Once I allowed the real possibility of mastectomy to enter my consciousness, life as I knew it ended. This was what Cheryl-the-genetics-counselor must have meant when she said that most women who tested positive felt their lives had been split into “before” and “after.” I stumbled around in a fog, brooding over my existential dilemma: “To cut my breasts off, or not to cut my breasts off, that is the question ….”
Something else weighed heavily on me: I hadn’t yet told my father I’d taken a genetic test, never mind that I had the mutation. I’d been trying to think of a way to soften the blow. I decided that if I immediately followed “Dad, I have the breast cancer gene” with “I have an assignment to write an Op-Ed piece for the New York Times!” it might help, at least momentarily. My dad loved to kvell—his greatest pleasure was hearing of his kids’ accomplishments and then recounting them to everyone who crossed his path. His kvelling took center stage once when I had a supporting role in a reading of a play by Israel Horovitz. After the performance my dad marched up to the playwright and said, “Isn’t my daughter wonderful, beautiful, talented? Why don’t you write her a bigger part?” On another day, Israel asked me the origin of the name Queller.
“Is it Spanish?”
“No,” I replied. “We’re Jews from Poland.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Well,” I said, “my dad’s cousins spell their name K-W-E-L-L-E-R ….”
“Of course, how fitting,” Israel replied. “Kveller.”
My dad answered the phone and right away he heard in my voice that something was wrong.
“What is it, darling?”
“There’s something I have to tell you ….”
“I’m listening.”
“Well, you know that cancer can run in families and there’s this relatively new genetic test available for the so-called breast cancer gene—though the mutation also increases odds of ovarian cancer …. Anyway, testing positive doesn’t mean you’ll definitely get breast cancer, but it gives you up to an eighty-seven percent chance. So I took the test. And I have it.”
“The bad gene?” my dad asked with controlled alarm.
“Yes.” Then I quickly added, “But the good news is that Kay got her boss to let me write an article about it for the Times!”
Normally my dad would be elated about the article; on this day, it did not even register.
“What have the doctors advised?”
“Well, that’s the thing. There are only two choices and neither is good. Undergoing close surveillance with the hope that we’ll catch cancer early …”
“Or?”
“Mastectomy.”
My father, normally never at a loss for words, was silent. Finally he asked, “What do your doctors say?”
“That I should make the decision based on my own values.”
In a very quiet and serious tone my father asked me what course I wanted to take.
“I don’t know.”
Another heavy pause.
“I’ll leave this to your judgment, sweetheart. Whatever you decide, I will support you.”
IN THE SHOWER, in the writers’ room, in the car, in yoga class, in bed in the dark at three a.m.—I obsessed over the potential repercussions of removing my breasts. It did not take long to conclude that my personal life would be in the most peril. If I had a mastectomy and reconstruction, would men no longer find me desirable? Would I feel deformed? Would I ever want to be touched again? Would I no longer feel like a whole woman? I’d griped about our breast-obsessed culture, but privately I’d enjoyed the admiration men expressed for my own breasts. In retrospect I found my whining hypocritical. How would I feel now, if they were gone and replaced by plastic implants and tattoos?
One sleepless night I paced around my apartment calculating time. I was thirty-five and already up against the biological clock. If I elected surgery at thirty-six, I figured it would take me about a year to recover—physically and emotionally. That meant I’d be thirty-seven when it was over. By the time I found a new boyfriend and established a relationship solid enough to get pregnant, I’d be—what, thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?
And once pregnant, postmastectomy, I would never be able to breast-feed. My mother didn’t breast-feed, which was precisely why I’d always wanted to. To me, breast-feeding was the ultimate maternal act—the ability to nourish your child. I’d always looked forward to enjoying that symbiosis with my baby. Not being able to breast-feed would be a great loss.
