A Celebration of love
It’s a Saturday night in East LA and a model and photographer are getting married. Not the start of a bad joke – it’s the setting of my cousin’s wedding. The celebration of a girl who exclusively wears vintage Ralph Lauren, and is the only member of her friend group not born a Schwarzanegger or a Rothschild. As a single 24 year old, nearing a quarter life crisis, this was not an event I’d been especially looking forward to. It had been at the forefront of too many conversations with my therapist. Frankly, I couldn’t afford to speak to her any longer about how this night would not be a celebration of love, but a celebration of my self-pity. I arrived at the scene pushing my Bubbe into the restaurant first, as one always should.
To the eye, it was as expected: faces, outfits and tablescapes ripped out of a Vogue Wedding issue. But when the whole production began, what I assumed would be a grand blow to my self worth … was not. It was something else entirely.
We stood around as Friend #1 got up for her speech. She gives a monologue about how her life was never the same after going to Columbia because for too long she fell into the guise of pseudo intellectualism… oh yes! and of course how much she loves the bride! A famous DJ interrupts the cake cutting to make an announcement about this playlist. He’s been curating it for weeks and it’s a riff off his newly released work and blah blah blah. A shamed actor walks to the bathroom during the father daughter dance and draws away the eyes of too many. How ironic that while I was so busy fearing how bad these people would make me feel about myself, I almost failed to notice I was sitting in the middle of a Narcissists Anonymous meeting! Not a person in the crowd had much to say other than how fabulous they were. Perhaps I should’ve been even more jealous of these one dimensional beings who were gorgeous and accomplished AND didn’t have a care in the world about external perception. But all of a sudden Oh how boring that seemed! No interesting questions asked, or much to say on any topic (other than the subject of themselves, of course). No affection towards the bride, or anyone else for that matter. It was like taking a swig of champagne and finding it went completely flat. What my life may have lacked in allure, it made up for in substance. And just as I was starting to enjoy myself, my Bubbe put her hand on my wrist and groaned, “You may not be a model, but at least your friends know when to sit down and shut the fuck up.” It wasn’t a therapy breakthrough, but I felt pretty fucking awesome.
BRCA
What I’m about to say will ire almost anyone who reads this - doctors, genetic counselors, relatives of breast and ovarian cancer survivors, and probably most breast and ovarian cancer survivors themselves. But as a science enthusiast, someone who has always studied and worshiped the power that is medical innovation, my single biggest regret in the last year has been taking the BRCA genetic test. I suppose that the only person who would resonate with this would be another twenty-something hypochondriac that was also put on prozac three years ago due to their paralyzing fear of death at every turn. She subsequently has struggled with body image, and self worth since twelve years old, spending hours in therapy convincing herself that the body’s worth was not determined by how it looked, but its power in keeping her alive. For this girl, learning that her fear of death was never really impractical and her body was not in fact protecting her unraveled years of work like a spool of thread in a millisecond.
My father was diagnosed with the earliest stage of prostate cancer at 55 after the doctor found elevated levels of PSA during his yearly wellness exam. I had never been so grateful for the medical powers that be. His condition was so precancerous it would’ve never been caught before the first PSA test was developed in 1986. He was given the choices, to radiate, remove or just wait and watch, given how slowly the cancer developed. At the time, I was so relieved when he chose to take it out entirely, not leaving any opportunity for risk, as he phrased it. There were of course negative side effects and adverse impacts on his quality of life, but it felt like a no-brainer to use the information we were lucky to have and take the most aggressive approach. I couldn’t have agreed more - until I was sitting in a similar position.
After my dad’s diagnosis, his doctor encouraged him to see a genetic counselor to find out if there were any genetic mutations associated with his cancer. He did all the tests and promptly found out he was a BRCA1 carrier. Since he was already in his fifties and had nipped his cancer in the bud, this diagnosis didn’t offer much impact on his life - other than what it meant for his three daughters. Before 25, we were told each of us had to test for the mutation. My older sisters did immediately and each had a sigh of relief to find out they were negative. But after years of thinking that my indigestion was stomach cancer and my tension headaches were meningitis, I couldn’t get myself to take the test until the clock had almost finished ticking. After my 24th birthday I finally mustered up the courage to take it. And that courage was necessary given in just a few short weeks the results of the test changed the course of my life.
The first thing I was told when I received my positive results was that this was not a diagnosis. It is just information, my parents told me. While everyone kept telling me this did not equate to a death sentence, what they weren’t realizing is that what it did equate to was equally as daunting for someone with paralyzing anxiety: decisions.
When you are diagnosed with any genetic mutation of this sort, the first step is to see a genetic counselor. They are a statistician whose craft is predicting the winning numbers on the lottery card of your genetic fate. They tell you all the things you’re predetermined for, but then also what you can do to reverse the numbers. For a twenty-four year old BRCA1 carrier the options are endless, which initially offered great relief, and then almost instantly brought great dread. All of a sudden, just out of college and getting my footing on adult life, I was talking about egg retrieval, IVF, early menopause, hormone replacement, a double mastectomy. When you get this diagnosis everyone talks about how lucky you are to have this information and the privilege to be proactive. But nobody talks about how this information can also feel like an all consuming burden.
While I’m not a one issue voter, my vote always sat at the intersection of science and humanity: climate change, vaccines, people controlling their own bodies in line with their biological needs. But here I was staring at an issue of science versus humanity. I would now live the next fifteen years having to make decisions that would determine the likelihood of my survival, and the likelihood of any future child’s survival: how soon to get these preventative surgeries to work against time, if it was my obligation to share this information with a partner, if I would choose a BRCA free embryo to avoid putting another human through this experience. I was never even sure if I even wanted children. I was so confident that scientific innovation meant I could turn forty and make the decision when I was ready. Unsurprisingly to any woman not naive about their reproductive future, the decision was never really mine to make. Nature had made it for me, and scientific innovation had delivered the news like a baseball bat to the face.
