It was a Tuesday morning. Naturally, on a day like this it just had to be raining. I met my mom at Mercy Hospital and we walked in together, talking about anything other than what was clearly on our minds. I could tell she was uneasy. I don’t like uneasy. When we were in the waiting room, the small talk finally stopped. Not just like your typical mother, but also someone who has experienced way more in her life than I could ever imagine, she comforted me and told me it was going to be okay no matter what the results. She told me how I was in good hands and how life would not change. I don’t like change. My mom and I walked way too casually into a room where I was either going to walk away like it was any other Tuesday, or I was going to walk away knowing my life would be forever changed.

But let’s back it up a little. If you were to make a bracket of my family history of cancer, it would be bigger and more intense than the bracket used for March Madness. I know this because I had to map out the cancer history for both sides of my families with my gene doctor. It’s so sad, surreal, and scary how many people in my family have been affected by it. Also it’s an eye opener to how many strong and courageous people I have/had in my life.

I don’t remember the exact age I was when my mom was diagnosed with cancer. I do know that she first felt the lump when we were at Disney World and I was probably screaming my head off with my dad and sister on some roller coaster I was forced upon. I was old enough to remember bits and pieces from the sickness, but young enough to not really grasp how bad cancer was until I saw her pounds lighter and with no hair. I will admit I was a brat of a child, but I can also admit that the first time I saw her really sick was the last day I ever asked anything from my parents (if you know my parents, you know they usually offer anything in the world before I could ask, but you get my point.) Something about seeing my mom so weak, made me want to be strong. How much I admire my mom for going through everything she has, has made me the person I am today. Ask anyone who knows her today, you would NEVER think that woman has gone through anything like she has. She’s the most generous, giving, outgoing, funny, nice, kind, perfect woman there is. Life’s not fair.

Eventually, with all the advancements we have going on in our world, it was great to hear that we had a way to get tested for certain cancer genes to try in any way to prevent cancer from happening. And clearly with my family history, this was quickly brought to my attention. I had cousins test positive for the same gene mutation that our moms and grandmas all shared (BRCA1, for those wondering). The day my sister told me she tested positive was the same day I decided I would also get tested, no matter what we thought the odds were. I’ll never forget my sister breaking the news to me after one of my volleyball games that she drove up to St. Louis to watch. I went back to my dorm room and cried. I didn’t just cry because I thought life wasn’t fair, and my sister (just like our family) didn’t deserve this, but just so proud that she made a big decision to take on this new journey to help save her from this nasty cancer gene. The same journey that was soon ahead of me….

The November before I turned 24, I decided to go ahead and get bloodwork done to get tested for the gene mutation. Having such a good support system and family who knew exactly what I was going through really helped. I guess the scary part was thinking that now I have to prepare for the possibility of my life changing forever. I don’t like change.

Fast forward… My mom and I walked way too casually into a room where I was either going to walk away like it was any other Tuesday, or I was going to walk away knowing my life would be forever changed. It’s almost a blur and it happened so fast. But my gene doctor sat me down, grabbed my hand, and apologized as she broke the news to me that I had tested positive with the BRCA1 gene. I don’t want to bore you with the facts, but this basically means I have a VERY great chance of having breast and ovarian cancer.

The decision was almost clear to me that I would follow in my cousins and sister’s footsteps and go ahead with the double mastectomy. To many people this screams, “Oh, you get new boobs!” If I didn’t know any better, I would have wished this was what it meant. But boy, I was in for a journey.

I never thought at 24 I would be filing for short-term disability at my job. They accepted the process and told me to take all the time I needed, but it was so hard for me to accept that I was in some way “disabled.” Anything I had planned in the beginning of the year 2016 just had to go away. Come my surgery on January 9th and the few following months after, I had no control over how I would feel or what state I would be in. But I just took it day by day. This was my decision.

I cried for hours before my alarm went off the morning of my surgery. I don’t like change and even though I had people around me who had been through the same process, I still didn’t know how I’d feel. My mom and my sister came with me. I didn’t cry at the hospital, I just joked the couple hours before they stuck me and put me out. I joke when I’m scared. Also, I couldn’t have my hot doctor see me weak (although he was about to see me completely naked.) My mom and sister kissed my cheek and I was out like a Saturday night after Wheelhouse downtown.

All I remember is waking up and feeling like piles and piles of stone were on the top half of my body. I couldn’t breathe. I mean, my chest was just chopped bare. Luckily I was hooked up to some sort of machine because I felt like everything was out of my control. I slowly came out of the anesthesia and my mom and sis were still by my side. I tend to pretend I’m completely fine so people don’t worry about me. So when my mom said they needed to go meet my dad I said, “Ya I’m fine!” I fell asleep for the first time that night and remember waking up alone in my hospital room having a hard time breathing and having trouble pressing the emergency button for help. This is going to sound pathetic, but my drugged-up-self thought it was the end for me. The nurse came in and had to carry me to use the restroom and I apologized for being needy. She looked me dead in the eyes and told me to shut up.