And then there was the question of my romantic convictions. I’d witnessed many friends marry men they weren’t all that crazy about because they felt it was time, only to get divorced a few years later. I’d vowed never to walk down the aisle unless I could do so with a full heart. I knew it was rare, but I held out hope that I’d find love, passion, and intellectual compatibility. In my twenties I’d always been called picky; now in my thirties, I was told I was too picky. When I was about twenty-five, I went on a few dates with a smart, funny character actor. My dear friend Gordon and his boyfriend met us one night for drinks. Gordon and I had been Will and Grace long before prime-time TV capitalized on that dynamic, and my boyfriends have always had to pass muster with him. The next day Gordon called for a debriefing: “He was a nice guy, but you looked so lovely and elegant and he was so nebbishy—it just seemed wrong,” he said. “Besides, you can’t marry an actor!” In my twenties, Gordon thought no one was good enough for me; my pickiness meant I was properly discerning. At thirty-five, Gordon was so desperate to pair me off, he didn’t care who the guy was. Gordon had taken to making comments like “He’s got shoes? Marry him.” Pickiness at thirty-five is called commitment phobia—or, at best, impractical. Now try adding mastectomy to the mix. Since taking the BRCA test, I had nagging doubts for the first time that my partner would appear—never mind on schedule. If I went through with a mastectomy, could I no longer afford the luxury of being so particular?
This train of thought sent me into a tailspin. Why had I sought out this genetic information? Yes, my mother had been blindsided by cancer, but at least she’d been able to live her life according to her own values and inclinations before it struck. Was a mutant gene going to not only rob me of my breasts but defeat my ideals about love?
Or maybe this circumstance was the universe teaching me that my notions about finding a soul mate had always been impractical, that in order to have a family, more compromise was involved than I’d been willing to accept. I yearned to have children. Bear my own children. I’d been crazy about kids since I was little more than a kid myself. While other girls fantasized about their wedding day, I fantasized about being pregnant. Bearing children was not something I was willing to forgo if I had any say in the matter. As unthinkable as mastectomy was, I’d come around to considering it. I would never, ever consider having a prophylactic oophorectomy before I had children. That sacrifice was too great. Luckily, forty was generally deemed a prudent age for BRCA-positive women to have their ovaries removed, which gave me five years. If I’d tested positive for the mutation in my twenties, doctors would have recommended I have children early in life and remove my ovaries sooner …. I’d long missed that boat. I stopped pacing and stared out the living room window into the black Los Angeles night. If I’d been in a serious relationship now, I thought, I would have tried to have a baby right away and left cancer prevention for afterward.
There was a man—a handsome, smart, kind, talented man—who already loved me and was lurking in the wings: Jason.
Though he and I had spent little more than a weekend together before my mother died, Jason had valiantly claimed the role of my long-distance boyfriend throughout her illness. A couple of months after her death, he flew to New York from Los Angeles to spend his Christmas vacation working with me and Danielle in our mother’s Southampton store. Jason is a guy’s guy, most at home watching sports, drinking beer, playing poker with his buddies, and yet he embraced the high-end china shop like a trouper. He learned to distinguish the patterns of William Yeoward wine-glasses and charmed all the ladies with his expertise: “The Fern pattern is popular, but I prefer the Cordelia ….” He discovered a latent talent for bubble-wrapping. Every day at lunchtime, he walked down the snowy block to the deli and brought us all back sandwiches. Jason soared at rescuing the damsel in distress, and that’s the role I’d been cast in since we’d met. We had a lovely time that Christmas and I was moved by his warmth and generosity, yet it was emerging that the most we had in common was the pleasure he derived in taking care of me and my great need to be taken care of in the wake of my mom’s death. I feared we were not well matched under normal circumstances. He was five years younger than I was and our tastes could not have been more different. He loved pop culture—reality shows, big commercial movies. He devoured each Harry Potter book the day it hit the bookstores. I liked foreign films and was slogging through Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain (not that I ever finished it …). We joked that I was a snob, and I realized for the first time that maybe I was, but nevertheless our sensibilities were off.
