What we talk about when we talk about authorial intent

Recently, I've been thinking a lot about writing--its purpose, its impact, its permanence/impermanence (the last quality especially troubling given the ephemeral nature of blogging). I'm in the middle of a fantastic novel by Chris Bachelder, a contemporary writer whose work I'm just nuts about (his 2002 Bear V. Shark is painfully funny and prescient). Though perhaps I should reserve comment until I've read it all (again, the perils of the internet! ah! I have a thought! I can write and publish it instantly!), but given the structure of his narrative (really more of a pop-cultural-critique than a traditional plot), I feel I can hijack his work for my purposes here. The novel in question, U.S.!, is set in a world where the Socialist muckraker and prolific novelist (and fan of exclamation points!) Upton Sinclair is constantly resurrected and inevitably assassinated by folks afeared of his politics (would that Bachelder had written this in the post-Joe-the-Plumber era! The result of reading it now, of course, is that I picture all of Sinclair's assassins to be bald-headed and brain-deprived). This isn't a zombie novel; it's a trenchant critique of the resilience of ideas both unpopular and popular, the tension between adherents on either side of a debate, the meaning of politics in an increasing apolitical age. It's also a comment on the purpose of writing (and bear with me, because this is where it all relates, I promise). Reanimated Sinclair, in Bachelder's hands, continues to write treacly and formulaic screeds (with hilarious imagined titles like The Devil's Ears! -- about genetically modified corn, natch) but his novels fail to incite revolution. In an assessment of Sinclair's Pharmaceutical!, the reviewer comments: "Sinclair has never understood that art and polemic do not mix, that great and lasting art has no authorial agenda." And that struck me as completely true. Which off course made me think of my little writing project here. (Narcissism, it seems, is not suppressed by BRCA. It's amazing how completely unrelated things can now be linked linearly back to my breasts. My world is like a big game of six degrees of Steph's boobs.)

Why write? Well, on a practical level, I want to document. I want to help others. I want to inform. I want to promote awareness. I want to effect change. But on a more selfish level, I want to be remembered. I keep coming back to a line from the late genius David Foster Wallace's commencement speech at Kenyon College in May 2005 (now available, in the inevitable onslaught of postmortem cash grabbing following his September 2008 suicide, which left me wracked with grief for a week, in hardback). He said, "Think about it: there is no experience you have had that you are not the absolute center of." We are hard-wired (his line, hope you don't mind, DFW) to see the external world as a film projected on our personal screen; we experience life by processing how all that out there affects me in here. He continues, "Everything in my own immediate experience supports my deep belief that I am the absolute center of the universe; the realest, most vivid and important person in existence. We rarely think about this sort of natural, basic self-centeredness because it's so socially repulsive. But it's pretty much the same for all of us. It is our default setting, hard-wired into our boards at birth." I digress here as a bit of an absolution: DFW has cleared me of the charges of being so full of myself.

And really, who could be more full of themselves than writers? Especially writers who write about themselves? (I hesitate to include myself here, only because to call myself a writer is a little bit like calling a Tiger Woods fan a golfer. I'm a spectator, a wannabe, an aspirant.) I've attempted to write fiction before; I even got a graduate degree in it. But I'm not comfortable writing fiction. Perhaps it's the trained journalist in me, but I can't write about anything I don't feel reasonably well-acquainted with. Liberating though it may occasionally be, fiction involves making shit up. And that makes me squirm a little. I'd really prefer to do a little research, experience what it's like, before I write, say, a first-person narrative from the perspective of a seven-year-old boy. But oops. The laws of physics prevent that from being possible. I've never been a seven-year-old boy and never can be. So I can't present my story narrated by him with much confidence. What do I know well, better than anyone else? What it's like to be me. And that, truth be told, is a subject I'm more than comfortable writing about. At my core, I'm a non-fiction writer. But before I was hurled into this pre-cancer world of tests and surgeries and decisions, I was a writer with no subject. Now I've got one. And, conveniently, it's a story that stars my favorite character: me.

It's teeth-grittingly painful to admit, but when I found out about my BRCA status (well, fantasies swirled before I even had been tested) one of my first thoughts was: I'm going to write a book about this. Wait. That's not entirely true. My first thought was I'm going to write a popular book about this. Almost there. Deep breath. My first thought was I'm going to be famous because of this. There. I said it. Feel free to sneer. I would sneer at me. But how else was I to process the news if I couldn't find some possible positive outcome from it? So I imagined myself on Oprah's couch (which is patently absurd, considering I work in the book publishing industry and know how impossible it is to get on Oprah's couch), I imagine my book cover, I imagine the headlines ("Tragedy befalls moderately talented, reasonably well-liked not-so-young-anymore woman with formerly great tits. She fought back with this book."). And so I started writing this.

