In just one week, I will be undergoing a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy. As I reflect on this imminent change, it’s unimaginable to think that soon, I will no longer have breasts. Seven months have passed since my BRCA diagnosis, and I find myself in disbelief that I am preparing for such a significant surgery. This is often the case with life-altering revelations; they can hit us out of nowhere.
My journey began in June when a genetic test revealed I had a 50% chance of carrying a BRCA2 mutation. At that time, my understanding of BRCA was primarily shaped by Angelina Jolie’s public announcement in 2013 regarding her own BRCA1 mutation and the subsequent preventive surgeries she underwent. Upon learning of my genetic risk, I immersed myself in research about hereditary breast and ovarian cancer (HBOC) Syndrome. The insights I gained were alarming: women with HBOC face a considerably higher lifetime risk of developing breast and ovarian cancer compared to the general population. For BRCA2 mutation carriers, the risk of breast cancer can reach up to 84%, while the average woman has a mere 12% lifetime risk.
The statistics were daunting, and they became personal. I discovered that breast cancers associated with BRCA mutations typically manifest at a younger age, are more aggressive, and have higher recurrence rates. The risk for ovarian cancer, while lower, still loomed at 27% for BRCA2 carriers compared to less than 1% in the general populace. It’s worth noting that fewer than 1% of individuals carry a BRCA mutation, with higher occurrences among the Ashkenazi Jewish population. Understanding this helped put my situation into perspective—my chances of having this mutation were relatively low, yet here I was.
Deep down, I felt a premonition that I would test positive. I’m not usually one to lean on intuition, favoring instead the empirical data of research. When the genetic counselor confirmed my positive result, I was prepared but still heartbroken. I spent a day in bed wrestling with my emotions and contemplating my choices, none of which felt right. Eventually, I transitioned into action mode, devouring medical literature, personal accounts from other women with BRCA mutations, and seeking support from organizations like FORCE (Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered). I scheduled appointment after appointment, including consultations at the High Risk Breast Clinic and High Risk Ovarian Clinic, and met with multiple surgeons.
Completing each task gave me a sense of empowerment in a scenario where I initially felt lost. Amidst this whirlwind of appointments, I uncovered some hard truths: I’ve been fortunate with my health until now, and I often took my well-being for granted. The reality is that every individual has vulnerabilities; mine just happens to be quantifiable through BRCA statistics. This knowledge forced me to confront my own mortality.
Choosing to undergo a mastectomy has been a battle in itself. Though doctors recommended surgery by age 40, I was given the option to monitor my condition with regular imaging. The thought of delaying surgery to possibly experience motherhood weighed heavily on my mind, yet the specter of aggressive cancer loomed over me, leading to stark realizations about the risks I faced.
I envisioned the joy of bringing a child into my life, only to be confronted with the possibility of illness and its repercussions. A doctor shared a story of a patient who faced a devastating cancer recurrence shortly after childbirth. This reinforced the urgency of my decision. I had often bluntly referred to my surgery as “having my breasts removed.” While some found this phrasing uncomfortable, I felt it was vital to confront the reality of the situation head-on.
As I prepare for surgery, the emotional weight of loss has been heavy. I have spent considerable time reflecting on my breasts, their role in my identity, and the capacity for motherhood they represent. Though I had never placed much significance on them before, the impending loss brings forth a wave of grief. I mourn the sensation I will lose, the breastfeeding I will never experience, and the changes to my sexuality and appearance. I’ve even questioned how this loss relates to my femininity.
While I understand that true womanhood lies beyond physical attributes, there remains a part of me that fears I will feel less of a woman post-surgery. My awareness of my privilege in having this knowledge and the resources to act on it doesn’t alleviate the sadness and anger surrounding my situation. I am grateful for the support of my friends and family throughout this journey, which has been invaluable, not just emotionally, but logistically as well.
Ultimately, the surgery will reduce my breast cancer risk from 84% to 10%. This fact fills me with gratitude, yet I grapple with profound sadness over the loss I am about to endure. As I stand on the brink of this life-changing event, I find myself in a complex emotional space, straddling the line between gratitude and grief.
In summary, while my decision to proceed with a mastectomy is rooted in a desire for safety and health, it comes with an emotional cost. I am learning to navigate a blend of sorrow for what I will lose and appreciation for the opportunity to reduce my cancer risk. The journey is not merely about physical change; it’s a profound transformation of identity and self-perception.
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