After years of fretting and panicking and putting it off, I was finally tested for the BRCA gene.

There’s a bunch of info in that link, but here are the numbers:

Only 5% of cancers are linked to BRCA.
A normal person has a 1 in 10 chance of developing breast cancer.
A BRCA positive person has an 8.5 in 10 chance of developing breast cancer.
A normal person has a 1 in 67 chance of developing ovarian cancer.
A BRCA positive person has a 6 in 10 chance of developing ovarian cancer.

My mom was BRCA positive. So is her sister and one of her brothers – the other brother is unknown.

Next generation, my generation? Two tests, both positive.

Every single person in our family who has tested has come back positive. The genetic counselors say it’s a flip of the coin mutation – 50/50, either you have it or you don’t. But positive test after positive test, I think we were all starting to lose hope. We all have been acting on the assumption that everyone is positive, because, well, everyone has tested positive.

This loss of hope has manifested itself in different ways. For me, it resulted in cold, quivering fear. I went in for not one, but two genetic counseling sessions, a year and a half apart. I’ve scheduled and then canceled several precautionary screenings. I’ve changed my mind about being tested for BRCA, oh, about 457274 times.

The positive results almost crushed me. Dozens of decisions to make, and from where I’m standing, they all look like they lead straight into hell on earth. It’s like trying to comprehend how big Jupiter is, a task so overwhelming I shut down a little, because I am not smart enough to figure out where to begin. I am furiously angry over how unfair this is, this genetic “gift” that keeps on giving. We had to deal with my mom being sick for a decade. We had to deal with her dying. And so not only do we get to deal with our mom missing, absent from marriages and grandkids and all the good stuff that most people’s moms get to see their kids grow up and do, but now we have to deal with a very real threat to our own health and my god, it is not fair. I know how petulant that sounds. But it isn’t. Fair.

Mom got sick at 40. She died at 50. I’m 30. Turns out, I’ve been living my life like I have 10 good years left. People ask me, why am I rushing? Why do I push so hard? What’s the fucking hurry?

When I consciously realized the source of the pressure, I made the decision to get tested myself and find out for sure. Because that’s no way to live, is it?

And I came back negative. The first one.

I think about the people who weren’t lucky, who came back positive, and the guilt is almost unbearable. The only reason I can still breathe is because I keep reminding myself that because I won’t have to go through that hell on earth, I can redirect that energy to supporting them.

But I’m not going to pretend that I’m not happy, either. Because this is a sense of relief I’ve never experienced before. “Weight off of my back” isn’t strong enough. Maybe the weight of Jupiter off my back. Maybe.

I’m normal. I get a normal life, and I get to think of my future like most people do – without deadlines or expiration dates, stretching on for as long as I can make it. Sure, anything could happen, the old thing about stepping in front of a bus tomorrow, it might.

But it might not.

I know how stupid this sounds, but I feel, quite literally, as if I have been given a gift. Right now, I just pray that I’m a worthy recipient, never taking it for granted, using it to do good things.

My promise is that I will try.

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