BRCA gave me a subject, BRCA is my muse. But there is such a heavy, pastel-pink cloud that hangs over cancer memoirs. Even the term makes me shudder a little (although mine would more appropriately be called a "pre-cancer memoir). It evokes charity-walks, ribbons, Oprah. And I'm not that kind of gal. I hate pink. I'm not about bite-sized self-help strategies parceled out by a television billionaire. I'm much too cynical to buy in to any of that. Yet with this blog, I'm trying to carve out my own corner in the crowded cancer-memoir market; I've decorated it with tones more eggplant than pink, sprinkled it with profanities rather than aphorisms, encouraged laughter rather than tears. But can it work? I'm not sure yet. This blog, like my health and my body, is very much a construction project; blueprints might scrapped, plans may change. I know I have a challenge ahead of me. Can I, as Bachelder says, create art despite its very obvious agenda? (That agenda being to promote awareness of genetic testing and mutations -- not, though the line may be perilously blurry, to talk only about the world as a film in which I am the star.) It remains to be seen. But at least I can declare my intention to try. Even if I fail.javascript:void(0)

Meet my evil twin

Sorry about the bummer of a post yesterday. I hate to put that kind of negativity out there, especially when there are so many people who have it so much worse that me. My positivity was kidnapped by my evil doppelganger (which may happen again from time to time). Here, I've written a play to illustrate.

ACT I

Doctor's office.

Doctor: So, as you can see, we have many options for breast reconstruction.

Steph (thoughtfully, fiddling with chin as if stroking a goatee): Ah yes, very interesting.

Doctor: We have a range of implant options, including tissue expanders that are filled gradually to near-permanent implants in silicone and saline.

Steph (nodding her head): Fascinating. And the incision site?

Doctor: Ah, yes, well, there are several options there, too...

Offstage, loud crashing sound. Enter ANTI-STEPH. She is dressed identically to STEPH, but her clothes are torn and dirty. Her hair is a nest of frizz, syrupy Popsicle sticks, tree branches, and live animals. Her eye makeup is smeared across her face. She gnashes her teeth. Her eyes are wild.

Anti-Steph (growling): Raaaaaaar!

Doctor (shocked): Can I help you?

STEPH sits quietly with her hands in her lap.

Anti-Steph: Several options, huh? (Overturning examining table) How about none of the above, mother fucker!

ANTI-STEPH shreds the Shape magazine she has brought in from the waiting room and stuffs the glossy pages in her mouth. She chews loudly and spits the wet, masticated clump at the doctor.

Doctor (to STEPH): Do you know her?

Steph (looking apprehensively at ANTI-STEPH, who is now doing jumping jacks and singing Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It"): (inaudible mumbling)

--Fin--

And scene. I realize now what I'm really mourning isn't my breasts but my option to do nothing. Contrary to popular opinion (many friends and readers have remarked about how proactive I'm being about my BRCA diagnosis), I'm a terribly lazy person. Just ask my husband. I'm a nap champ. I'm a classic why-do-now-what-can-be-put-off-till-the-last-minute-oh-hey-is-that-an-America's-Next-Top-Model-Marathon-on-TV-oh-sweet-it-is-I'm-not-leaving-this-couch-today kind of gal. I make plans and don't do them. For instance, this Sunday, I intended to go to a 5 p.m. yoga class. And guess what? I didn't! I took an nap instead. And guess what happened? Nothing! Not going to yoga didn't make a lick of difference in my life. But when it comes to my boobs, I can't nap through this one. I have to do something. And that disrupts my world order.

Off in a few hours to an MRI! Woo hoo! Go proactivity! (Offstage, Anti-Steph growls.)

In which the princess does not get her way

I've had a rough go of it lately. This past week has been, by far, the most difficult I've endured. So difficult, in fact, that I've found it very hard to write about. Even journaling about my anxiety couldn't temper my fear and bring me understanding and peace. I have composed and erased this post a half a dozen times, and it never seems to come out quite right. But that's symbolic of what I've discovered recently: in my new world, things aren't ever going to be quite the way I wish they could be.