My family stayed that weekend. I’ll always appreciate the card games we played that I’ll never remember. It didn’t matter. They were there. My friends were there. My work family was there. The gifts, the cards, the nice texts, just all the support.. I will NEVER forget. And it’s how I got through the aftermath of my original surgery.

I spent the next few weeks at home with bruises and stitches as boobs. I couldn’t lift myself up for a few days, and successfully watched 4 seasons of One Tree Hill in one sitting (laying?) I got extremely sick from the medication, so had to start sleeping in a recliner so I wouldn’t puke in my mouth (TMI?) I had these “drains” hanging from each side of my body which were attached to the inside of me that I had to squeeze out myself. I used to think a daily morning routine of brushing my hair and teeth was exhausting, and now I was literally emptying out my insides. I won’t even get into any more detail, but because of these devil drains, I no longer complain about pain. Or blood.

If you know me, you know that I love a good time. I love adventure and I love staying busy. I actually am not a fan of “Netflix and chilling.” I couldn’t drive, but I had to get out. I remember at some point going to meet friends at Big Daddies (our favorite bar at the time) with these drains hanging out of my body. Now that’s dedication!

With a double mastectomy, they chop you bare to remove any cancerous tissue. They put in expanders (which are basically plastic balloon things) that they would gradually fill up to re-expand my skin to prepare for my new boobs (whoop!) It was a weekly process where I would drive 35 minutes to be there for only 10 minutes as the nurse sticks each boob and fills the expanders with liquid. Little did I know this process would truly test my strength.

You know when you can tell people aren’t telling you the full story? I knew my sister was holding back on telling me how painful it was. I also knew that the fills had made her pass out. I went alone for my first fill, nervous as hell. I watched as my nurse stuck me, and could see my skin expanding. She told me I was one of the only people she had filled that didn’t cry, get sick, or pass out. I felt like a champ. I also got to go back to work three days after the first fill and one month after the original surgery. I was so excited to be back. If you know my job you know it’s taxing (I’m a public accountant, get it???)

But my work is like a family. I missed those damn people and I missed my brain being challenged with something other than TV choices. Everyone was SO supportive through the whole process. They gave me so much and I was ready to give back to them. Although I love getting people’s attention around me to make them laugh or smile, this was not the attention I wanted. I didn’t want people feeling sorry for me. I know they meant no harm, but having conversations where people are no longer looking in your eyes and strictly looking at your chest was really hard. They were looking right at my “disability” and I just felt broken. I felt like I was now viewed as a disability, and this was not my final surgery.

I would leave work on Fridays to get my remaining 8-9 fills. They originally told me I could be out 2 days after the fills, so weekends were the best option. It was busy season for me, so I needed to work every day. After my first fill, and feeling like a boss, I wasn’t worried. I went in for my second fill and she said since I handled it so well I could get more ounces filled to speed up the process. I said let’s do it. Pump me up baby.

Initially I felt fine, but as I walked to my car I first felt the pain. It was like nothing I have ever experienced. My chest just tightened up. I was on the interstate and suddenly felt like I was being stabbed with a knife. Over. And over. I couldn’t breathe and had to pull over. It went on for 30 minutes and when I would catch my breath I would just cry. It’s the kind of pain that actually makes you scream. This continued for 8 more weeks.

I couldn’t finish work on those days, so working in a field where hours are everything, this killed me. Laying down was extremely painful, so I barely slept for weeks. I did not feel like a valuable employee. I just felt useless. I was at the most vulnerable point in my life.

Don’t get me started on how it affected my love life. I wasn’t embarrassed about what I went through, but I definitely did not feel attractive. I mean I had plastic balloons as boobs and very visible scars. I also didn’t feel like a guy would want to date someone who is “disabled” and has this gene. I hated that I felt this way. I feel like I pushed some really good guys away because I was scared to let anyone in. But just like with work, I had to trust that it would all get better with time.

Things did get better. About three months after my initial surgery, I was finished getting the devil fills. My plastic balloons were filled to the size of my new boobs and ready to come out. Instead of a vacation after surviving another tax season, I was preparing for my “boob job.” Honestly, it was just another day for me. At this point, any pain I have to endure just doesn’t affect me anymore. I woke up the morning of the final surgery excited. Excited to get these expanders out, which were a constant reminder of pain, and get my new boobs. I was ready to feel like a normal woman again. I had absolutely no fears going into it. I was ready for relief.

Oh was I relieved. I feel like I blinked and woke up and it was over. I wasn’t in pain and I was done with surgeries. Yes, I just had a severe surgery and acted like it was nothing. They handed me a mirror and I looked at my new boobs and just smiled. They were perfect. They are perfect. Not just appearance wise, but the perfect reminder that I am strong and I made a strong choice. I am strong.

This journey is not over. It’ll never be over. I’ll always have doctor’s appointments and constant check ups. But you know what? I feel so damn grateful. There are always people who have it way worse. I fight for them.

I will never be defined by this gene. And I’ll NEVER say I got this gene from my family. You know what I got from them? Strength, courage, bravery, kindness, and more love than I thought possibly existed.