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Sorry if I start crying. It happens sometimes. Waiting.
Waiting for the news. The intense grief or joy; I'm not sure which yet.
But waiting. Knowing
That the news will change my life. Hoping for the best. Preparing for the worst.
"I'm sorry, but you have it." Positive.
Weeping. Tears. Hugs. Statistics. 85% chance.
It's BRCA II. I'm positive.
She asks me, "Why are you crying?" and all I can think about is losing my hair. I'm not
scared of death or dying young. I'm scared of suffering. Scared of illness and sickness
and losing the most outwardly womanly part of myself: my hair. She laughs at my remark
through her tears, for she is crying too. I won't lose my hair, she says, and we begin
to discuss my options. She is my genetic counselor, Vickie, and she
has just given me the news that I am likely to become a cancer patient sometime in my
life. I'm BRCA II positive, which means I carry a greater risk of developing breast,
ovarian, pancreatic, and skin cancers. I always assumed I would get breast cancer.
My grandmother died from it at age 29. She had six sisters, and they all died from it,
too. Her only brother died from prostate cancer, which is somehow related. My family has been
involved in clinical tests since the inception of the idea that cancers could be genetic.
My dad remembers giving hair, saliva, and blood samples to researchers ever since high
school. They didn't know exactly what they were looking for, but they were desperately
trying to find something. They needed to find a reason why families like mine kept getting
and dying from the same cancers. I've known about the gene for as long as I
can remember although my dad refused to tell me that he was a carrier until he came down
with prostate cancer himself. That was a scary day. My dad told me that we needed to talk,
and I found out that he not only had cancer, but also I could possibly carry the same cancer-causing
gene. Double whammy. My dad is fine. The cancer is inoperable since it is slow growing and
unlikely to spread. I'm okay too. In a strange way, I feel closer to my dad because of it.
Out of all his brothers and sisters and their children, it is only us two that carry the
gene. I am truly my daddy's daughter and grandmother's granddaughter. Although we never met and my
father barely remembers her, our unfortunate gene connects us.
Some days I don't even think about the gene, and some days I think waiting to get cancer
is worse than actually having it. I wish it was a one-time thing. I wish I could just
have it and get it over with and move on with my life. I wish I could just chose a convenient
time for me to get cancer, have some surgeries, and be rid of it forever with zero chance
of getting it again. But I can't. And it could come back. I am one of the lucky few who gets
to live with an increased risk for cancer and be aware of those risks.
Lucky. Sometimes I feel so unlucky.
Trust me, it is much better to know my genetic status. Knowing will prevent me from dying
of breast cancer. Knowing enables me to meticulously check for cancer and catch it early enough
so that only a lumpectomy will be necessary. Knowing allows me to plan my family so that
I can have my ovaries removed early in my life before they have the chance to kill me.
But I hate waiting for cancer. I hate it. I cannot begin my regiment of quarter-yearly
MRIs, mammograms, and clinical breast exams until I turn 25. Only 1 more year of waiting
to begin the search for cancer to go. Then, once I am 25 and going to the oncologist every
3 months, I will have to wait until the cancer is actually found. Then the doctors will take
it out and we will wait until we find another lump. The cycle will never end. I'll never
be free from the waiting and the anxiety of the imminent doom.
There is one way to become free. Well, 99% chance cancer free. I could get a prophylactic
double mastectomy which is fancy words for having my breast tissue removed in order to
prevent cancer. Seems like a good option to quit the waiting. But it is drastic, invasive,
and not altogether necessary. Imaging and diagnostics are so accurate now that I will
not really require a prophylactic double mastectomy. Doctors these days are just so good at catching
it early that the surgery may outweigh the benefits of having those cells gone. Unfortunately,
early detection of ovarian cancer is not so successful, and I will have to have my ovaries
removed unless technology improves significantly over the next 15 years.
To go under the knife or to spend my life checking for cancer?
I think I will wait to make that decision. I walk for my grandmother, my father, and
myself. I walk for all my relatives before me that have fought the disease. I walk for
my future family and the hope that my children will not spend a minute worrying about being
diagnosed with cancer. I walk for the fight ahead and the understanding that my screenings
will be early and often and will likely include invasive and painful procedures. I walk for
hope that cancer will never again steal a birthday from or cause sickness to the people
I love.