The worst appointment so far was the genetic counselor. I think mostly because I really wanted there to be tiny chairs and couches for my chromosomes to be analyzed and prescribed medicine.   Spoiler alert: there weren’t.  There was a lot of information.  I was told of all the cancers this gene mutation helps along, it’s so selfless… Breast and Ovarian are obviously the big ones, pancreatic, peritoneal (who even knew that was a part of my insides, let alone one that has a now elevated risk of killing me).  We were told my daughter has a 50% chance of inheriting this mutation from me.   It was just too much info at once (worth it for the Tiffany and Co necklace my husband was sweet enough to buy me after it, however.) But…I was on information overload.

But it was still ok. Right? I have the doctors, I spoke to survivors, previvors, those who had opted out of surgery, those just beginning their journey. I have the info, I am overly armed with knowledge. I’m the knight of BRCA2 knowledge.  I got this.

All doctors agree the boobies should go, but they’ve also all agreed I’m fit and haven’t banned me from drinking alcohol. So, you win some, you lose some.  I’m gonna save my damn life.  And I get to keep living it while I do so.

I had my decision, I had my husband’s support and understanding.  It was time to go home for a drink.

As, I poured my drink, text messages poured in as well:

“Well Meaning Friend”: “How were the doctors?”

Long.

WMF: “How was the counselor?”

Sucked

WMF: “Why did it suck?”

Long story. Just a lot of info. I’m so overwhelmed.

WMF: “Men carry this gene, too?”

yeah, that biology class in 8th grade comes in handy, sometimes.  Those big “D”s (oooh like my boobs!) and little “r”s…….

WMF: “Are you sure you don’t want to go out tonight?”

no, pretty sure if put in a public setting tonight, I could snap

WMF: “How are you feeling?”

exhausted.

WMF: “nice present btw”

the necklace? is that a dig or a compliment? I can’t tell anymore.  I need bed and escape or empathy and understanding. Either/or.

WMF: “Now it’s more important than ever to watch what you eat”

HAAALT! wait, what? I don’t have cancer.  I have a genetic mutation, vastly increasing my risk.

WMF: “You know cancer loves sugar”

No, I wasn’t aware of that unproven scientific fact. Perhaps I should sue those nurses for giving my father milkshakes after his chemo treatments….

WMF:  “I’m not saying it’s a cure all, but you should look into Keto”

oh God, here we go….. keep your cool, Em, just get out of this conversation. Everyone’s a doctor, under the guise of “well-meaning” unsolicited advice(I thought this just happened to new moms when old ladies asked why their babies didn’t have hats on…..)

WMF: “You should really watch the Magic Pill”

By the guy who doesn’t believe in sunscreen, believes this diet cures cancer and autism, and says babies should eat bone broth?  yeah…no. Sorry…..

WMF: “I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt to eat healthier.”

Are we still talking about this?  Thank you for your concern, but I have those guys in white coats, at those big buildings called hospitals. Shirley you know what those are.  They seem to know what they’re doing, so I’ll stick with their advice.

WMF: “I’m just trying to help….you know there’s sugar in wine”

Oh, well then I’m sorry for sending you that “box of cancer.”

What!? I sent WMF a case of wine and I felt badly, what if I sent WMF cancer!? Admittedly, not my best moment, but…I cracked. I…was…cracking…  I was losing my boobs, I was not gonna lose my wine.  I was however going to lose a friend.   Over sugar.  And keto. And diets.  And maybe a biting remark I made about empathy gene mutations….but come on! Am I really supposed to be my best self right now!?

And in all honesty, DON’T YOU FUCK WITH MY WINE! Cancer loving sugar may or may not be unproven, as is the effectiveness of many diets, in specific situations, but I can assure you from many clinical studies I’ve participated in on my couch and at my dinner table, BRCA2+, anxiety-ridden, women, who don’t have cancer and are losing their currently healthy boobies LOVE wine(in fact, Dr. Remover Guy said I could drink what I wanted – three drinks a day, if needed – I don’t, but I could).

Also, if you’re concerned, I do fully intend to watch what I eat during this time of stress.  I’ll watch it go straight into my mouth. I want ice cream and wine not kale and fake bread, though ironically dinner that night was baked salmon, brown rice(oh no! a carb!!!), and broccoli. Followed by half a pint of Talenti Gelato.

A diet is not going to rearrange my fucked up genes.  A diet is not going to prevent me from the cancer that’s coming for me.  And at five feet and 117lbs do I really NEED one?

I’m still contemplating this “well meaning” advice versus victim shaming and/or fat shaming.  As if this was something I had control over.   I fucking wish.  That’s when the shock left me and the real feelings set in.  The anger, the fear, the anxiety, the questions, and the intense craving for those uber delicious “biopsy” brownies (the regular kind, what were you thinking?!) that my neighbor makes.

If I could cut out carbs and sugar instead of cutting out my boobs, I assure you all, I would. But, it won’t save me.

I was no longer in shock. It was real. It hurt. All of it. And I needed a drink and some damn sugar ASAP.