A lot of realities converged on me this week. It started out well: on Sunday, I attended a local support group populated by brave, diverse women of all shapes, sizes, and ages, all of whom, like me, are at high-risk for cancer, either because they, too, are genetic mutation carriers or because they have a strong family history (it should be noted that strong family history does not always indicate a mutation). Many of the women had already gone through surgery -- some had removed their breasts, some their ovaries, some both. There was even a show-and-tell portion of the evening when brave women doffed their shirts and bras and submitted to fondling and inspection by us pre-ops (if you had told me a month ago I would have found myself feeling up strangers on Sunday nights in the suburbs, I'd have thought you were lying, but alas, that's exactly what I found myself doing last week). The reconstructions looked good -- think perky porn star good. Pert grapefruit halves good. Gravity defying orbs good. In fact, there are lots of women out there who are willing to pay to have their breasts look like that. But, unfortunately, they aren't real boobs good. They feel funny, like sacks of gelatin. The loose skin can ripple around the implant. And there are the scars -- angry reminders of what lies beneath. I saw incisions under the boob; I saw incisions across the boob; I even saw incisions straight down the middle of the boob (and nippleless boobs, too, though so-called "nipple-sparing" procedures are more common today). Overall, I saw really wonderful examples of advances in surgical and reconstruction technology; but, in the end, no matter how well the final result approximated natural breasts, they weren't. And I think that's what set me off.

I realized that being BRCA2+ means, essentially, that, when it comes to pretty important parts of my body, I can no longer have my way. If I had my way, I'd keep my boobs (and my ovaries, but that's not something I have the mental capacity to process yet); as I've mentioned, I'm quite fond of my ta-tas, they have many admirers, and they are currently scarless, gelatin-sackless, and natural. They fill out a swimsuit well. They don't get in my way when I do yoga. And, perhaps most critically, they have the potential, should the occasion arise, to provide milk for my child. Being BRCA2+ (and pursuing surgery, which I'm more and more convinced I need to do every day, even if I'm less and less thrilled by the choice) means that I'll look different, my breasts will feel alien, and most devastatingly, I will never be able to breastfeed. And that sucks. At so many points this week, as I was being pummeled by all of these new, inarguable realities, I felt like stomping my feet and balling up my fists and throwing a fit because that's what little princesses do when they aren't getting their way. But I can't scream and cry and hold my breath until my face turns blue with this one. I can't stick out my bottom lip and act all cute until I get what I want. I'm stuck. It's a choice between shit and shit, and, unfortunately, I realized this week that I'm just shit out of luck. I got angry and scared, and at points, I felt like I was going to faint from the stress.

Also this week, I started to worry that I'm already sick. Well, I shouldn't say *started* since I tend to be a bit of a hypochondriac (I'm always pretty convinced that every little creak and ache portends a grizzly demise from some fast-acting disease); in fact, as I've noted, my right breast started hurting almost immediately after my father told me about the mutation. But for some reason -- which I think I've figured out, because spending my free time psychoanalyzing myself is, next to watching marathons of America's Next Top Model reruns, the best way to kill a few hours -- I became convinced this week that the ache in my breast is real, that I'm already ill, and that I'm already too late. Whether or not I am is to be determined (to find out what's doing in my bosom I'm scheduled for an MRI Tuesday afternoon, which I plan to recount in all its claustrophobic glory here later this week), but a side effect of all of this is that I am pretty much, until I learn how to deal or just go batshit crazy, in a constant state of near-panic. I was scared about my genetic testing results. Now I'm anxious about the findings of the MRI. Next I'll be terrified of surgery. Then I'll be worried about my ovaries. It's a constant cycle of transferring -- once I overcome and accept something there's always something new to fear. BRCA2+, and the anxiety that comes along with it, is the gift that keeps on giving. And it's a gift I wish I could return.

So, as I said, it's been a crappy week. But it's to be expected. I can't be funny-hey-everything's-OK girl all the time. This is a story as much about my emotional as it is my physical journey, and I'm documenting it all, the good, the bad, and the downright shitty.

