You know how when you get tested for something and you worry that they will ask you to come in for the results? When you get asked to come in for the results you know you are fucked. You. Are. Fucked. And not in the good way.
They made me come in to hear the news. It’s exactly how I imagined it would be. Sheer panic on the way in. Then you start telling yourself they mixed up your results with someone else’s. I’m usually pretty good at telling myself stories (someday I’ll tell you the story of how I convinced myself I touched Shamu’s tongue) and I spun a lot of stories in my head on the way in. I mean some major denial is happening. If I had just gotten a call, “Hey Heather? Yeah, so you have Lynch Syndrome. No big deal. Totally won’t change your life. K, bye!” Maybe it wouldn’t have felt so big. But it was big. But not big in the way I thought it would be. The funny thing is, I think it changed my life for the better. That feels strange to say, but I think it’s true. The appreciation I have for life, for my body, for my family, for the things I enjoy in life… exponentially bigger now, and it was pretty big to begin with.
So life goes on. Really, it’s not bad. And I smile all the way through because really, what else are you going to do? I had my first colonoscopy when I was 28, and I will tell you that whatever they give you during a colonoscopy is some good shit. I call it fluffy unicorn dope. And it’s a great way to have the good old insurance company pay for your “cleansing”. If I went to LA for that shit (pun intended) I’d have to drop some major cash, soooo #grateful! Through all of this it still didn’t dawn on me to get life insurance. Which again, is one of my biggest regrets. Funny how they don’t want to give it to you when you have an 80% chance of cancer.
I knew the recommendation for Lynch women was to get a total hysterectomy, but that was so far away I didn’t really have to think about it. I mean, I would still have to have children and finish breast feeding… I had so much time. So much, wait, what? Well, fuck.