Three years ago, I was newly engaged and certain that my fiancé and I would start a family soon. We booked the reception hall, bought my wedding dress, and weeks later received the news that I had stage one inductal carcinoma. Breast cancer. We postponed the wedding and hunkered down to get through lumpectomy surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. For six months, my future was put on hold while the cancer was eradicated.

Cancer treatment surely presents challenges, but the aftermath has its own set of hurdles. As my body began to heal, I set about getting my life back to normal and a year later had a picture-perfect wedding. Had I not been sick the year before, we may have had an old-fashioned honeymoon and tried to get pregnant. But breast cancer can wreak havoc on your reproductive plans.

Standard protocol is to wait two years after treatment before getting pregnant. The highly toxic drugs have to leave the system, and the breast needs to restore after surgery and radiation. However, the true risk in getting pregnant too early is recurrence. Mammograms and treatment aren't possible while pregnant. I could be putting my own life on the line by having a baby.

Our baby dreams quickly became overshadowed by uncertainties. Would chemotherapy bring on early menopause? Would the life-saving drugs do irreversible damage to my body or my eggs? Would waiting decrease chances for success as I passed the age of 30?

I had another worry about getting pregnant after cancer: passing it on. My grandmother died from the disease in her 60s; my mother was in her 40s when she survived it. As much as I want to have a child, and as much as I want a daughter, how can I willingly create a being that has a greater-than-normal chance of contracting a devastating disease?

Two years later, very few of these questions got answered. The only thing I knew was I wanted a child, and perhaps the best way to discover what treatment had done to me was to attempt to conceive. I had a string of exams and appointments so that each doctor could give me the go-ahead. Every one gave me the same response: "Take your prenatals, have lots of sex and stay in touch so we can keep a close watch on you."

I took a positive home pregnancy test in February. After confirming the pregnancy with my OB/GYN, I canceled my mammogram and saw my oncologist. She heartily congratulated me, checked my breasts and encouraged me to keep up a regular self-check routine since X-rays would be forbidden. Since I had found the cancer myself, I knew I would be able to handle the monthly procedure, swollen breasts or not.

I got rather cocky, actually, about all I could handle, considering what I had already been through. While I recognize that labor cannot be compared to just any old cramp, I have a new understanding of my pain threshold after chemotherapy. And although I watched my sister-in-law vomit throughout her second pregnancy, I believed no morning sickness would equal the chemo sickness I experienced, plus I had an arsenal ready to combat it. I knew that lime Popsicles were best, that a fistful of Honeycomb cereal can settle an empty stomach and that Pep-o-Mint LifeSavers are from heaven. I was so confident I actually used the phrase "Bring it on," which is exactly what happened.

I had eight weeks of all-day, no-vomiting "progesterone poisoning" sickness. To add insult to injury, the only thing that still worked was LifeSavers. I was humbled.

With fertility and morning sickness no longer in question, I have a few worries left. The most constant may be recurrence. How can I have a baby when cancer could eventually leave my child without a mother? Perhaps because this fear is a lifelong one for me, I am somehow matter of fact about it. All I can do is check myself and see my doctors regularly. There is no guarantee the cancer won't return. I have to accept the possibility; it can't be a dark cloud over my head, or I'd never get out of bed. I try to forget about it until the next time I'm getting my breast flattened between mammogram plates. There are other, more practical matters to ponder.

Like the question of breastfeeding. As in, will I be able to do it? When I first became pregnant, it seemed that both breasts were swelling as they should, as breasts would on any pregnant woman. I got hopeful. At the 4-month mark, my breasts became less tender and began to change in size again. This time, the cancer breast shrank, and the healthy breast grew stretch marks. I wasn't sure what was going on, but it didn't look promising. My OB/GYN wasn't sure either, but she assured me that even if my right breast couldn't produce milk, the left one would compensate.

My oncologist didn't hesitate: "Oh no, you won't breastfeed from the right breast." I was disappointed and nervous hearing that news. I still am, actually. I don't know what it will be like to have only one breast making milk. I want very much to breastfeed, but I need to be ready to bottle-feed if necessary.

I also have an open mind about my deepest source of concern: passing cancer to a daughter. I get to avoid that internal battle for a spell; I happen to know that this October I will give birth to a little boy. I will have a son who may or may not breastfeed from one healthy breast, who may or may not lose his mother to breast cancer, who will always know how much he was wanted and who will learn by and by to love Pep-o-Mint LifeSavers.

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