Far from the neon streets of Tokyo, and even farther from the fluorescent hospital lighting in Atlanta I had come to resent, Kyoto’s soft morning sun enveloped me on a chilly November morning, when my husband and I found ourselves at Okazaki Shrine. Nestled in the city’s serene Northern Higashiyama district, this lesser-known Shinto shrine was not originally on our itinerary. Quietly, we ventured through its traditional stone torii gate, the signal that we were crossing into a sacred space, and were quickly surrounded by a number of the shrine’s guardians. Okazaki Shrine is dedicated to fertility and childbirth, and is watched over by a vast array of rabbit figures: concrete and pink, ceramic and stone, even some that are hand-painted on rice paper lanterns. As this fluffle of spiritual messengers welcomed us in, I reflected, reluctantly, on the circumstances that had led to this fated visit.
Eight months earlier, over pierogies at our neighborhood spot, on an otherwise unremarkable night, my husband, Eduardo, received the call. Blood work from a routine physical earlier that day indicated that his white blood cell count was dangerously high. “It could be a lab error… or leukemia,” the on-call physician seemed to whisper to herself, urging us to the ER. Three hours later, he was admitted for what we learned was a rare type of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, a blood cancer. The weeks after were dominated by bone marrow biopsies, PET scans, and tests that left us physically and emotionally devastated. Then we met yet another harsh reality: if we wanted to have a family in the future, our path to parenthood was not going to be straightforward. We needed to act quickly to preserve options before any potentially gonadotoxic (damaging to the reproductive system) treatment began, and our only path forward was IVF, or in vitro fertilization.
Less than 18 months into our marriage, we knew that we wanted one child, but naively assumed that it would happen in its own time. That assumption, and every other plan I had, seemed to evaporate overnight. My mind raced between two paralyzing fears: losing Eduardo and the possibility of never having a child with him. Adding to our already endless schedule of appointments, we underwent carefully timed procedures, and through the daily injections, I clung to the hope that once this nightmare was over—it would be our turn to be parents. Zero embryos later, I was wrong.
I breathed my first sigh of relief in weeks when we found out that Eduardo qualified for a clinical trial using targeted immunotherapy instead of standard chemotherapy. His treatment had officially begun, and with it, so did my quest to defeat our infertility. I spent countless hours by his side during his grueling and lengthy immunotherapy infusions, furiously emailing fertility specialists, absorbed in every infertility forum on social media that I could find. But as his treatment progressed, and in our ways, we both grew so very tired, I began to question if the answers that I was so desperate for would actually change anything.
We were farther away than I’d ever imagined we’d be from having a family, but slowly, Eduardo’s health was improving. I began to see that even consumed by grief, hope was not only possible, but necessary to stabilize us through each day. Prior to the diagnosis, when our future and all its possibilities seemed limitless, I was always energized by the spontaneity of life, especially when it came to travel. I needed a reminder that life could still be serendipitous. It came in the form of a dream trip to Japan. Grateful for the approval by my husband’s doctors, it quickly became clear that we were both yearning for this time away to be evidence that there were still parts of ourselves alive from the before times: when we were joyful, optimistic, and looked to the future with excitement.
