Cancer runs deep in my family history. Both of my grandmothers were diagnosed with breast cancer, and my great-aunt lost her life to ovarian cancer. In recent years, several relatives have faced battles with breast and prostate cancer. The most devastating blow came in 2011 when my mother succumbed to ovarian cancer. I was overwhelmed with grief and anxiety, feeling as though my fate was sealed. The thought of future risks consumed me, and I began to accept that I might be next.
In the years that followed, I grappled with the profound loss of my mother while being haunted by questions about my own health. Would I develop cancer? Would my daughters face the same fate? The weight of these uncertainties was heavy. To distract myself, I often recalled a peculiar vacation in Key West in 2006. During that trip, I visited a palm reader who told me that I would live into my 80s, facing some heart trouble, but little else. Eight years later, I still found comfort in those cryptic words during moments of fear about cancer.
Last year, during a routine visit to my OB/GYN, my physician firmly recommended BRCA testing given my family history. With Angelina Jolie’s high-profile decisions making headlines, I felt a mix of inspiration and dread. After discussing the implications with my doctor, I received a pamphlet on BRCA testing, which I initially stuffed away in a pile of papers, too fearful to confront the reality of it.
As time passed, the thought of BRCA testing lingered in my mind. If I carried the gene, would I have to undergo drastic measures like a hysterectomy or a double mastectomy? Then one morning, almost spontaneously, I decided to schedule the test. I felt I owed it to my daughters; if I had the gene, they deserved to know, and if I didn’t, I could spare them the worry. Surprisingly, after making the appointment, a sense of calm washed over me.
However, the day of the appointment was fraught with tension. The nurse initially didn’t have my information correctly, and I endured a long wait. When I finally met with her, I learned that instead of a blood draw, I would be providing a Buccal Wash—gathering saliva and rinsing with Listerine into a vial. Three vials were sent off to a lab in Utah.
Next came the rigorous insurance approval process, which took nearly six weeks. After several assessments, my insurance deemed me at “substantial risk.” As I waited for the results, anxiety consumed me. I would wake up in cold sweats, mentally preparing for the worst and hoping my daughters would forgive me if I passed on a harmful gene. I spent hours researching how to take proactive measures against potential cancer, and at night, I would cry, worrying how my husband would perceive me if my body changed.
Finally, on a late July afternoon, the white envelope arrived. My hands trembled as I called my husband at work. “I don’t have the genes. None of them,” I said, tears streaming down my face in relief. My daughters noticed my emotional state and wrapped their arms around me. “Mommy? Why are you sad?” I reassured them, “I’m crying happy tears…” It was one less worry for us all.
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In summary, my BRCA testing journey was filled with fear, anxiety, and ultimately, relief. It was a decision made not just for myself, but for my daughters, ensuring they have the knowledge to make informed choices about their health.