I Did Literally Everything I Could to Prevent Getting Cancer—and I Still Got It

“Funny about your pathology,” Evan, the surgeon’s assistant, said to me as I waited for my doctor. I had had a preventive mastectomy and reconstructive surgery 10 days prior, in March 2013, and I was in the office for what I thought was a routine follow-up visit. Evan casually looked through my charts on a clipboard. I had no idea what he was talking about.

“My pathology? What do you mean?” I asked.

“You made a great decision to have the mastectomy. How crazy that you actually had cancer,” he said. 

“I had a preventative mastectomy,” I informed him. “There was no cancer.”

“It’s right here,” Evan read from a yellow Post-It in his hand. “Two tumors. Ductal carcinoma—one in situ and one invasive.”

I demanded a printout of the pathology report to read, and the reality slowly settled in: I had chosen to remove my breasts in order to avoid breast cancer, but breast cancer had managed to find me anyway. I was stunned.

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Danger in my genes
It all started about a year earlier, when my mom received a letter from my paternal aunt. She wanted to inform us that she’d recently been diagnosed with breast cancer and had tested positive for a BRCA gene mutation. Since it’s linked to an increased risk of breast and ovarian cancer—and it’s hereditary—she thought that I should be tested, too. 

Every new test had me awaiting the possibility of a bad report. Discovering even the smallest lump or bump triggered a deep dread. 

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I agreed, but I wasn’t quite sure what to do when I learned I was positive. I knew that having prophylactic surgery to remove my breasts and/or ovaries was an option, but I decided to do some research before doing anything drastic. There wasn’t much online at that point—it was before Angelina Jolie went public about her operation—and the genetic specialist I met with told me a mastectomy shouldn’t be necessary. She explained that 55 to 65 percent of women who are BRCA2 positive end up with breast cancer, so it wasn’t a given. And I could stay vigilant by alternating between MRIs and mammograms every six months.

Ovarian cancer was a different story. Since there’s no good early detection test for it—and women who are BRCA2 positive have an 11 to 17 percent chance of getting it—the specialist recommended I have an oophorectomy. Since I was not interested in having more kids, that seemed to be a smart plan. I gave myself six months to prep for the onset of menopause the removal of my ovaries would usher in, and then had the procedure.

Meanwhile, I started going for twice-yearly breast cancer screenings, but it didn’t take long before I grew tired of the appointments and the testing and the waiting. Every new test had me awaiting the possibility of a bad report. Discovering even the smallest lump or bump triggered a deep dread. 

“Do I want to live my life waiting around for test results,” I thought, “or am I going to do what I can right now?” About eight months after my oophorectomy, I scheduled a double mastectomy.  

RELATED: 10 Things Your Breasts Say About Your Health

Signs of trouble
A week before my breast surgery, I had another mammogram; my surgeon said it was standard presurgery protocol. A few days later, she called to say that they found something suspicious, so I’d need a repeat test before being cleared for surgery.  

At this point, I had spent months preparing myself, mentally and emotionally, for the mastectomy. I’d been eating right and working out in an effort to speed up my recovery time. The thought of delaying the procedure felt like torture. “Please, don’t cancel the surgery,” I told the doctor. “I’m begging you.”

“We’ll schedule another mammogram and just see what happens,” she said. “If they see something, then we’ll immediately send you for a biopsy.”

I went back that same day for the second mammogram and had a fine-needle aspiration biopsy right after. While waiting for the biopsy results, they wanted me to have a sentinel node test: It involves injecting a dye or radioactive substance near the tumor to trace the location of the sentinel lymph node, which is the first lymph node to spread cancerous cells from a malignant tumor. If I actually had cancer, this test would tell us whether it had spread to other parts of my body. 

I was on my way to the sentinel node testing when my phone rang. “We got your results, and you have nothing to worry about,” my doctor reassured me. “It’s just some precancerous cells, and you don’t even need to undergo the sentinel node test. We’ll do your mastectomy as planned.”

Relieved that everything was back on track, I had the mastectomy, which went well. My recovery wasn’t bad either—that is, until I had my follow-up with the plastic surgeon to check on my drains and learned I had breast cancer.

RELATED: 8 Things Your Nipples Say About Your Health

Becoming a cancer patient
“Two tumors,” the plastic surgeon’s assistant read from the Post-It. As soon as I left that appointment, I called the office of my breast surgeon, demanding an explanation. 

It turned out that the invasive tumor was small but contained a very aggressive type of cancer.

She said she had planned to tell me about the cancer at my follow-up with her the next week, as my case would be going before the hospital’s tumor board (a group of specialists who review and discuss a patient’s diagnosis to decide on the best course of treatment), and she didn’t yet know how to best proceed. We hadn’t done the sentinel node test, and now that the tumor was removed from my body, we couldn’t—which meant there was no way to find out if the cancer had spread.

She still thought I had nothing to worry about, but at the follow-up she sang a different tune: It turned out that the invasive tumor was small but contained a very aggressive type of cancer. Because it was impossible to know whether the sentinel node had started spreading cancerous cells at that point, the tumor board recommended I undergo chemo.

“Would I lose my hair?” was the first question I heard come from my mouth. “Probably,” she said.

“No way!” I said, refusing to accept the situation. “I’ve done everything right. I don’t want to lose my hair.” Chemo would likely usher in many difficult side effects—nausea, fatigue, pain—but in that moment, my biggest concern was my hair. I sought out a second opinion, which unfortunately was no different from the first. There was no way to know whether the mastectomy completely removed the cancer. I needed chemo. I was walking through the hospital, incredulous and frustrated that I was so unlucky. I was as vigilant as I could have been and somehow still ended up with breast cancer. But as I walked, I had to pass through the children’s wing. I saw these precious little people who had lost their hair and had tubes coming out of them. And they were smiling. In that moment, I realized my selfishness. “How can these kids smile at me?” I thought. “If only they knew what I was thinking.”

I underwent chemo, shaved my head, got a great wig, and lived the next year of my life in a fog. Angelina Jolie’s story came out when I was in the middle of chemo. I remember being mad at her because she didn’t have cancer and I did. 

I had been so strong and had prepared for everything, but here I was. I had cancer and I was angry. I often told the chemo nurses how unlucky I felt, until one of them set me straight. “You don’t understand,” she said. “You’re incredibly lucky. You found the cancer at stage 1b. You may not like the treatment, but it’s very effective, and so many people would give anything to be in your shoes. You’re going to live.” I realized in that instant that my perspective had been a bit warped.

The emotional toll chemo took on me was far greater than any physical pain I endured, but I made it. Now that I’m on the other side of surgery and cancer and chemo and healing—I’m officially in remission—I can see clearly that everything I did saved my life. That makes me very fortunate indeed.