It was the breast of times, it was the worst of times

This week, I have slowly been "coming out" to my friends about my BRCA2 status and this blog. To be honest, I'm more sheepish about admitting to being a blogger than a genetic mutant. (I keep waiting for someone to say "2003 called. It wants its technological trend back.") It's not that I'm afraid that people will read this blog; I'm afraid people won't. I enjoy the idea of blogging because it's a bit like purposefully leaving your diary open on a bus stop bench; you know some stranger is going to happen along and be too curious to resist. But what if no one is waiting for the bus? (Forgive my clumsy metaphors; I'm a huge fan of them and have no plans to drop the habit of constructing them.) Sometimes I think mine is the most interesting story in the world to tell; sometimes I worry that no one will care. There are lots of ladies out there like me, and many of them are writing about their experiences; this both makes me feel grateful to be part of a community and humbled because I've been stripped of the sick power that derives from convincing yourself you are the only one in the world with a particular problem. In the past few days, though, as I've explored the BRCA blog community, I've come to feel normalized. And this has helped me tone down the anxiety and fear that so consumed me earlier in this journey.

Anyhoo, when I sent an email to some close friends about my boobs earlier this week, I created a list of questions they might have, which I called a YAQ (which stands for Your Anticipated Questions and is fun to say because it is a homonym for a breed of long-haired Himalayan bovine). I thought it might be worth posting here in a slightly modified form in case any stragglers that aren't obligated to read this by the laws of friendship and family stumble upon my blog. This will help 'em catch up on what this lil project is all about.

So what’s wrong with you?

Nothing yet. But I’m a BRCA2 genetic mutation carrier, which means I am at high risk for developing certain types of cancers, most notably breast cancer and ovarian cancer; in raw numbers, I have an 85% chance of developing breast cancer at some point in my life and a 40% chance of developing ovarian cancer. I don’t – as far as I am aware – have cancer, but basically what the diagnosis indicates is that it’s not a question of if but when.


How did you find out about it?

My father’s family (from whom I got the gene) has been plagued by cancer throughout the generations. An astute aunt compiled, after my 31-year-old cousin was diagnosed with breast cancer last summer, a family history of cancer diagnoses and deaths in the family and took those findings to a genetic counselor. From the history and a blood sample, it was concluded that the BRCA2 gene was present and likely responsible for much of the cancer in our family. So everyone got tested. Some people had it. Some people didn’t. My grandfather had it. My dad has it. And now I do, too (there was a fifty percent chance that I wouldn’t have the gene, but, you know, shit happens).

OMG Do I have it too?

Probably not. The mutation it most prevalent in the Ashkenazi Jewish community (and apparently parts of Eastern Europe, from where my family hails), but its incidence in the general population is estimated at 1 in 800, so it’s rare as raw meat. And family history is really the greatest indicator of genetic predisposition. So if your family is healthy and the old folks die of boredom, you’re probably in the clear.

That sucks for you.

That wasn’t a question.

How do you feel about how much that sucks for you?

I’m dealing with its suckiness. Today I’m feeling like it’s no biggie. Tomorrow I could be immobilized by fear and grief.

So what’s the plan?

The worst thing to do right now is to do nothing, so I’m weighing my options. There are three approaches to responding to this diagnosis. The first is simple vigilance: get screened often so as to catch any lumps and bumps in the early stages. The second involves a five-year course of a chemotherapy drug called tamoxifen, which will send me into early (and temporary) menopause; this will cut my cancer risk in half. The last option is also the most radical: a bilateral prophylactic mastectomy. In layman’s terms, that means cutting off your boobies before they kill ya. I’m leaning towards doing this.

Wait, what? What are ya nuts?

No, not clinically. But listen, I know it’s radical. I know it seems extreme. But here’s the thing, I have and 85% chance of getting breast cancer. If I don’t have breasts, my chances plummet to less than 5% (which is well below the national average of 10-12%). Trust me. I’m not thrilled about it either. I love my breasts. They’re really lovely. They have brought me many years of joy, and have enriched the lives of many. But they ceased being so awesome the moment I learned they could kill me.

But what about just being vigilant, getting routine screenings and regular exams?

For those of you that do not know me personally, the truth is that I can be, well, a little anxious. I’m no good at waiting for bad news; I can get a little unhinged. So the monitoring approach doesn’t really suit me. Like I said, it’s not a question of if but when, and getting screened four times a year translates to four periods of terrible anxiety as I wait for the (possible) bad news.

Ok, but really, a mastectomy?

Here’s an analogy, clumsy as it may be. Suppose you were told that there was an 85% chance you would be in a plane crash – which may or may not kill you -- at some point in your life. (Right there, I’m guessing most of you would opt for the train.) You could hedge the odds a little, however, if you became an airplane mechanic; but even if you personally inspected every plane you flew on, you would not be able to prevent the crash, only know in advance that it was going to happen (so, theoretically, to extend the metaphor, you could make sure you have an exit-row seat on that flight). The only way to reduce your risk of being in a plane crash would be to not fly. So that’s, in metaphorical terms, what I’m going to do.

