Avoiding the Darkness

I didn’t choose to start this path of a double mastectomy because I wanted to be strong. It wasn’t a way for me to channel my inner Mighty Thor. Instead, it was simply out of a desire to live my life without having to go through cancer treatment.

When I was 9, I saw my grandmother die of breast cancer. I remember spending days and nights at the North Kansas City Hospital. The entire family was there, just waiting. I remember drawing her a get well soon card, while sitting in her hospital bed. She smiled at my Crayola marker mess, and had it hung up on her wall. And then suddenly, she was no longer there to give hugs. She slipped into a coma. Her breath was rattling, and family took turns moistening her lips with a sponge. And I saw something I had never seen before: my dad cried.

It was torture to watch her pass. And then to hear the adults talk about breast cancer, and how it was one of the cruelest diseases to watch someone die from, was terrifying. I never wanted to see anyone else go through it.

“By the time you’ll be old enough to worry, they’ll have a pill for you to take to cure it. You won’t have to worry,” I was told, standing in my backyard while my mom talked to her friend about it all.

As I got older, I knew more women who got breast cancer, were determined to fight it and win, but they didn’t. In my experiences, breast cancer was certain death. I had no other perspective until the mid-2000s, when my paternal aunt beat it. She was the first relative I knew of to beat it.

In 2020, after that first mammogram and explanation about just how full of tiny crystals my breasts were, I decided then and there that at the first sign of trouble, I would get rid of them. I don’t want to become another tally mark on my family tree of women who have died of cancer. I don’t want my kids to see me lose my hair, grow frail, and waste away. Sure, things have changed since 1994 and 2002 with how breast cancer is treated. But, my experiences/what I have witnessed hasn’t changed. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to become a burden on my family. I don’t want my kids to live through that nightmare.

This choice, to get a double-mastectomy and potentially a hysterectomy, is all out of necessity. For me, there’s no bravery in this choice. It’s just what has to be done. Every six months, my anxiety goes through the roof wondering if this is the time one of those spots has changed into cancer. Every six months, my stomach gets knotted at the possibility. And now knowing that more biopsies would be in my future, I can’t keep doing it. I’m not strong enough to keep doing it. It’s not strength. It’s weakness. I’m too weak to keep getting screened. I’m too weak to continue to worry and stress about what’s coming in six months. I’m too weak to sit in that hallway in the pale pink robe waiting my turn (also, can we PLEASE get a prettier colored robe? Or maybe something more fun? That pale pink is gross and sad).

There is no pill like my mom and her friend said there would be. Instead, we play Minority Report with our cells, and draw percentages on what level of threat the a-typical cells pose. And we do what we can with that knowledge.

Last week, I met with the breast surgeon for the first time. She told me that for women who come into her office with files the same as mine, it’s a 50/50 for whether they ask for double mastectomies with reconstruction, or opt to take estrogen blockers, increase screenings, and hope nothing changes.

In a few weeks, I’ll be meeting with the plastic surgeon, and coming up with dates for everything to happen. As I typed that sentence, I felt like I wanted to puke. When I had to schedule the appointment with OBGYN today to discuss a hysterectomy, I wanted to puke when they sent me a message with a date and time.

How did I get here? I always knew in the back of mind I’d be here. I just didn’t expect it so soon. Anyway, I’ll stop rambling and wipe away any tears. My kids want me to play Roblox with them.