I was so confident in my dad’s approach to do the most and increase his chances of survival. But here I was, making decisions not just on my length of life, but also the quality of it. I shamefully envied my grandma who got to have children, age naturally and at 75 had to deal with her triple negative breast cancer diagnosis. My father who got to marry, have children, and at 55 make his decision. I realized my fear was never really death itself, but the control I wanted to have over it. Now I had it, and it was too much.
I wish there was an upshot to this realization. A solution or some sort of profound piece of advice. There is not. It just sometimes helps to say out loud that right now, I hate being a woman with my biological clock ticking and the pressure to age with beauty. To love your body even when you’re so angry at it. To learn that it has in many ways failed you and it’s your role to be the captain saving the sinking ship. It helps to say out loud that I wake up many days wishing I didn’t have this information. Some days I still get to be free in my twenties and think about what bar I want to go to, and what outfit will make me feel great when I go. Others I panic that alcohol will only make my cancer risk higher, and that I will never feel good in any outfit after getting my breasts removed and reconstructed. But being a woman is also knowing that sometimes the cards are just dealt against you, and all you can do is say a loud fuck you to the universe and keep going. At some point everyone is just gambling with their life whether it’s with too much information, or not enough. And maybe with some good therapy and enough time I’ll wake up more days than not feeling lucky I get to know the numbers on my card.
Possessed By an alien
I went on a date and was possessed by an alien. I put on a full face of makeup, and a chic little number and walked out the door. The second I walked into the bar and saw the handsome fella I felt the creature enter my body. The alien sat us down at the bar next to the man and ordered us a gin and tonic. I hate gin and tonics but the alien was trying to be smooth since I normally don’t really drink. It was fine, but then the alien started to schmooze, asking questions like “so what do you do for a living” and “tell me about your family.” Ick. I hate making small talk. But the alien continued it for a while. At first mundane and then surprisingly enjoyable. The conversation got deeper and the mood got better and the alien agreed to letting us order another drink. I’m not one for enjoying strangers but the alien was having a blast so we stayed out for a bit longer, chatting, learning, admiring (it’s never been my thing, personally, but I guess that’s something the alien does on dates). Then the alien let him walk us home and give us a kiss goodnight. Gasp. I hath never.
I hoped the alien would leave me alone then, but alas. It took a maddening grip on me shouting “TEXT HIM, TEXT HIM,”, storing a cage of butterflies in my stomach. I couldn’t bear it so I texted him and thanked him for our time together. And the alien delighted when he responded, returning the sentiment. But then the next day passed, and the next day, and I heard nothing from the man. And then way too much from the alien. “HE HATES YOU” the alien shouted in my ear followed by “Not really, he obviously loves you” and then “maybe he’s just playing hard to get.” Finally the alien said, “let’s be realistic here. He probably got kidnapped by an ecoterrorist group and is in a submarine below the planet’s detectable atmosphere with no oxygen or cell phone service.” The alien was behaving like a mad man. As a self-proclaimed avoidant maven, I personally never react like this after a date, or ever. But the alien had flown off the handle. Despair, chaos, and a jackhammer of thoughts and words and what-if and what-nows. As the days went on without a text, the alien started eating my insides. My intestines first, and then my brain cells, until I was just a shell of a human.
The alien had sucked me dry. I need it out. Immediately. So I went for a run. And I ran and I ran and ran until there was sweat coming out of my eyeballs and steam out of my nostrils and pain from every ounce of my being. And with the hurt and the tears and the dread and wonder and disappointment and lust and longing and anger I inched the alien bit by bit out of my body. Gone, finally, with just a burning silence where it had once been. I jumped into the lake beside me, delighting in the emptiness that finally occupied my brain and my body. As I let the water wash away the absurdity of the days before I saw a handsome man swim up the bay a few yards in front of me. I was just about to open my mouth to say hello. But then I thought, the alien may be close by. I better not.
A Rat I Once Knew
I fell in love with the rat in my apartment. When I first saw him scurry from beneath the oven to underneath the couch I was sickened. He was the enemy, looking for the falafel crumbs that he knew I’d inevitably drop. I was insulted that he thought of me as so dirty and stupid, willing to let him live in my apartment rent free, eating my food while contributing nothing to the cost of Manhattan groceries. He was mocking me, running in front of my eyes so blatantly. I had the superintendent put in traps, and we were immediately at war. I fled the apartment for the night but was told that he traumatized my roommates, scurrying around their rooms, dragging in bacon to our vegetarian apartment. I was sick of men like this, having no regard for a woman’s desires or needs.
But as I worked from home in the days following, all alone in my apartment, he kept his distance. He never ventured into my room, and respected my peace when I went to make breakfast and lunch in the kitchen. He made no noise, honored my boundaries. And when I tried to lure him out with a piece of cheddar, he denied his desires, listening to judgment over his primal needs. A man of restraint. A man of intellect. A man of compassion. Despite my preconceived notions, he was thoughtful, and patient, and had more humility than I had assumed from the arrogance of our first meeting. We had fallen into the classic enemy-to-lovers trope.
We spent hours together. He would gnaw at crumbs under the coat rack, listening to me read out loud, shout obscenities at my computer screen during meetings, and chat on the phone with friends. We got to know each other. It was a romance like no other.
Eventually, my roommates called the exterminator and both the rat, and my feelings for him, faced a painful death. But I think of him often, remembering the rat of 5H who was more altruistic and evolved than all the men in New York City.