Hello, genetic jackpot.

I’ve got the genetic make up similar to/if not worse than the hypothetical children of Miss Piggy and Kermit the frog. My mouth is entirely too small for all my teeth, my eyes are too oddly shaped to see much of anything unassisted, and the color of my hair makes me look like an odd Scandinavian exchange student at any family gathering of my dark-haired, mostly olive skinned family. But that’s the superficial end of the equation. Nearly all the women in my family have developed breast cancer very early, and very aggressively.

So this meant that I was going to be the poster child for early detection, if I had anything to do with it. I started going to mammograms when I was 18, and had yearly breast MRIs to monitor my already cystic breasts. So when I had an irregular MRI, there was no shock and awe, I pretty obediently underwent the search for a breast oncologist, as well as a reconstructive surgeon. It was all very matter of fact, there weren’t a whole lot of Dynasty moments at that point, it was just something that my mother, and her sister, and her aunt, etc. had done, and now it was my turn. A kind of morbid family tradition, but one that ended with great fake tits, so there was a silver (silicone? Too far?) lining.  

The procedure that I underwent was a nipple-sparing bilateral mastectomy, with delayed tissue expander reconstruction. At the time I’m writing this, I’m a few weeks out from my exchange surgery, during which the permanent implants will be placed. 

During my search for an oncologist, and the lead-up to my mastectomy, I found that there were very little resources for young women who had caught their tumors or micro-calcifications very early, or were undergoing the procedure prophylactically. Cancer support groups felt very inappropriate for me, since these were women who were going through something (I felt, at least) far more complex, since their chemo and radiation regimens were continually bringing them close to death, and then bringing them back, only to ready themselves for another round. They didn’t have the luxury or time or certainty, and I felt that I did, so any concern of mine felt greatly minimized. However, as I later learned, this procedure is a big fucking deal. It knocked me on my ass for months. 

I was pretty clueless going into the process, and I hope I can arm other women with the right expectations.