What about your ovaries?

Slow down there, pal. I’m getting my knockers lopped off. I can only deal with the removal of one ladypart at a time. (The non-smart ass answer is: I’ll probably need to say bye-bye to those, too, but not for about ten years if they remain cancer-free.)

Why are you writing publicly about this very personal thing? It’s your boobs. Shouldn’t you be a little more, well, modest?

Probably. But the truth is, advocacy and activism regarding BRCA mutations are still in their infancies; only recently has genetic screening become more common among women with families histories of cancer. I feel like, by sharing my story, I might be able to contribute to the nascent culture of personal narratives on this subject. I also wanted to create a forum where I could stay in touch with my friends and family throughout the process. And this seemed like the best forum to do this.

Take my boobs, please

I had my first (and probably last, for now at least) appointment with a breast oncologist yesterday. Turns out unless I opt to take tamoxifen, a chemotherapy drug that will send me into fits of (early and temporary) menopausal symptoms and cut my risk of cancer in half but only if I can tolerate the drug everyday for FIVE YEARS, I won't be seeing her again. The breast surgeon, with whom I meet in two weeks, will be the one ordering MRIs and additional scans, still-life portraits, and needlepoint patterns of my breasts. The breast oncologist didn't tell me much I didn't already know, although she did comment, and the resident nodded in agreement, that my breasts are very dense, which is news to me, because I haven't ever had any other set of breasts growing on my body to compare them to (the medical reason for noting this, I suppose, is that dense breast tissue makes it difficult to find cancer in mammograms because cancer shows up as white on the films, as does dense breast tissue -- a fact that was confirmed when G picked up my films from the radiology department in advance of my appointments at the end of the month and we held them up to the light and my boobs appeared filled with spidery networks of whiteness, which I'm guessing isn't all cancer, or else I'd probably not be typing this right now). I asked her if I should reduce my soy intake given preliminary findings that suggest it might contribute to breast cancer (let me just pause to say how devastating this would be for my diet: as a vegan, I consume probably 1000% more soy than the average carnivore, and I would so very much miss soy in the many delicious forms it is conveniently packaged in -- Trader Joe's Soy Nuggets, I'm looking at you and salivating). She said there was no strong research to suggest a risk but said that the biggest risk reduction lifestyle choice I could make (if I decide to keep my breasts for a few years) would be to stop drinking alcohol. Now, as many of you may have seen, heard, or read about in police reports, I likey the sauce. And in a world where I'm required to be constantly vigilant for the onset of the big bad C, I'm going to need a few stiff ones to get me through the waiting. So, all of this is to say that hearing that recommendation made me even more sure of my decision to pursue surgery. I may be titless, but at least I'll be good and drunk. As a footnote, I followed doctor's orders last night with a glass of white wine with A (which turned into two and half glasses because bottles were half price, and, economically, it would have been disadvantageous not to take the fine folks at Feast up on the generous discount). Wine 1, boobs O.

On being positive and staying positive

I learned on Thursday that I am a carrier of the BRCA2 genetic mutation. I was tempted to write just then, On Thursday, my worst fears were realized. But that seems a little dramatic (having just seen the Diving Bell and the Butterfly, I sort of measure everything in my life now against Jean-Dominique Bauby's locked-in state -- whereby he could communicate with the outside world only by blinking his one working eye -- and having BRCA2 is like a hang nail compared to that). Although the waiting was interminable, the diagnosis was quick: my ass had barely hit the chair in the genetic counselor's office before she had opened the file and said something to the effect of "Let's not draw this out, you have the mutation." She had other words of wisdom, cliche as they might be: "It was a coin toss and we came up with the wrong side." I actually return to that, because I think, even in its ineloquence, it really captures the randomness of my -- and anyone else's -- genetic heritage. I knew from the start I had a fifty percent chance of having the mutation, but I also sort of knew all along I was a carrier. Why do you think I started blogging in advance of the results? Answer: I needed an outlet for the emotions I knew would surface during this journey.

