, baby clothes, little kids, blasted strollers and families in general while at the store, the mall, freaking Cracker Barrel.
I have to almost step outside of myself in order to NOT have a breakdown. Though some days are better than others, I can’t seem to fully accept this permanent loss.
What hurts the most is I will never have anyone who looks like me or inherits the way I tilt my head when I’m pondering or laughs like me.
As an only child, I have always enjoyed my own company. My imagination is huge. Now I wish I didn’t have such a huge imagination because I keep imagining what a son or daughter might’ve looked like.
I tend to focus my grief of being medically induced into menopause on not having anyone to look like me because I grew up just knowing my mother’s side of the family. Thanks to divorce when I was two, I never met anyone on my father’s side until I was 35 years old.
I look nothing like my mother. I look nothing like her side of the family. I have struggled with that.
There is no one to carry on my name. It literally stops with me.
What is it like to actually carry a child? Thanks to cancer, I will never know.
by Megan-Claire Chase
How would you respond to the writing prompt, ‘Ovary Suppression’?
This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors. The participants met for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Summer 2018 session. This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week. If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email firstname.lastname@example.org or sign up on our interest form.