In just one week, I will undergo a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy, a surgery that will change my life forever. As I write this, seven months have passed since my BRCA diagnosis, and I find it hard to believe that soon, I will no longer have breasts. Reflecting back to a year ago, I never imagined I’d be facing this reality. Life’s unexpected turns often catch us off guard.
My journey began last June when I discovered through genetic testing that I had a 50% chance of carrying a BRCA2 mutation. Prior to this, my understanding of BRCA was largely shaped by media stories, particularly Angelina Jolie’s announcement regarding her own BRCA1 mutation and the surgeries that followed. Once I learned about my own genetic risk, I dove into research, uncovering the implications of being a BRCA mutation carrier. Women with hereditary breast and ovarian cancer (HBOC) syndrome face significantly higher lifetime risks of developing breast and ovarian cancer compared to the general population. BRCA2 mutation carriers, for instance, have up to an 84% lifetime risk for breast cancer, in stark contrast to the 12% lifetime risk for women overall.
These cancers not only occur more frequently in younger women, but they are also more aggressive and have higher rates of recurrence. The risk of ovarian cancer, while lower, is still significant at 27% for BRCA2 carriers. Beyond breast and ovarian cancers, BRCA mutations are also linked to increased risks of melanoma, pancreatic, and prostate cancers.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed by this information, it’s worth noting that fewer than 1% of the population carries a BRCA mutation, with higher prevalence among Ashkenazi Jews. According to the CDC, about 1 in 40 individuals of Ashkenazi descent carry these mutations, compared to 1 in 800 in the general population. Thus, your likelihood of having a BRCA mutation or developing hereditary cancers may be quite low.
Deep down, I sensed I would test positive for the mutation. I’m typically grounded in evidence-based thinking, yet this intuition proved correct. When the genetic counselor delivered my positive results, I felt a mix of acceptance and devastation. After a brief period of self-pity, I sprung into action. I immersed myself in medical literature, sought personal accounts from other women, and connected with resources like FORCE (Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered), which has been invaluable throughout this process. I arranged multiple appointments: mammograms, consultations with breast surgeons, and specialists in high-risk ovarian health.
As I checked off each task, I regained a sense of control over a situation that once felt daunting. But amid the flurry of activity, I unearthed some profound realizations. Until this point, I had taken my good health for granted. I’ve been fortunate not to face serious health challenges, and the prospect of my own mortality hit me harder than I expected. Learning about my BRCA status forced me to confront the reality of potential cancer looming in my future.
Deciding to proceed with a mastectomy was not easy, and I’m still grappling with the choice. Doctors suggested surgery by age 40, but I could opt for surveillance through regular imaging until then. Initially, I considered this monitoring route, especially since I haven’t yet had children and had always envisioned breastfeeding. “Wouldn’t it be alright to wait?” I pondered. However, I also considered the stark reality: what if I end up like other women diagnosed with aggressive cancers in their 30s?
Statistics show that BRCA2 mutation carriers are more likely to be diagnosed in their 40s than in their 30s, but it’s a gamble I’m not willing to take. I envisioned the joy and responsibility of motherhood, tempered by the fear of becoming sick and potentially leaving my child without a mother. One of my doctors recounted a heartbreaking case of a young BRCA+ patient who faced a similar fate, reinforcing the urgency of my decision.
I’ve often referred to my upcoming surgery as “having my boobs cut off.” While some may find this terminology harsh, it accurately conveys the reality of what I’ll be experiencing. The procedure involves significant alteration, with my surgeon removing as much breast tissue as possible. The result will be a loss of sensation, and while reconstruction is an option, I’ve been warned that it may not achieve the aesthetic I hope for.
Despite previously feeling indifferent about my breasts, I’ve been taken aback by the depth of my grief over this loss. I grieve the ability to breastfeed, the sensation, and what my breasts symbolize in terms of femininity. I once believed that breasts held no bearing on womanhood, but the impending loss has forced me to reevaluate that notion.
Before her own preventive mastectomy, a woman named Maya shared her thoughts, stating that resilience and courage define our femininity more than physical attributes ever could. I want to embrace this perspective, yet I still wrestle with the fear of feeling less whole without my breasts.
I recognize how fortunate I am to have this knowledge about my genetics, the means to act on it, and access to quality medical care. The support from friends and family has been tremendous, from accompanying me to appointments to simply being present as I navigate my emotions.
Ultimately, I am filled with gratitude for the opportunity to reduce my cancer risk from 84% to 10%. This awareness brings a sense of thankfulness even as I confront the sadness of losing my breasts. As I approach surgery, I wish I could feel unequivocally confident in my decision, but doubts linger. Am I making the right choice?
In summary, this journey is a mix of gratitude and grief, highlighting the complicated emotions surrounding my upcoming surgery and the profound implications of saying goodbye to my breasts. For more resources on home insemination and pregnancy, consider checking out this excellent guide on home insemination kits. Additionally, for further information about IVF, visit the Mayo Clinic’s resource.
Keyphrase: emotional impact of mastectomy
Tags: [“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]