This
past Monday I had an appointment that was almost a game changer and I
was pissed. I met with the breast surgeon for the first time at what was
supposed to be a simple ‘getting to know each other’ appointment. She
had the slides from my mammogram from this past May posted on display.
One of the images of my breast looked just like a bunny so I snapped a
picture of it, thinking that would be the most blog-worthy thing to
come out of the appointment.
Then she gave me a breast exam.
She
felt a lump in my left breast, just behind my nipple. My gut told me
that it wasn't anything. As it happens, I'm slowly weaning my 2 1/2 year
old from breast feeding (no judgment please - one of the benefits of
extended breast feeding is breast cancer risk reduction) so I suspected
that the lump the surgeon had detected was a milk duct or something.
Plus, I can recall the few times I’ve already experienced this - when a
doctor finds ‘something’ that ends up being ‘nothing’.
Although
this time was different. This time I was stricken with the fact that
now I was a known carrier of the BRCA 1 gene mutation. This time, I was aware of
the 87% chance that one day, maybe today, that ‘something’ will actually be ‘something’.
After
an emergency mammogram and ultrasound on Friday, I found out that this
time my instinct was right, and fortunately it was nothing more than a
milk duct.
The
feeling that I was most stricken by this week was anger, followed by
validation. Anger because if the lump was ‘something’, I would not have
been able to go forward with the mastectomy on my terms. I have felt so
empowered that I have taken control of my body and I am proud to tell
breast and ovarian cancer “sorry, no vacancies here”. But there was a
time this week when I wasn't sure if I was going to have that control.
If not for preventive surgeries, between the suggested bi-yearly
mammograms, breast ultrasounds, ovarian ultrasounds, and breast MRIs
(plus follows ups when something shows up at one of these appointments),
I could likely spend a good part of the the rest of my life in doctors
offices, frightened and waiting for the inevitable. I'm just not
comfortable with that option.
So
that's why this week was validating. I have the gene. I will likely get
cancer. Now more than ever, I know I want the power of preventive
surgery. This year for Halloween I'm dressing as a ninja. I'm 5 foot 2
inches, 115 pounds, and barely have the physical strength to lift my 7
year old, but this year, I feel like a warrior.
