I woke up to blinding white lights and a searing pain across my abdomen. I had just had my left ovary removed, along with a four-inch cyst that had caused me months of agony. I had been counting down the days to this surgery. But a nurse hovered over me and, taking a Post-it from my chart, read two words that changed everything: 'Infertility likely.'
Still groggy from anaesthesia, I felt both astonished and confused, wondering if I had really heard him correctly. But before I could respond, he added, 'Let me know if you need anything!' and quickly left the room. Everything happened so fast. After the shock subsided, I felt immense relief.
It was November 2020. For the past year, I had endured debilitating pain that left me bedridden for days whenever I ovulated. After multiple trips to A&E, where a morphine drip was the only way to cut through the pain, I was diagnosed with an ovarian dermoid cyst, also known as a mature cystic teratoma. These cysts form when developed tissue collects in a strange location, like the ovaries, and can contain tissue from hair, teeth, skin, or bone. I only discovered mine because it continued to grow and press on other organs, leaving me doubled over in pain.
I was diagnosed shortly after my first A&E visit, when my gynaecologist said the only way to stop the pain was surgery. Because of the cyst's size and positioning, they needed to remove the ovary it was attached to as well. Fertility concerns were not on my radar, especially since my gynaecologist reassured me my body would function well with one ovary. So when the news about my likely infertility was delivered after surgery, I was initially blindsided.
But learning I was infertile in such a comically reckless way forced me to acknowledge something I had always sensed on a gut level: I was never meant to be a mother. My feelings about parenthood started around age 25. Around the same time, many of my girlfriends were having babies, and I was struck by how little parenting appealed to me. I saw how constantly bone-tired they were, and I value a lot of alone time and tend to get deeply into my hobbies. All in all, I knew being a parent would be a struggle for me.
By my early 30s, friends, family, and my then-partner started asking when we were planning to have children. My partner was a great guy, but imagining us having a baby made me feel like a giant pair of hands was slowly squeezing the air out of my chest. I have degenerative disc disease, with three vertebrae showing premature wear, and a history of OCD and depression. No matter how often my partner reassured me I would be a great mum, the idea of pregnancy worsening my back or causing post-partum depression triggered a cold sweat.
I loved him, but I could not envision myself in his version of our future, which included kids and marriage. So at 31, I made the difficult decision to end the relationship. For years afterwards, I told people I would consider having kids if I 'met the right person', because I was not ready to admit the truth: I just did not want to be a mother. As women, we are taught that we are supposed to want children; admitting that I did not want to be a parent felt like a character flaw.
By the time I learned I was probably infertile, I was 40 and single. After the initial shock, hearing those two words – 'infertility likely' – felt like a puzzle piece falling into place. I could finally accept the truth I had struggled to acknowledge to myself for so long: motherhood was not, and is not, for me. But that did not mean I was prepared for the complicated process of grieving the life I might have had or thought I was supposed to want.
I remember showing up to my therapist's office in tears. 'I don't want kids, so why do I still feel sad?' I sobbed. It did not help that my Dad had just been permanently hospitalized with dementia. Perhaps if I had not been losing my Dad piece by piece, the words on that Post-it would not have hurt as much; but at the time, it felt like another irreversible loss.
My therapist helped me work through my grief and encouraged me to get a second opinion, because I was still confused by what exactly 'infertility likely' meant. I made an appointment with the doctor who had written the Post-it note. She explained that my dermoid cyst had become infected, resulting in extensive scar tissue throughout my reproductive organs. The only way I could conceive was through IVF or by using a surrogate, 'but you don't want kids, so you don't need to worry about that,' she added, signalling the appointment was over.
She was not wrong, but it felt like my concerns were being dismissed. If I were the doctor, I would have asked the patient whether they wanted to know more about alternative methods, just in case the person was still on the fence. But she did not. In hindsight, I wish I had had the nerve to confront her about the Post-it. But the whole interaction felt so brusque that once again, it left me stunned.
Shortly after, I discovered the child-free-by-choice community online, and it was revelatory. For years, I had felt like there was something wrong with me for not wanting kids. Although technically, my body had made the choice for me, meeting other women with similar stories made me feel less alone. I now proudly identify as child-free by choice, and claiming that label has given me my agency back.
Inspired by the community I found online, I relish in my free time to invest in my hobbies and friendships. I realised that getting my ovary removed did not just help me physically; it also lifted the weight of other people's expectations. But it still angers me that I found out the way I did. Not once did a medical professional ask me how I felt about the news or whether I needed support. Thankfully, I do not want kids; but what if I had? I can only imagine how traumatic it would be to receive heartbreaking news so flippantly.
By embracing a child-free path, I am finally free to write my own story on my terms. But it does not negate the fact that no one should get life-changing news via a sticky note.
