remember hanging up, crying, and not knowing
what to do. I thought, I’m not doing it. I’m not doing chemo .”
Unless a patient’s testicles or ovaries are irradiated—which Lindsay’s ovaries were
not—radiation does not affect fertility. But chemotherapy is systemic, affecting the
entire body, including reproductive organs. This was unacceptable to Lindsay. She’d
always dreamed of having a family.
“We have pictures of me when I was little with a balloon or a pillow in my belly under
my shirt,” she says, “and when different aunts or uncles or cousins were pregnant
I was the nurturing one.”
There was that other component, too, that fueled Lindsay’s indignation: Don’t tell
her no.
“When fertility was like that for me, a no, I was like, No, no, no . I did not like the idea that they were saying no to me on something so important.
I also felt, and still do, so annoyed by this focus on temporary side effects. Why are we talking about hair loss, nausea, vomiting, and smoking medical pot? I don’t
care about any of that. It’s all temporary and I’ll get through it. But infertility
is permanent. The goal was to cure me and to have a normal life, and fertility was part of that
for me.”
Lindsay told Nancy she would not expose her body to chemotherapy.
Nancy was blunt. “She told me she wanted to get pregnant, and one of the first things
I said to her was, ‘Lindsay, I don’t care if you ever get pregnant. My job is to save
your life. My job is to take care of you.’ Lindsay looked at me and said, ‘It’s not my goal.’ And there was this moment where I realized I was the doctor and she was the
patient and we had very, very, very different goals in mind,” says Nancy.“I said to her, ‘Your pregnancy is the least of my concerns. I want you around so
you can even think about being pregnant.’ ”
This was one “no” to which Lindsay had to say yes.
“Nancy gave me the ‘This isn’t a choice’ discussion, which was really the first time
I felt like I wasn’t in control,” she says, laughing. “I thought, I’m making the calls here! and really I wasn’t. They were making the calls and leading me to believe I was in
control. But that’s when she said, quite poignantly, ‘I want you alive in five years
so you can consider having a family. None of this matters if you’re dead. You need
to do this.’ ”
Lindsay agreed but began to explore a solution. During these recovery days on the
couch, a particular movie she watched included a line that stuck with her. In You’ve Got Mail, the Tom Hanks character has a father who marries multiple times. One of his wives
is a woman in her twenties.
“And Tom Hanks says to her, ‘Where are you off to today?’ and she says, ‘Oh, I’m harvesting
my eggs,’ ” Lindsay recalls, “and this was planted in my head. So, I asked my oncologist,
‘Can I do this? Can I freeze my eggs?’ He was not opposed to it, but his knowledge
of fertility treatments was limited. He said, ‘It takes six months to do those things,
and you have six weeks before we have to start treatment.’ ”
Lindsay took it upon herself to quickly hunt down her options. She didn’t have access
to medical libraries and wasn’t familiar with the Internet sites that allowed visitors
to research links to medical journals, articles, and databases. The phone was her
research tool of choice. It still hurt to speak, but she repeatedly called major reproductive
centers around the country.
“I learned a lot in the process, because when you call you’re getting a receptionist,
and different receptionists answer at different times and they all tell you something
different. One receptionist told me, ‘They’re only doing egg freezing on sheep in
Virginia and it’s notavailable for humans.’ ” She laughs. “But I’m thinking, I saw it in the movie! ”
Lindsay was not getting anywhere, until one day
what to do. I thought, I’m not doing it. I’m not doing chemo .”
Unless a patient’s testicles or ovaries are irradiated—which Lindsay’s ovaries were
not—radiation does not affect fertility. But chemotherapy is systemic, affecting the
entire body, including reproductive organs. This was unacceptable to Lindsay. She’d
always dreamed of having a family.
“We have pictures of me when I was little with a balloon or a pillow in my belly under
my shirt,” she says, “and when different aunts or uncles or cousins were pregnant
I was the nurturing one.”
There was that other component, too, that fueled Lindsay’s indignation: Don’t tell
her no.
“When fertility was like that for me, a no, I was like, No, no, no . I did not like the idea that they were saying no to me on something so important.
I also felt, and still do, so annoyed by this focus on temporary side effects. Why are we talking about hair loss, nausea, vomiting, and smoking medical pot? I don’t
care about any of that. It’s all temporary and I’ll get through it. But infertility
is permanent. The goal was to cure me and to have a normal life, and fertility was part of that
for me.”
Lindsay told Nancy she would not expose her body to chemotherapy.
Nancy was blunt. “She told me she wanted to get pregnant, and one of the first things
I said to her was, ‘Lindsay, I don’t care if you ever get pregnant. My job is to save
your life. My job is to take care of you.’ Lindsay looked at me and said, ‘It’s not my goal.’ And there was this moment where I realized I was the doctor and she was the
patient and we had very, very, very different goals in mind,” says Nancy.“I said to her, ‘Your pregnancy is the least of my concerns. I want you around so
you can even think about being pregnant.’ ”
This was one “no” to which Lindsay had to say yes.
“Nancy gave me the ‘This isn’t a choice’ discussion, which was really the first time
I felt like I wasn’t in control,” she says, laughing. “I thought, I’m making the calls here! and really I wasn’t. They were making the calls and leading me to believe I was in
control. But that’s when she said, quite poignantly, ‘I want you alive in five years
so you can consider having a family. None of this matters if you’re dead. You need
to do this.’ ”
Lindsay agreed but began to explore a solution. During these recovery days on the
couch, a particular movie she watched included a line that stuck with her. In You’ve Got Mail, the Tom Hanks character has a father who marries multiple times. One of his wives
is a woman in her twenties.
“And Tom Hanks says to her, ‘Where are you off to today?’ and she says, ‘Oh, I’m harvesting
my eggs,’ ” Lindsay recalls, “and this was planted in my head. So, I asked my oncologist,
‘Can I do this? Can I freeze my eggs?’ He was not opposed to it, but his knowledge
of fertility treatments was limited. He said, ‘It takes six months to do those things,
and you have six weeks before we have to start treatment.’ ”
Lindsay took it upon herself to quickly hunt down her options. She didn’t have access
to medical libraries and wasn’t familiar with the Internet sites that allowed visitors
to research links to medical journals, articles, and databases. The phone was her
research tool of choice. It still hurt to speak, but she repeatedly called major reproductive
centers around the country.
“I learned a lot in the process, because when you call you’re getting a receptionist,
and different receptionists answer at different times and they all tell you something
different. One receptionist told me, ‘They’re only doing egg freezing on sheep in
Virginia and it’s notavailable for humans.’ ” She laughs. “But I’m thinking, I saw it in the movie! ”
Lindsay was not getting anywhere, until one day
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