I’m 31, not really an age when one considers receiving brand new body parts. It’s not like I’ve lived 80 years on a slowly deteriorating hip and needed a brand new robot bone. However, considering my history with cancer started more than a decade earlier, it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise.
When I was 20, my best friend, Joanna, and I were headed down to Los Angeles from Davis, CA, on our winter break from college. We were listening to Jim Dale reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, when we passed Pyramid Lake. I pointed it out Joanna, blinked, and was being pulled out of CT scanner by a nurse in scrubs. Somewhere between the lake and Los Angeles, we had been driven off the freeway and down a large embankment, where Joanna’s Saturn landed upside down.
I don’t remember any of this. Later, when Joanna and I were reunited out of the hospital, she described how she helped me unbuckle my seatbelt and pulled me out of the wrecked blue car. Some kind strangers had stopped to help us, and she and they pulled me back up to the side of the freeway, where an ambulance waited for us. Joanna’s knee had been shattered. In the ambulance, I would ask her where we were and what had happened every five minutes.
In the CT scanner, they found a concussion, a spot on my thyroid, and a spot on my lungs. Later, I learned I had a mass behind my thyroid about 9mm in diameter that likely wouldn’t have been discovered otherwise until it was much more dangerous.
By this time, I think at least two of my aunts had died of pancreatic cancer.
At 20, I was tasked by the doctor to determine for myself whether I wanted to try keeping half of my thyroid. In some cases, it was possible for a thyroid to recover completely even with half the organ in place, although I might still need to take pills every day to make up for any hormonal deficits. It was also entirely possible the cancer might be present on the half I kept. Considering there was no guarantee keeping half of my organ would actually work, I opted for the logical conclusion–taking it out.
I don’t remember much about the surgery or the recovery apart from asking for anything other than morphine. Morphine, as it turns out, turns me into a crying lunatic. And following the surgery, I had two rounds of radioactive iodine two years in a row. That was the worst.
Once my third aunt was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I knew we had a family problem. It was genetic, and I was determined to do my best to avoid it. I asked my doctor what I could do to prevent pancreatic cancer if it was a genetic anomaly in my family; she connected me to a medical professional I’d never heard of–a genetic councilor.
I was born with the BRCA 2 gene mutation, a flaw in one of my genes that makes it statistically more likely that I will get breast cancer, ovarian cancer, pancreatic cancer, and, in some cases, colon cancer.
Breast cancer: develops in women by age 70-80 in 45%-69% of those with the gene
Ovarian cancer: develops in women by age 70-80 in 11% – 17% of those with the gene
Pancreatic cancer: lifetime risk is around 5%-10% of those with the gene
Cancer.GOV
ASCO Publications
As soon as I learned of the existence of this gene in my body, I had more decisions to make. As a BRCA 2 carrier, my choices in avoiding breast cancer are either prophylactic double mastectomy or yearly surveillance of my breast tissue every year until I developed breast cancer or died in some other way.
I did try surveillance. I got my first mammogram at age 29, and it was pretty awful. I also got a breast MRI, which was worse.
Prophylactic surgery, logically, was the wisest course of action. Some days I was completely certain about my decision and some days I questioned my own sanity. Assuming I lived until closer to 100, I will have lived without my breasts longer than with them.
They were also a great source of pleasure to me. Sexually, they were an integral part of who I was and what I enjoyed. By doing this I would be sacrificing decades of sexual pleasure for the near certainty of never getting cancer, at least there. Luckily for me, they weren’t my only source of satisfaction, and one of them still remains sensitive.
Before I made my decision, I did hours of research. I talked to other women who had the surgery and asked them about their experience. I joined forums and Facebook groups. I read books and websites. I asked my doctors hundreds of questions.
On the day of the surgery, I still doubted whether I was doing the right thing. Today, I’m still not sure, although I don’t regret it.
Despite the emotional rollercoaster of making the decision to scrape all my breast tissue out of my body, I was lucky enough to have an insurance company that would also pay for reconstruction. I went from an A cup I was never happy with to a C cup that looks amazing.
I’ve never been more happy with the way my proportions look, and my surgeon did an excellent job at hiding the scars in the underboob. My breasts were always a source of frustration for me, and, as I found out later, they were actually malformed in the womb. The insides of my breasts were so scarred that there was room enough for the full silicone implants–which meant I didn’t need to come back for a second surgery.
Occasionally, I forget I had the surgery. My implants feel as normal to me as my old breasts did, though my left one is still numb in the middle, so I won’t notice if it pops out from under my bra. It’s a cheeky little bastard.
Every so often, I’ll remember what I’ve done, and I’ll feel weird about it. I can’t believe I did that. As volatile as the decision made me feel, it’s been two years since I had natural breasts, and I don’t miss them as much as I thought I would. I am lucky. Considering all the horror stories I’ve heard, I’m so lucky.
I’m 31. Twice, I’ve had to deliberately remove pieces of myself to make my body safer. In another nine years, I will be doing it again with my ovaries. By 50, who knows what else will go.
Melcontents 