It’s taken a mere 40 years to make some peace with my body. Maybe it truly admirable that it only took me this long. It feels like a long time to me, but I realize that any peace with my insecurities is a big deal.
Just as I started to put down the shame and self-abuse. Just as I started appreciating how strong and fit I was despite my never flat belly. Just as I started wrapping my arms around my whole self-worth. Just as wisdom and love started leading my decisions, life decided to drop a little info in my lap.
Put another way, I’d finally begun accepting how my jeans fit when my genes didn’t quite fit anymore.
More precisely, my genes had always fit this way. Suddenly, I knew about it.
I found out about BRCA gene mutations from my cousin who had breast cancer at 38. She discovered too late that she had the mutation and raised the alarm for the family to get tested. As far as I know, only my sister and myself have been. Sis is normal. I am not. (I don’t like the term “BRCA positive” because I’m not positive for anything. It is a mutation, not a syndrome, and I think that’s important.)
BRCA-1 gene mutations inhibit the body’s ability to suppress cell growth or repair damaged DNA. It increases the risk of breast and ovarian cancer dramatically over the general population. At the high end, it makes a person’s odds of breast cancer 85% and ovarian cancer 65%.
It is not a guarantee of cancer.
That’s worth note. It is a mutation of a DNA strand that increases your odds.
I found this out thanks to my amazing doctor who pushed me to get the test. She said, “It doesn’t pay to be an Ostrich about this. If you have the information, you can decide what to do with it. But there is no use in not knowing.”
Getting the test results still wasn’t awesome.
It was a strange feeling. It felt like a diagnosis. Like bad news. In truth, it really was just information that I hadn’t had before. Nothing had changed in my body. I was the same as I had always been. Always. Since birth, this has been true for me. Now, I know about it. So while the information was not happy, it also wasn’t dire or sad.
Like she said. Just information.
My mom didn’t get tested. If I was 26 years older than I am now and learning about this, I probably wouldn’t either. There is a point where that information isn’t particularly useful. Where it becomes more of a burden than a tool. Regular mammograms and checkups can definitely be a “correct” choice, especially depending on other factors. But while she decided not to have the test herself, Mom was distressed at my results. I understand that. Irrational, but she felt like she was somehow responsible. As if she knew or could have done anything about it, which of course is silly.
I sat on the information for about a year. Got scans and tests to make sure nothing was suspicious. But last fall, I decided surgery was the action I wanted to take. I had to wait on appointments and another MRI before I could schedule anything. But scheduling finally happened, and now here we are. When this is published, I will have just put my body through a profound physical change in the hopes of killing my risk of breast cancer. I’m scheduling this to post while I’m freshly in recovery.
Here we are. I hope it went well!
YOUR TURN:
What’s something you’ve been avoiding? Take some time to look it in the face. Be honest with yourself about what it is and why you’ve avoided it for so long. Play out the worst that could happen—but then play out the best that could happen.
No form for this one! This is just you.
Smart and necessary!