By the end of the trip, I suggested we shift our relationship and become dear friends. Jason rejected the idea. He was convinced I had a preconceived notion that my ideal man was an “artsy black-turtleneck guy writing poetry in a West Village café”—but if I could just let that go, I’d realize I was happy with him. I laughed at Jason’s caricature of “my type” and conceded it was pretty accurate. He returned to Los Angeles and to his job, and I worked in the store for two more months. During that time, Jason and I continued to talk on the phone. He was romantic and stalwart in his feelings, and often said he wanted to marry me, though the notion was absurd—not least because we’d spent so little time together.
By early March, Danielle and I had sold off the inventory and closed up shop for good. I moved into Harriette’s old apartment in Manhattan. One Friday morning, days after I’d arrived, I got a shocking call from my agent, Jeff, telling me that Adrian had committed suicide. He’d shot himself in the head. I rarely spoke of my relationship with Adrian because I felt shame about it. I knew that Adrian was an intensely dark man—I’d heard him speak of suicide—but I never believed he would actually kill himself. Just over a year ago, I’d shared a bed every night with either my mother or Adrian. Now they were both dead. I’d just managed to quiet the grief that had raged within me since my mother’s death. This news brought it charging back to the surface.
Jason got on a plane that night and flew to New York to spend the weekend with me. In my heightened emotional state, I told him I would marry him. I was manic and created a plan on the spot—how did he feel about a small wedding in the Berkshires? I’d spent summers there as a teenager, it was my favorite place …. We could get married in July—that would give us four months to prepare and we’d invite immediate family and just a handful of friends …. I was on the verge of giving an inn my credit card to reserve the date when Jason suggested I wait a week or so. He was wise enough to say, “You’re traumatized, Jess. I won’t hold you to any of this.”
About six weeks later, I moved back to Los Angeles. I got the new job on Gilmore Girls, a new apartment, and a new start. I decided to give my relationship with Jason a serious try. Within two months, though, it crumbled. He was a strapping, corn-fed army brat; the sports bar was his domain. I’d spent my twenties in a musical theater bar called Rose’s Turn listening to gay men belt out songs from Falsettoland. Jason found it odd and endearing and exotic that Wallace Shawn was one of my heroes as a writer (“The guy from The Princess Bride?”). Jason was insanely smart—his SAT scores were leagues above mine, and he solved complex math problems in his head as a party trick. He was gorgeous and kind, and just about any girl in America would have loved to be with him. I recognized how great he was and tried to convince myself it was the right fit, while he tried to turn himself into what he thought I wanted. The relationship was off balance. I ultimately bowed out, once again.
Jason took it all in stride. We remained close. I helped him find a new apartment and furnish it. He drove me and Danielle to the animal hospital when her old yellow Lab, Coco, collapsed on the street, and he came with us to the pet cemetery to bury him.
When I tested positive for the BRCA mutation, I was once more thrust into the well-worn role of damsel in distress. True to form, Jason was there, if I chose to be rescued. He didn’t grasp the preventative mastectomy concept at first, but he expressed his love and desire to stick by me—if I wanted him to—regardless of what measure I chose. I was bowled over by the goodness of this man. But was it fair to let him take care of me again? Real life had been stomping all over the place, demanding my attention. My mother had died; my biological clock was ticking; I had a mutant gene that statistically ensured I would get cancer unless I had my breasts removed. I wanted a family, and a great guy wanted to start one with me. Was I crazy to turn him down?
I was in such a panic generally that I lost all faith in my instincts. I turned to friends for advice. One faction was in the Jason camp, Gordon among them: “He’s cute, smart, ambitious, he loves you—what’s the problem?” Others insisted I trust myself; they said I’d soul-searched, concluded the relationship with Jason wasn’t right, and must now look forward. “But …,” I replied, “do you understand I might have to have my breasts cut off and if I want two children—which I do—I need to have started yesterday because my ovaries need to come out, too? Suddenly the matter of my love life is urgent. What if Jason is the one and I’m too crazy to see it? What if I’m looking for something—for someone—who doesn’t exist?” Out of pity or kindness, or to shut me up, my forward-thinking friends launched a mission to introduce me to new men.
