The routineness of genetic testing

"Sail away, sail away, sail away," Enya croons softly from the overhead speakers. Giada De Laurentiis makes some kind of chocolate cookie dough with chocolate chunks on the little flatscreen TV. A magazine page crinkles and swooshes into place as the woman behind me turns the page. It all seems so routine.

"Genetic testing," my doctor announced definitively at my last gynecology appointment. I had just learned about my family medical history from my birth mother, and had related it to my doctor: Aunt died of ovarian cancer, Grandmother died of breast cancer, Grandfather died of colon cancer. Now that we know I have this dangerous trifecta in my immediate family, genetic testing is the Sherlock Holmes of cancer testing.

For women with my history, genetic testing can open a door to potential preventative solutions, including (in my case) surgical removal of my one remaining ovary because evidently, "Ovarian cancer shows up in stage three," my doctor admonished, looking at me with that "take this seriously" look that I think doctors must perfect in residence. Fortunately, I do take this seriously. Or I thought I did. I just haven't felt any nerves or qualms about it yet because I am fully in favor of knowledge being powerful and an ounce of prevention and all that.

Now, surrounded by such common sights and sounds as I wait, distracting myself with Facebook and emails, I feel a swirl begin in my stomach. True, it may be that my jeans are now too tight because I gained back the ten pounds I lost over the summer (What? It's been a stressful semester. Again. Just in the last four weeks I've been insulted, threatened, and scolded. Seriously.). But no. The jeans aren't that tight.

Have I just been too distracted by my work, my wonderful relationship, my enjoyment of my garden and food and fishing, to really fully comprehend what this testing means?

If I test truly positive or "uncertain" for the breast and ovarian cancer gene, that means major surgery. Necessary, but major. And the last time I had surgery, it took me three days to recover from the anesthesia it made me so sick.

If I test truly positive, this means multiple mammograms and MRIs twice a year just to watch more closely until the inevitable shows up. People with family history of cancer have a 50/50 chance, according to my doctor and the research she presented to me.

For 43 years, I was blissfully unaware. Willing to go with the flow and just deal with whatever arose. And now, that has changed. Now, I will know. I want to know. And if the results aren't clear, then the decision becomes fuzzy and uncertain. Act? Or wait? Waiting could be a death sentence. Or not.

These are weighty thoughts and the swirl in my stomach hasn't stopped. No matter what the test results are, my life will change. Maybe that's why every skin cell now feels alert and prickly hot. My throat starts to throb with my heartbeat as it speeds up. My saliva tastes tinny. This feels momentous. Like I should take it more seriously than maybe I have.

"Amanda? The doctor can see you now."