How can a life-altering decision transform into the easiest choice one ever makes? To understand that, allow me to share my journey.
I can vividly recall the warmth of her hugs, the scent of her perfume, and the sparkle in her eyes as they met mine. I often say that my decision was for my children, husband, and family, but deep down, it was truly for her.
As the first granddaughter in a family filled with boys, I shared countless cherished moments with her—fashion shows, boat outings, bubble baths, and the sweet sound of “You Are My Sunshine” echoing through our home. It felt like perfection, and I couldn’t fathom how it could ever change.
My mother often recounts how my grandmother, whom we affectionately called Nana, insisted to her doctor, “Something isn’t right, please investigate further.” Regrettably, her concerns fell on deaf ears. She yearned for a hysterectomy, but her pleas went unheeded. I was only 5 when Nana was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She sensed something was off, but no one listened.
She fought valiantly for years. I still remember the moment my parents told me we had reached the end of her battle. I wanted desperately to be with her. Seeing her there, surrounded by love yet seemingly lifeless, was heart-wrenching. I bid farewell as best as I could. She passed away when I was just 9, and losing her altered the course of my life forever.
In difficult times, I would converse with her spirit. When I made the softball team, I shared my joy with her. I felt her presence throughout my life, guiding me.
Years later, my mom handed me a box filled with treasures my Nana had saved for me—childhood drawings from my uncles, family photographs, letters, and even my grandmother’s driver’s license. From the day I was born, she penned letters to me, expressing her desire to remain a part of my life. She wanted to live, to see her legacy continue.
As I grew older, I realized the significance of those letters. They contained memories of our adventures, her dreams for me, and her reflections on life, even in her final days. I was too young to fully understand their value, but I knew they would be important someday.
Fast forward many years, and my uncle and cousin tested positive for the BRCA1 gene. My aunt urged me to undergo testing, but I was preoccupied with raising my children and wasn’t ready for that knowledge. Yet, a part of me always understood the potential implications.
I spoke to my Nana in my heart, promising to get tested, but not just yet. I needed time. I was 31, with a baby girl who was barely a year old. During a routine check-up, my doctor suggested I get tested. I thought, “Absolutely, I’ll take the paperwork,” but she insisted we could do it right then and there. My heart raced as I agreed, looking up and saying aloud, “Alright, Nana, I’m listening!”
A month later, I received the news—I was BRCA1 positive. My family was aware of my next steps, and my husband stood firmly by my side. I had made the decision to undergo a preventative double mastectomy.
But wait—I had two young children, and my baby girl was still so small. How would we handle eight weeks of recovery? Who would comfort her at night? I felt overwhelmed. Yet, I wasn’t foolish; I wanted to live without the constant shadow of fear. If Nana had been given this choice, she might still be here today.
Within a month, I assembled a team of doctors and scheduled the surgery for January. I dedicated the time leading up to the procedure to strengthen my body and resolve, never doubting my choice. As the surgery date approached, anxiety set in; I worried about the unknown—how would I look afterward? How would my children react? Would my husband still love me?
On the morning of the surgery, I prepared myself, showering and braiding my hair. I kissed my children, and my husband and I made our way to the hospital in silence. My parents were on their way, but my mom called, her voice trembling with fear. I let my emotions flow as we spoke, understanding her struggle to be present. I respected her choice, knowing her presence might make it harder for me.
When my name was called, I walked back alone for prep, clinging to the memory of Nana’s face as I braved the solitude of pre-op. My husband joined me shortly after, radiating strength. It reminded me of when we had our first child—he was steadfast and reassuring.
As my dad and stepmother arrived, I could see the worry etched in my father’s face. I tried to be strong for him, even as tears threatened. It was time to say goodbye and head to the surgical room. I felt a wave of emotions as I walked down the bright corridor, tears streaming down my face while my anesthesiologist spoke words of encouragement. I whispered to Nana, “You are with me.”
Then, everything went dark.
When I awoke, I was a different person—a new chapter had begun.
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In summary, testing positive for the BRCA1 gene was a life-changing moment that led me to make a courageous decision for myself and my family. Through the fear and uncertainty, I found strength and purpose, inspired by the memory of my beloved Nana.