Oh no, not this again.
My chest heaved with dry sobs, and I pressed my palm against it, hoping to quell the rising tide of panic. I felt nauseous. It was only week seven of my first trimester, and the morning sickness hit like a grueling concert tour, but this was one performance I couldn’t enjoy. Despite the excitement of welcoming new life, I found myself caught in a profound conflict between joy and sorrow—my father was battling Stage IIIB cancer, and here I was, pregnant.
Indian traditions dictate that a pregnancy should remain a closely guarded secret until the end of the first trimester. My parents, particularly protective, constantly checked in on me, hovering like referees on a field. Their questions echoed like a broken record: “Are you eating enough? Did you get good rest? Have you felt the baby move? Taking your vitamins?” These brief, yet frequent calls seemed to energize my father, reminding us all that life persists even in the face of illness. Although grief lurked around the edges, we sought moments of happiness.
In those early months, guilt shadowed my every celebration. I longed to embrace this new chapter, yet my thoughts often drifted to my father’s hollow gaze. When I shared news of the baby, his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and I wondered if he felt like a spectator in a life he once engaged with fully. My husband and I were eagerly preparing for our little one while my sister was about to graduate from physical therapy school, and even my mother was immersed in our shared joys. I could almost hear my father’s unspoken thoughts: “They’re moving forward while I’m stuck here, dying. Can’t they see me?”
The first year of his illness wrapped itself around us like an unyielding vine. I remember the relentless coughing fits that echoed through our home, forcing everyone to pause and offer comfort. I found solace in feeling the tiny kicks of my baby, almost as if she could sense her grandfather’s struggle. While my cravings soared, his appetite dwindled; I was gaining weight while he was losing it. We were leading completely different lives.
I held onto the hope that my pregnancy might provide a much-needed distraction for all of us. After the diagnosis, we tried to escape into normalcy—dining at my father’s favorite restaurant, enjoying movie nights, and playing the Indian board game carrom. On some days, we managed to avoid the heavy talk of cancer, chemotherapy, and doctor visits, but my father’s decline was evident. He began to forget significant details, and instead of addressing the elephant in the room, we buried ourselves in mundane conversations.
At the seven-month mark of my pregnancy, it was time for a traditional baby shower called Godh bharai, which translates to “fill the lap” with abundance. I remember standing there, gifts piled in my sari, while my father watched from a distance. I never questioned why he kept his distance, but I did ask him for a photo. The hesitation on his face still haunts me—did he feel like a burden during this joyful moment? Did he desire to bask in happiness without the shadow of despair? I’ll never know; I didn’t ask.
He wanted to be part of our lives but was trapped by his illness. It became clear that the life he had known was slipping away, and despite our efforts to support him—driving him to treatments, sitting with him during his darkest moments—there was an undeniable sense of abandonment. While we continued to engage with life, he was trying to let go of his.
In the end, we all craved connection, yet the chasm of illness made it a complex journey. The joy of bringing new life into the world was bittersweet, woven into the fabric of loss.
For those navigating similar journeys, exploring resources like March of Dimes can provide valuable insights. And if you’re interested in enhancing your fertility, check out Make a Mom’s guide on fertility supplements. Their expertise is a great companion on your path to family planning, including options like couples’ fertility journeys.