I choose...

I can’t choose whether or not I have this gene. I do. That is out of my hands. I’m not going to pretend like I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy and puppy dogs and rainbows about it.

It sucks.

I can’t choose whether or not I will get cancer. I can choose to remove my breasts and my ovaries as a preventative measure to significantly reduce those chances.

I choose to look at this knowledge as a blessing. I’ve had this gene mutation my whole life. That hasn’t changed. The only thing that has changed is that I know about it now. I would rather know than not know. Do I want to be shopping for surgeons to remove my breasts and fertility doctors to preserve my eggs so I have a chance at having biological children in the future? Of course I don’t. But I would certainly rather be making these choices, then to be making choices about cancer treatment. For that, I feel fortunate.

I refuse to ruminate on thoughts of ‘poor me’ or ‘why me’ or ‘this is so unfair’. They cross my mind. They do. Sometimes they linger. Sometimes they pitch tents and start making bonfires to roast some marshmallows. But what good would it do to let those thoughts take center stage? How would that serve me, my recovery, my future? How would being a victim benefit me?

I choose to look at this knowledge as a gift. A gift of life. A gift of choice.

How many women battling breast cancer right now would have gladly given their breasts to not have to be dealing with chemo and radiation? How many women with ovarian cancer would do the same? How many women will die of ovarian cancer, because their diagnosis comes too late? Tell me which of them wouldn’t have gladly had their ovaries removed if they had been given the choice. It’s a gift to have this knowledge in advance. To be able to take preventative measures, drastic and unpalatable though they may be.

That doesn’t mean I’m not scared. Or angry. Or sad. I am all of these.

I am overwhelmed.

I am also hopeful. And thankful.

I choose to focus on those thoughts over the next few months, as I meet with specialists and make decisions about removing my breasts. Removing my ovaries. Removing my ability to have children.

I will be 30 years old and breastless. Infertile. Menopausal.

I will be 30 years old and alive.

Healthy.

A gift.

[Via http://lifewithmoxie.wordpress.com]