一位30岁女性在确诊激素阳性乳腺癌后，面临了治疗与生育计划的冲突。文章讲述了她意外确诊、治疗方案、以及不得不推迟生育计划的经历。尽管对未来感到迷茫，她依然感恩能有机会生存，并坦诚面对失去、不确定性以及内心的挣扎。文章探讨了在医疗需求与个人期望之间取得平衡的复杂性，以及对未来的期许。

💔作者在30岁生日后不久被诊断出患有激素阳性乳腺癌。由于治疗，她不得不推迟生育计划至少五年。

🩺作者的治疗方案包括部分乳房切除术、为期四周的每日放射治疗，以及每日服用他莫昔芬的激素治疗，疗程为五到十年。他莫昔芬会抑制雌激素，并带来一系列副作用，例如潮热和情绪波动。

⏳作者需要在治疗期间冻卵。由于治疗和药物的影响，怀孕被强烈建议推迟，可能最早也要到35岁才能生育。这让她不得不面对生育计划的延误以及由此带来的心理冲击。

❤️‍🩹作者在治疗过程中，既要面对身体上的不适，也要承受心理上的压力，包括对未来不确定性的焦虑。她既感恩自己能够生存，也坦诚面对失去、迷茫和对未来的憧憬。

Shortly after my 30th birthday, I was diagnosed with hormone-positive breast cancer.I froze my eggs ahead of my partial mastectomy; treatment means I can't get pregnant for five years.I resent that I have to wait to build a family, but grateful for the chance at survival.

When I turned 30, it felt like I was stepping into a new chapter. My partner and I had spent most of our 20s together and were finally in a place where planning for the future felt tangible.

After a few difficult years, including the sudden loss of my father and several career missteps, I found myself longing for something joyful and grounding. I wanted purpose, direction, and maybe even a little stability. For the first time, I began picturing myself as a mom.

Then I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

I was shocked when I got my diagnosis

I was diagnosed by accident.

I had gone years without seeing a gynecologist. During a routine check-up, I casually mentioned this to my primary care physician, who offered to do a quick breast exam "just in case." That's when she felt a lump.

I mentioned that I'd recently been laid off and was in between jobs, without insurance. She told me to reach out once I had coverage and she'd write a prescription for a mammogram. On the drive home, I felt a quiet but urgent instinct not to wait. As soon as I got home, I called her back and asked for the prescription.

After a mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsy, I received my diagnosis: stage 1 estrogen receptor-positive, progesterone receptor-positive invasive ductal carcinoma. I couldn't make sense of what I was hearing.

Nothing about me fit the narrative I'd grown up believing about who gets breast cancer. I have no family history, don't carry the BRCA gene mutation or any other genetic markers linked to increased risk. What was once seen as a medical anomaly is becoming increasingly common among women my age.

My treatment plan included a partial mastectomy, four weeks of daily radiation treatments, and a daily hormone therapy regimen of Tamoxifen, prescribed for five to 10 years, depending on how my system responds.

Tamoxifen, often prescribed to treat hormone-positive breast cancer, suppresses estrogen and simulates menopause. It comes with a parade of side effects, including hot flashes, weight gain, and unpredictable mood swings.

I learned I can't get pregnant during my treatment

Then came a very different kind of blow. Pregnancy while on the medication is strongly discouraged due to the risk of serious complications, including birth defects, miscarriage, and stillbirth. Beyond that, the hormonal surge associated with pregnancy before completing treatment could increase the likelihood of a cancer recurrence.

I was scheduled for surgery just one month after my diagnosis. And two weeks before the procedure, my oncologist urged me to freeze my eggs. She explained that pregnancy wouldn't be advised until I was at least 35 due to the complications that could be caused by Tamoxifen — an age that, however dated or insulting it sounds, qualifies as a "geriatric pregnancy" by medical standards.

I dissociated my way through a blur of hormone injections, blood draws, and invasive procedures that I barely had time to process.

Thankfully, I was spared the financial burden, an immense relief amid the mental, emotional, and physical toll. In 2018, my home state of Connecticut became the first in the nation to require insurance coverage for fertility preservation in cancer patients.

Delaying motherhood isn't my choice

Though my treatment plan gives me the best chance at survival, it comes at a cost. I'm losing the ability to choose when I want to have kids, and now, I won't be able to have them before 35 at the earliest — possibly as late as 40.

I resent that, like it or not, I'll have to be an "old mom" before I ever had the chance to be a "young" one. So far, my partner has been supportive. But I know he always pictured himself becoming a dad sooner rather than later. And when I see him play with our friends' kids, I feel a pang of guilt I can't always ignore.

Now we're stuck in limbo while our friends move forward — throwing baby showers, assembling cribs, and posting first-day-of-school photos. I picture myself at preschool, the silver-haired mom whose knees crack at circle time. And I hate that I care. But I do.

Then, there's navigating the dissonance between medical necessity and personal expectation. By my 30s, I expected to have it all figured out — career, family, identity. But my timeline was taken from me, redrawn by scans and blood tests, follow-ups, and daily pills.

There's also no villain here, no one to blame. It's just a sterile, clinical equation guiding huge decisions about my future.

I don't know what's next, but I'm still grateful

I'm grateful to be here. I know many people diagnosed with breast cancer never get to consider family planning at all. But I also want to be honest about the loss, the uncertainty, and the weird in-between space where you're healthy but still healing, coping but still grieving the version of your life that never got to happen.

I don't know what comes next. Maybe the family I envisioned is still on the way, just a little later than I thought. This isn't the path I planned, but it's the one I'm on. And for now, that has to be enough.