Don’t touch my breasts, hon

Mon, 08 Oct 2012 01:00:00 +0000

My husband and I met at work when I was 22, a newly minted college grad turned management consultant. He was two years older, affectionate, ambitious, interesting and interested. He trained newcomers, and learning Excel had never been such a turn-on. We flirted awkwardly in the break room that day and had our first kiss three weeks later, after happy hour devolved into a boozy after-party. Seven months later, we were engaged.

Friends and co-workers were baffled: Why the hurry? Did we even know each other yet? Your 20s are supposed to be a time of freedom and carefree adventure. There’s no rush. But my cares were real, and there was ample reason to rush. A big ugly decision loomed for me at age 30: Get sick or get rid of the lady parts.

Cancer had blindsided my parents 20 years earlier. Only one month before she found the lump in her own breast, my mother had received a normal mammogram. Nothing was supposed to be wrong, and then suddenly, everything was. The cancer had already spread to her lymph nodes, making a quick and toxic escape into her bloodstream and threatening to invade the rest of her body. Her treatment – though successful – was extensive and cruel: chemo, radiation, a bone marrow transplant, a double mastectomy, surgery to do breast reconstruction, surgery to undo botched, infected breast reconstruction. Three small children watched fearfully as their bald mommy teetered on the edge of life.

Salon.com > BRCA genetic mutation

Don’t touch my breasts, hon