I carry the same genetic mutation that killed my grandmother, and is killing my dad. Left to its own devices, it could kill me too.

My grandmother died when I was 8.

She’d been fighting ovarian cancer for 10 years. Due to a sick twist of fate— and poor genetics, though we didn’t know it at the time, her long battle ended after a brief stint with pancreatic cancer.

She bore through seemingly endless rounds of chemotherapy that left her with dibilitating neuropathy. I remember her complaining about the metallic taste she carried with her long after active treatment ended.

She was a brilliant artist who painted deliberate geometric patterns that reflected an organized life, one in which cancer did not emerge unannounced to devour the unassuming.

I learned then to be scared of cancer. I saw it’s destruction, and I remember thinking, even at 8 years old, “I never want this.” But I also suspected, somehow, that it would always be part of my journey.

When my dad was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer 15 years later, I was not shocked or even mildly surprised. Cancer had come back to our family, but it was no longer an amorphous intruder on our doorstep. It was familiar in its danger.

The difference, this round, wasn’t just advancements in treatment. Those familiar with cancer know the familiar waiting with bated breath for a new technology to emerge if we just hold out long enough.

The difference was that science progressed enough to paint a picture of what kept murdering my family.

It is a violent alteration in our DNA, a fucked up deadly genetic mutation that kills.

The BRCA-2 mutation.

After the oncologist discovered it in my dad, they found it in me, too.

Cancer is no longer a guest at our doorstep; it is embedded deep in our home, intrinsic to our existence and our lives.

On Monday I will have my last surgery in a series of surgeries I am undergoing for a preventive double mastectomy, to decrease my risk of breast cancer from 87% to less than 5%.

I will still need to remove my ovaries in 10 years, to decrease my risk of ovarian cancer (~37%).

I undergo annual screenings for almost every part of my body. I have an oncologist I meet with regularly.

I am exhausted. I am also so lucky.

My grandmother didn’t have this choice to be proactive. Nor did my dad. The science hadn’t progressed enough to predict that my dad would, in fact, likely get cancer. That I would, too.

But science has caught up now. Full genetic panels exist that can sort through your DNA to identify genetic mutations. Advanced computer modeling can analyze your family history to forecast your likelihood of developing cancer at different ages.

I enter my last breast surgery with fatigue and pain, but with immense gratitude, too. My grandmother and my dad are with me. This is a generational long fight. But I will end it.

Fuck cancer.

immensely grateful this thread has resonated with so many people. thank you for slogging through my pain alongside me in getting to know my family and our story.