Rebecca’s office at Gilmore Girls was as wild and artistic as her home. Zebra-skin rugs covered the floor. A luxurious brown fake-fur blanket draped over the couch. Sheer lavender fabric was tacked above the windows, filtering the sun so the room glowed with soft, filmy light. More than a dozen framed photos and drawings of different shapes and sizes covered the walls. Each day I paced those zebra rugs, reciting all of my BRCA fears to Rebecca, while she brainstormed dates for me.
“You know, the guy who’s most right for you is my ex-husband ….”
“Are you insane?”
“I know, I know. What about Mike O’Connor?”
“Sarah said he’s a player. I can’t go out with a player.”
“We don’t really know he’s a player.”
“Isn’t he the one who tricks girls into running errands with him as a trial run before he’ll take them on dates?”
“Oh yeah, forget him.”
“I need someone grown-up,” I said.
“I know.”
“Someone ready to settle down.”
“I know.”
“Some brave soul who’s not going to be scared of my cancer gene.”
“Okay, when striking up a conversation, try not to make that your lead.”
“Fine.”
“And your ‘I’m so old’ monologue?”
“I like that monologue ….”
“Nix it.”
Rebecca stared out of the window through the lavender gauze, flipping through a mental Rolodex.
“Wait a minute—what about Jack?” Rebecca suddenly said.
Jack was the brother and partner of Rebecca’s business manager. He was in his midforties, handsome, successful, solid.
“But he’s a business guy,” I said to Rebecca. “Don’t you think he’ll be too strait laced?”
“No, he’s got a spectacular client list and jets around the world. You said you wanted a grown-up. You must go out with him.”
The next day, Saturday, I had plans to spend the day with Calista and her son. It was the first time we’d had a chance to talk in person since I’d tested positive. For some reason, we wound up sitting on her bathroom floor, talking about cancer, how surreal it was that I was facing this threat, and crying. I can’t tell you how we ended up there. One of us must have been washing our face or putting on makeup, while the other tagged along, when serious conversation took over. Calista told me that she’d explained my situation to her friend, an older female doctor, who felt strongly that I should have the mastectomy. Calista wept and begged me to do it. “You cannot get sick,” she pleaded. The intensity of her reaction frightened me—if she was so scared on my behalf, it followed that I should be scared, too.
We made our way off the floor and downstairs to the playroom, then segued into a conversation about children. Having a son had fundamentally changed Calista’s life—she was a born mother. She knew how much I wanted kids and how my clock had just sped up exponentially. She said I must absolutely have a baby right away, which led to the subject of men, which led to the revelation that Jack was also Calista’s business manager.
“I love it—he’s great!” she said. “Let’s have a dinner party and invite him over now—tonight.”
“Do you think he’d come?”
“Of course—he lives down the street. Let’s wait to see if he has plans before we round up some others.”
She left a casual, yet informative, message on his voice mail—“Hey, Jack, it’s Calist. I’m having a few people over for dinner tonight and I want you to meet my friend Jessica ….” We started making up our guest list, planning the meal, and as the hours rolled on she called again: “Just checking in. Did you get my message? Can you come by?” We rallied friends, bought food and wine just in case, cracked open a bottle ourselves, and when there was still no word she called yet again—and was intimidating: “Okay, Jack? We just need to know whether or not you’re coming!”
Finally, Jack called. He said he did have plans but would try to stop by afterward. We had a wonderful dinner, drank wine, laughed, and told our friends about our scheme. We all avidly awaited my suitor’s arrival, but he never showed.
Calista’s persistent messages did not go unheeded, however. Jack got my number on Monday and asked me out to dinner.
I was sprawled on the faux bear fur of Rebecca’s sofa and wracked with anxiety.
“I wish I hadn’t done this—I’m in no condition to go on a date. Obviously, I can’t talk about the BRCA gene, but how can I not talk about the BRCA gene? How am I going to act normal and blasé and discuss what’s going on in my life when I can’t talk about what’s going on in my life?”
“You used to be an actress ….”
“A failed actress.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “You are not a failed actress.”
“Jack’s a businessman. And your brother said he’s a religious Jew. Can you picture me cooking Shabbat dinner every Friday night? