“Take care of my grandchildren”

It was a decision no parent expects to have to make, and no child ever expects to even have to discuss.

Everything was happening so fast, but there definitely wasn’t time to slow down. There was too much that had to be done. Too many decisions that had to be made. Just two days ago, Alec was gearing up for his sophomore year of high school and football practice. Now, here we were, grappling with the reality of his leukemia diagnosis and the whirlwind of emotions and reality that followed.

Yet, amid all this chaos, a question lingered about Alec’s future thanks to my family bringing something to my attention that the doctors had not.

“Will cancer, or the chemotherapy, affect Alec’s ability to have children in the future?”

I knew chemotherapy would kill the cancer, but I immediately feared that it would also potentially kill any dreams Alec might have to have kids of his own one day.

As a mother, how do you face that? How do you ask a 15-year-old to face that when it’s likely the last thing on their mind, and they just want to live through this moment?

There wasn’t much time to wonder how to about talk to Alec about it. We had to act. All of us.

You would think that with so many difficult conversations, difficult decisions, and different choices take place around your teen having cancer, that the details would blend together or become foggy. But they don’t. You remember ever detail. Because every detail can mean life and death.  

And, with Alec set to begin chemo in less than two days. His father and I had to have one of those difficult conversations with our son. There was no way to soften the blow, or make the conversation less awkward for a child to have to have with his parents.

“Son, the chemo is going to attack everything—good cells and bad. There’s a chance…a chance you might not be able to have kids one day.”

“What are you talking about?” he said.

“We need to preserve your sperm.”

It was hard to be that blunt about it, but there wasn’t time to be anything but blunt. The conversation had to be had, and a decision had to be made. 

His face said it all. Disbelief. Anger. Embarrassment.

“Maybe it’s God’s will. If I’m not supposed to have kids, then that’s how it will be,” Alec replied.

Alec has always been strong-willed, but there was no arguing with biology. His father and I pushed on, trying to explain the options. We told him it wasn’t about going against God’s will; it was about giving him a choice, about giving him something to hold onto for the future when all of this—was behind us.

I hated having to push. I could see how much this decision weighed on him. He didn’t want to think about the future. He didn’t want to think about not having one. But as his mother, I had to think about it. I had to push for him. 

Our Catholic faith was not forgotten in this decision-making process. Catholicism teaches that procedures like fertility preservation aren’t accepted, and I initially felt a lot of guilt around even considering going this route. 

I spoke to our local pastor, Father Nick, about it, and while he reminded me that it’s not part of our faith, he also told me that God forgives. I wrestled with that guilt for a long time, knowing that this decision wasn’t something the Church would support, but in the end, I knew I had to give Alec this opportunity. I couldn’t just stand by and let the cancer take away his future, even if it meant going against something so deeply rooted in our faith. As a mother, I had to make peace with that and trust that God would understand our choice.

And, Alec understood, as well.

We went to a fertility clinic in Pasadena the next day. I was carrying Alec’s sperm, in a container wrapped in a warm blanket. It was surreal. How could this be our reality?

The day was emotional, to say the least. I remember carrying the sample, my hands shaking, hoping that everything would go as planned. When we arrived, I handed it over to the clinic staff and said, half-jokingly but with complete sincerity, “Take care of my grandchildren.” It was a strange moment—humorous, bizarre, but also heavy on my heart. I couldn’t help but feel the weight of what we were doing, preserving a part of Alec’s future that we prayed he would one day get to experience.

The clinic staff tested the sample, and when they told me, “It’s good,” I felt a wave of relief, but also sadness for Alec. Sadness that he had to think about, worry about, or go through this or anything else a 15-year-old boy should not have to ever go through.

And, so, his sperm is now safely stored. Insurance doesn’t cover this sort of thing, but this was like providing our own insurance for Alec. As his mother, I needed to give him this. I needed to preserve a piece of him for the future, just in case. Even if he couldn’t see it right now, one day he might want the option to have children, and I wanted to make sure that door stayed open.

I don’t know what the future holds. Chemo is a long and brutal process, and it could be years before we know whether Alec’s fertility will return. But at least we’ve given him a chance that cancer and chemo might’ve otherwise taken away. That’s all any parent can do when faced with the unthinkable—make the hard choices so that someday, when this is all over, your child has something of theirs and only theirs. Something to create something wonderful with later in life.

As parents, we’re always trying to protect our children, even when it means stepping into uncomfortable territory. It’s never easy. But as I look at Alec now, a year after his diagnosis, I’m reminded that giving him this chance—this future—was the right decision, no matter how hard it was at the time.

A mother’s love means fighting for the future, especially when the present is overwhelming.