Add on a bunch of decades and the parting gift is now an offer to look inside a crystal ball.
“Oh, I see,” my new doctor’s eyebrow raised as he perused my chart during my annual exam. “Did you know you qualify for genetic testing?”
Piquing his interest were two boxes I had checked on my registration form. My mother had breast cancer and I’m of Ashkenazi Jewish descent, two factors increase my likelihood of carrying the BRCA-gene and getting breast cancer.
“Do you want to find out?” the doctor asked me.
It’s the $6,000 question. Literally. That’s what these labs charge if you don’t have insurance.
There’s not much I want to know for $6,000, but when I found out my mediocre health insurance would actually pay in-full, they had my attention.
Have you been here, Dear Reader? Have you had a chance to glimpse the future?
For me, it was pretty much a no brainer. The journalist in me is always interested in information. I also thought the chances of testing positive were pretty low. Yes, my mother had breast cancer, but she was also a smoker and had all sorts of other lifestyle choices I don’t share. And there are no other instances of women in my family getting breast cancer. None of this made me immune, just a little cocky.
I went for it.
A couple weeks later, the lab called to confirm some information and explain how this was all going to work. “We’re actually looking at 48 different possible genetic mutations,” the woman explained.
This made me pause a bit. Just how much do I want to know? What’s the use of reading the book if you’ve already seen the last page?
My squirming wasn’t enough to stop the test. I pretty much forgot about it until the doctor called today.
“I have your results,” he said with a pause that went on long enough to let a little fear creep into my mind.
“Is he pausing because this is bad news? Why did I have to go poke around with the future? Stop. Let’s rewind. I don’t want to know after all,” I wanted to say.
Before I could hit the doctor’s pause button, he gave me the results. “You’re negative across the board,” he said matter-of-factly. “There’s nothing else to do here.”
I walked into Husband’s office to share the news.
“That’s great news!” he hugged me. “I mean, something’s going to get you eventually, but I love hearing there’s a good chance this won’t be it.”
God bless, Husband. So practical.
He’s right though.
I’ve long realized everything ends. Every job. Every relationship. Every life.
We know this movie ends.
The how. That remains to be filled in. I think I’ll stick around. For now, I’m not dying to find out.
Daryn Kagan is the author of the book “Hope Possible: A Network News Anchor’s Thoughts On Losing Her Job, Finding Love, A New Career, And My Dog, Always My Dog.” Email her at Daryn@darynkagan.com.
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