Last month, my book club convened to discuss The Bright Hour, a memoir by a young mother with an extensive family history of breast cancer facing a terminal diagnosis. This book was particularly poignant for me, as I lost my mother to an aggressive battle with breast cancer when she was still in her 40s.
A few years following my mom’s passing, I had genetic testing completed to find out if I carried the BRCA gene. I desperately wanted answers as to why I lost my mom at such a young age and wanted some form of assurance that I could spare my children from the same devastating loss I endured as a teen. Thankfully, I am negative for the BRCA gene, and my doctor and I established a plan that launches when I am ten years younger than my mom’s age when she was diagnosed. I’ll have an MRI or a mammogram every 6 months beginning at age 38.
Last year, my grandmother was diagnosed with Stage 3 ovarian cancer. Unbelievably, at 88 years old, she is in remission and doing well today. She did test positive for a different cancer-causing gene, and I plan to speak with my doctor around testing for that gene when I see her next. I take great comfort in the fact that while I still don’t know why or how my mom ended up with terminal cancer, I have some control over my future and how my health will impact my daughter.
I opened this blog post by mentioning my book club, for a very specific reason. I assumed that everyone with a family history of breast cancer would follow my path, would want to know their odds of having a dangerous and deadly disease, and would want to create a plan to reduce their risk of a young death.
What I found during our discussion of The Bright Hour was completely the opposite! A few women were firmly in my camp and a few – including one particularly vocal doctor – felt strongly that one should not have genetic testing. I was floored. I found myself shoving cheese in my face to keep from screaming, “I LOST MY MOM AT 19 YOU THINK I WANT MY DAUGHTER TO GO THROUGH THAT???!!!” but probably with more colorful language.
I’m proud to tell you that I didn’t yell at anyone. Instead, I listened and hey, I think I learned something! My fear of dying at a young age like my mom has a lot to do with my fear of losing control – over my body, my destiny, and my legacy. Some of us are good at accepting our lives as they are, relinquishing control, and letting God or the Universe take over. I…am not.
While admittedly I struggle to understand the perspective of someone who wouldn’t wish to use these tools to create a plan for their own future well-being – if not for themselves, than at least for their loved ones – I have a tremendous amount of respect for those with a greater ability to “let it go” than I do, and a greater acceptance of the fact that we cannot control every minute of our lives.
Eventually, I hope to achieve a balance of taking advantage of medical breakthroughs to give myself the best chance for a long and healthy life and accepting that I am not ultimately in control. I hope to encourage others with a similar family history to take preventative measures, but make peace with whatever direction their journey takes them on. Until that point, I will continue coordinating with my doctor…and shoving cheese in my face.