I cried when I learned. But not immediately. You know how when babies cry, they scrunch up their faces and their cheeks and foreheads turn red and they open their mouth and no sound comes out for a good second or two before the torrent of noise and tears comes? It kind of felt like that. I nodded, examined the document on the table thoughtfully, likely inhaled and exhaled several times (though I have no recollection of how I sustained control of basic motor functions), and then cried. That time between: shock. A doctor wearing a pink shirt came and joined the counselor, G, and me in the cramped office (which, like the garbage compactor in Star Wars, seemed to have walls that were closing in on me); I tried to listen to the words that came out of his mouth but only managed to hear the phrase "high risk women." That is the group of which I am now a part. There is a name for what I am, and a community of people who are like me. That is both comforting and frustrating, given that I do so much in my life (eat vegan, wear seat belts, avoid sex with intravenous drug users) to make myself low-risk. But this is genetics, kid, I tell myself. It trumps all lifestyle choices.

Lest you think I'm ordering burgers, joyriding, and bonking junkies, I'm not. I feel like I can deal. Don't get me wrong. I have in the past few days been overcome by emotions, especially when faced with the thought of my own mortality (engendered, embarrassingly enough, by the Ricky Gervais movie Ghost Town, which, admittedly looks like a remade Bill Cosby project but is actually very funny and utterly charming -- I'm on a movie kick, yes). I have had trouble sleeping. I have awoken in the night unable to think of anything else. But I decided long before I knew whether or not I was a carrier that I wouldn't let the outcome ruin my life. So I am trying to go about my daily bidness as usual. And for the most part, it's working.

Up next: the cavalcade of doctor's appointments. First opinions! Second opinions! New patient questionnaires galore! The real adventure is about to begin.

Knowing, not knowing

To say I've been consumed by anxiety and fear these last two weeks would be a vast understatement. I vacillate wildly between a nearly locked-in feeling that the world external to me has no relation to my inner life (imagine walking through a busy downtown interchange, your ears stuffed with iPod buds, only you're too deafened by your own thoughts to even tolerate music and the noise that's keeping you from connecting to the world around you is your anxiety), which I have affectionately dubbed "head-up-my-butt" syndrome, and an eerie calm that feels false and unsettling (this most recently happened when I shared with someone what I was going through and he listened, mouth agape, brow furrowed with obvious concern, and I heard words coming from my mouth that sounded so devoid of the emotions that should accompany them that I thought for a moment that I had actually reached some kind of plateau of acceptance, but, in reality, my words bespoke a strong sense of denial). I find myself measuring time and events in a kind of knowing/not knowing continuum. (This probably derives from my OCD.) Last night, I had dinner and drinks with J, and as I kissed her goodnight, I thought, this is the last time I'll see her before I Know. The last time I'll step across the threshold of her apartment and into the hallway and press the elevator button and walk through the glass doors and out into the street before I Know. But this has been going on all week. At the gym: this is the last time I'll run on this treadmill before I Know. Riding to work: This is the last time I'll press the seatbelt release in K's car before I Know. Walking into work: This is the last time I'll step on that sewer cover before I Know. This morning: I woke up in a panic thinking that today was the day I would Learn but was relieved to realize I had one more day, one more night to sleep, to toss, to turn, to dream before I Know.

Last night at dinner, J suggested that by even entertaining the idea that I am a carrier I was disrupting the positive energy forces in the universe that decide my fate. She's a big fan of positive visualization and actualization, and I myself am a huge fan of magical thinking (I have OCD after all, which is nothing more than an elaborate framework of bargaining--if I touch the doorknob correctly, I won't be BRCA2 positive--to control the chaos of life), but I had to put my foot down here. Most people I've told have suggested gently I wait until I Know For Sure to start thinking about What I'm Going To Do, but in my defense, I need to prepare, to think through the possibilities, the options, the outcomes. I need to mentally gird myself so that I'm not caught unaware, afraid, uneducated should I face the reality that I am a carrier. And the truth is, this is genetics. There is no bargaining, there is no magic. If I have it Thursday, I have it now, and I've had it my whole life. And if I don't, I didn't have it today or yesterday or any other day of my life. It comes down to the very stuff I'm made of, the blueprint for my being, and, after a lot of struggle with acceptance, I actually kind of like how I've turned out: I'm tall and curvy, I have erratic yet charming curly hair, and my hazel eyes adapt to match my outfit. I can't change the genes that gave me the things you see on the outside anymore than I can change the genes that determine my ability to suppress tumors on the inside. This ultimately will be a journey about accepting myself, for better or BRCA, and I feel about as ready as I'll ever be to Know.