Ah, the joys of being a woman

In 30 years I can only hope that I’ll be half as adorable as my mom.

When Linda (I don’t actually call her this) and I spoke this morning she boasted about “good news she was meaning to tell me and (my sister) Mindi.” My first thought was some type of mother-daughter trip, but we’re not really the spa together type. What the update ended up boiling down to is that, at least for the foreseeable future, my boobs are in no danger of going anywhere.

Confused? Here’s a little background: When I was in college my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. Fortunately she handled treatment incredibly well and has been cancer free for some time now. She only sees her oncologist once a year to ensure that everything checks out, and — knock on wood — so far so good.

My mom has also, in the process of her experience, become an expert on anything that is even remotely close to a risk factor for breast cancer. Some are scientifically unproven wive’s tales. But I guess there really is an established gene that predisposes Ashkenazi Jews to higher rates. At her most recent appointment my mom was being tested to see if she has said gene.

“Turns out I don’t,” she boastfully told me today.

If a mother is not so lucky, her daughters often endure genetic counseling and then in numerous cases have a breast or ovaries removed as a precaution.

“You don’t have to,” Linda continued. “Isn’t that good news?”

“Well, yes. But it’s so much good news as not bad news since I didn’t even know that was a possibility,” I told her, laughing. “I wasn’t exactly on pins and needles about this.”

“Yeah, well the doctor said a lot of times patients won’t even tell their daughters because it doesn’t change anything,” she explained.

My mom, though, knows that  the journalist in me needs to know even the stupidest pieces of news. How cute.

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