In just a week, I will undergo a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy. One week from today, I will no longer have my breasts. As I sit here reflecting on this significant life change, I’m reminded of how quickly life can shift. Seven months ago, I received my BRCA diagnosis, and never did I imagine I would be preparing for this kind of surgery.
The pivotal moment came in June when I discovered through genetic testing that I had a 50% chance of carrying a BRCA 2 mutation. My understanding of BRCA was limited, mostly shaped by the media frenzy surrounding celebrity cases, like Angelina Jolie’s in 2013. However, once I learned about my own genetic risk, I dove headfirst into research. I learned that a BRCA mutation places women at a much higher lifetime risk of developing breast and ovarian cancer compared to the general population. BRCA2 mutation carriers, for instance, face up to an 84% lifetime risk of breast cancer, contrasting sharply with the 12% risk for women without this mutation.
While the statistics might be overwhelming, it’s important to note that fewer than 1% of the population carries a BRCA mutation. The prevalence is even higher among individuals of Ashkenazi Jewish descent, with about 1 in 40 affected. Additionally, only a small percentage of breast cancers are genetically linked. So, depending on your background, the likelihood of having a BRCA mutation is relatively low.
Deep down, I sensed I would test positive for the mutation. Although I typically rely on evidence-based research, my intuition was strong. When the genetic counselor delivered the news, I was prepared, yet devastated. I took a day to process my emotions—crying and contemplating my choices, none of which felt right. Eventually, I shifted into action mode. I immersed myself in medical research, sought out personal stories from other BRCA-positive women, and connected with support groups like FORCE (Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered).
In my quest for understanding, I scheduled numerous appointments with specialists, including a breast surgeon and a plastic surgeon. Checking these tasks off my to-do list provided a sense of control over an otherwise daunting situation. But amidst my frantic behavior, I unearthed deeper truths about my life. Until this point, I had taken my good health for granted. I often assumed everything would continue to be fine, failing to acknowledge my own vulnerabilities.
Finding out about my BRCA status forced me to confront my own mortality. I wrestled with the decision to undergo a mastectomy, knowing doctors recommended it by age 40. Monitoring my breast health through mammograms was an option, but I couldn’t shake the fear of potentially becoming another statistic—one of the women diagnosed with aggressive cancer in their 30s.
Imagining the future became complicated. I envisioned having a child, feeling overwhelmed by love and responsibility, only to be struck by the reality of illness and the possibility of dying young. A doctor shared a cautionary tale of a patient who faced this very scenario, which only heightened my anxiety about my decision. Ultimately, the idea of getting sick after having children became frighteningly real.
I’ve often referred to my upcoming procedure as “having my breasts cut off.” This blunt language reflects the stark reality of my situation. The surgery involves removing breast tissue, and I will lose sensation in that area. My plastic surgeon candidly assured me that reconstructed breasts rarely match the appearance of natural ones, further complicating my feelings about this process.
Despite my initial indifference toward my breasts, I’ve found myself grieving their loss. I have mourned the ability to breastfeed, my sexual identity, and the way I perceive myself. I once believed that breasts were not integral to womanhood, yet this experience has challenged that belief. An interview with a public figure before her mastectomy resonated with me—she emphasized that our resilience and courage define us as women, not our physical attributes. I desperately want to believe this, yet I fear I will feel less of a woman after surgery.
Though I acknowledge my situation could be much worse, I still feel a mixture of gratitude and grief. I am privileged to have access to genetic testing, medical care, and a supportive network of friends and family. This gratitude is overshadowed by the sadness of losing a part of myself that I never fully appreciated until now. I expected to feel more certain about my decision as surgery approached, but doubt still lingers. Am I rushing this?
For those navigating similar journeys, I highly recommend exploring resources like Resolve, which offers excellent information on family planning and health decisions. Additionally, if you’re interested in home insemination, consider visiting this guide for more insights. For couples looking to enhance their fertility journey, Make a Mom is an authority on the subject.
In summary, my journey through the emotional landscape of saying goodbye to my breasts has been fraught with complexity. As I prepare for surgery, the mix of gratitude and grief continues to shape my thoughts and feelings about this significant change.