Gene Pool of Fear

My sister’s twin girls just graduated from high school and had their 18th birthday, all in short order.  I tried to cheer up their older brother, my beleaguered 20-something nephew Justin, by reminding him that the twins, newly 18, can now be charged for their various and assorted (future) crimes as adults.  This would carry longer jail sentences and I point this out not only to cheer him up because growing up with twin sisters would not have been his first choice but because from the time they were babies, Samantha and Nicole, were formidable.  Tiny but mighty, they were lobbing full bottles of formula at each other’s heads when they were not yet six months old.  We would have to separate them when they were toddlers, kicking and screaming, tiny fingers clawing frantically at thin air, and when we put them on time out they would stand there, seemingly remorse until the second we let go and they would be back at it; beating each other to a pulp.  We used to say that they would dismantle a 747 in less than 10 minutes. 

We have since revised that estimate downward.  As teens, they are far more efficient these days.

I’ve been thinking about their future as well as my daughter and granddaughter’s now that I am in the middle of genetic testing.  My OB wanted me to find out if I carried the BRCA1/2 gene sequence because knowledge is power and we are in the fortunate position of being able to be proactive.  In any case, I sure hope they don’t come up with either of these mutations.  The kind of breast cancer I had was the most curable, garden variety but I got it young even though it wasn’t the more aggressive, genetic form.  After everything I’ve been through to fight this disease, I now know enough to consider myself lucky.  But inquiring minds still want to know, me most of all.   

Genetic testing is generally painless; this one doesn’t even require a blood test.  It was little more than a swish in the mouth actually and now….I wait.  And if I come up with one of these mutated genes, it can increase my chances not only of breast cancer but of far more deadly ovarian cancer.  I knew going into this testing that I’d elect to have my ovaries removed if that was the unlucky case.  More surgery being, of course, the last thing I want to do, but I’ll do it if I have to.  I remain hopeful; there is no known history of breast cancer in my family and my particular genetic soup is not particularly high risk for these mutations.  According to information on the website for the National Cancer Institute, those of Ashkenazi (Central and Eastern European) Jewish background at much higher risk than those blessed with my Italian/Irish roots.  Goodie for me.  But seriously, those who carry the mutation are five times more likely to develop cancer than those without it.  Well, since I already fought and won my battle, if not the war, those odds don’t freak me out they way they would, had I discovered I carried the mutation prior to being diagnosed.  Too late, I tell my DNA on a daily basis, I’ve already been screwed over. 

This presents one of the few physical/medical plights that I have yet to blame on my parents.  In my family, bad teeth, weight issues, cholesterol, allergies, male patterned baldness, you name it, we blame the parental units for it.  The Kennedy clan plays football and cuts their baby teeth on politics whereas my family has made a blood sport out of blame the parent.  What can I say, we just are not into contact sports like football and politics but we could make a serious case for adding blame the parent to the Olympic roster.   

So, as the twins head all dewy eyed and optimistic into their respective futures — and family bets are divided right down the middle between international spy work and Greenpeace activist (the kind that run their speed boats in front of whaling ships and get arrested in International waters) I wait for news on whether I am genetically hosed.

Meanwhile, I cling to the hope that this turns out to be the very few times that I really have nothing to blame my parents for.