Last spring, I found out I had Cancer. Before the horror of the news even had time to sink in, I had to absorb a second shock: The chemotherapy treatments that could save my life would also make me infertile.

Leukemia is an emergency, and oncologists are the first responders: They are trained to beat cancer; everything else must take a back seat. It was only after I asked about fertility that the doctors told me about the available options.

This is one of the challenges of being  young with cancer. In many ways, I am still a child myself, relying on my parents to take care of me. But I have an adult disease. Most patients with my type of cancer, a form of acute myeloid leukemia, are long past their childbearing years. While my oncologists are intent on saving my life — and I am forever indebted to them for this — preserving my chance to be a father some day just didn’t seem to be on their radar.

A few days after my diagnosis, I was sitting at the table at home. I should have been savouring my last days before a long hospitalisation, but I was agitated from the fertility drugs. I looked across the table at my mum, and here we were, considering the benefits of freezing sperm. It was awkward territory.

A social worker cautioned me, citing the unforeseeable legal and emotional obstacles that could arise down the road. But how could I plan to have a child with anyone when I didn’t even know if I was going to survive myself? I put off the decision as long as possible, but now a nurse was waiting for my answer, and I had to decide in minutes. With some hesitation, I told them to freeze my sperm.

In most doctors’ offices, it’s hard to know why the stranger next to you is there, but everyone is in this waiting room for the same reason. No one is talking, but everybody seems to be sizing one another up.  I am wearing my uni sweatshirt emblazoned with “Class of 2012,” and I am feeling out of place. I am only in my 20s, with only one thing to do today. And now I  am looking at my shoes.

The timing in all of this, like everything else these days, is out of sequence. But this is my new reality as a young adult with cancer. And although I’m not planning for a child anytime soon, preserving my ability to have children feels like my only lifeline to an uncertain future. All of us are together and alone in this room. Hoping for life.