Anne SG and the Big C

Saturday my husband’s sister bravely flew in with her three children–the eldest is five–for a 2-week visit. My inlaws live just an hour and a half or so south of us. While it is wonderful to see them–I can’t believe how those kids have grown!–they brought us a bug–a nasty stomach bug that kept my five year old up all night last night, and I imagine the rest of us will get it as well. Oh, the joys of holiday giving!! The upside is that our visitors totally took my mind off my situation and seeing the four of them is worth the throwing up, as we really don’t get to see them nearly enough, and my 5 year old and her 5 year old cousin get along like a house on fire. (Ask me again if it was worth it if *I* actually get sick.)

Yesterday we told my 8-year-old daughter, Arden, about my cancer. I didn’t go into any great detail (5-year survivial rates, that sort of thing) but I did tell her that I have cancer and will be in and out of the hospital for a while. Though she was upset just a little, I think more than anything she was relieved–she has known for some time that things aren’t right. I told her that if she had any questions at all she could ask, and that it is perfectly okay to be upset or to have sad, weird, or unusual feelings. I’ve been trying like crazy to keep her routine, but let’s face it, as my mother in law said, there’s nothing “normal” about what’s going on with me.

If you’ve ever done any research on the statistics about who gets breast cancer, you know that paternal relatives aren’t supposed to “count” in raising your risk. Well, I’m living proof that they do count. My father’s mother, her sister, and her niece all had breast cancer, and all first got it around my age. Now here I am with it. Thanks for the genes, Dad!

Which brings me to my real point today. What really jars me is not losing my breasts or even my hair (about which I confess I am vain), but what I have given my children. I am the mother of girls. In the past, it’s been a wondrous experience watching them grow and to be able to see the little inherited traits in each of them–Elise’s left-handedness is mine; Arden’s eye shape is definitely mine, though the color is either my Great-Aunt Grace’s or my mother in law’s (beautiful blue-green). But breast cancer genes? Who wants those? I suppose I can pin my hopes on the possibility that they will have a cure in 30-35 years when the gene rears its ugly head in them; but I am guessing my grandmother (who had sons) had those same hopes for me. It’s a terrible, terrible feeling to know that I have probably passed this deadly gene onto my children. And it offers me little solace to know that I am the canary in the coal mine for my younger sister, who is now on red alert.