Hi there. It’s been a while, and fair warning: this will be a long post.
When things in my life get chaotic, I tend to internalize my stress and shrink away from my network – I try to handle it all on my own, with the help of Jeremy when I need it. I always feel the strong need to shelter myself away from others, keep my burdens to myself, and only emerge again once I’ve worked through it alone. These last few months have been pretty heavy, which is why I haven’t updated. I simply didn’t have the physical or emotional energy to give to this space, which is why I’m sure you’ve noticed a long silence over here.
Let me start by saying that I’m back. It was tough for a little bit, but everything is okay.
Shortly before my last post, a close family member was diagnosed with breast cancer at a very young age. As a result of some testing, we found out that a BRCA1 gene mutation was running in our family – most likely from my great grandmother. This meant that my mom, myself, my siblings, and my precious little girl were also at risk of having inherited the mutation.
The odds for a carrier are stark. I was facing up to a 50% chance of ovarian cancer, and almost 90% chance of breast cancer – my best chance would be a prophylactic mastectomy, and ovary/fallopian tube removal. Experts recommend that these actions be taken by age 35, because these cancers can show up so young in carriers. I’m turning 35 this year, and felt like I was finding this out entirely too late.
I ran through these possibilities in my head 24 hours a day for months – I would lose the gift of breastfeeding another baby. More importantly: could I afford to wait to have another baby and risk ovarian cancer, if I was a carrier? I already had one little girl who absolutely needs me around for a long time. Thinking about these things made me nauseous, and tearful. All the time.
The order of testing should have led to my mom being tested before me, but she didn’t have the same sense of urgency as me. I’m impatient, and absolutely felt the need to know NOW, so I could plan. I don’t like surprises, especially bad ones.
So, I paid to have a full hereditary cancer gene panel run through Color Genomics (during cancer prevention month, go figure), and knew there would be at least a 4 week wait. You spit in a tube, and send it in the mail to find out potentially life-changing information. I felt sick every day, waiting for the email that my results were ready.
2 weeks after the lab received my sample, I got a message from the company that my sample failed testing and that I would need to start over. This meant another 4 week wait. AGONY.
24 hours later, my mom called to let us know that my dad unexpectedly passed away.
I hadn’t seen him in almost 6 months, and it broke my heart to know that he was alone, even if he knew that I loved him.
So here we are. I might be a hereditary cancer gene mutation carrier, and my dad is dead.
…f*ck.
I was in shock initially, and even decided to go to work the next morning thinking that if I kept busy, I could avoid the grief. I was wrong – the first coworker I saw that morning stopped me and asked with a knowing, sympathetic look “why are you here?” I immediately broke down in sobs, threw my hands up and said “I don’t know what else to do!”. I didn’t last the full day. I left early and met Jeremy for an early lunch where I cried into my cocktail at Jolly Pumpkin.
Time had stopped, but life went on. I still have a 1 year old at home who needs my constant attention, and a husband who needs support from me as a partner in marriage, in parenthood, and keeping our household running smoothly.
But I also needed to discuss arrangements, answer calls and texts from well-meaning family and friends asking how I was doing, and the strangest, most bittersweet thing…buy flowers for my dad’s funeral. It seemed so pointless and so meaningful at the same time. He was not going to get these flowers himself.
The days leading up to the funeral were a blur. The service itself was nice, although seeing my siblings cry was rough. My brother and I sat on either side of my mom, and holding her hand as she sobbed, hugging my brother while “Hey Jude” played the service out is one of the most painful moments of the day. The Beatles, my dad’s favorite, will never be the same. My oldest brother and I carried his ashes at the cemetery, I tried cracking jokes to make my brothers laugh during the prayer. It was difficult, and strange, and just…everything all at the same time.
We got through it, and moved on to adjusting to this new “normal”.
Exactly 13 days after the funeral, I got an email with the subject line: “Your Color Results are Ready”. I thought I might have a panic attack before I could open the email. My heart was racing, entire body shaking. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and said to myself “whatever this says, you’re going to be okay.” I opened my results, to see this:
I’m not a carrier. My baby girl will never have to worry about this, and relieved does not begin to explain it.
It’s been over a month now, and it all still seems surreal.
Thanks for reading, and stopping by every so often to see what we’re up to here. I’ll be checking in more often lately now that life has lightened up a bit.
Dad: I miss you and I love you, and I hope you’re at peace now. I don’t know what happens beyond this life, but I’d like to think that you were looking out for me during this health scare – and for that, I say thank you.
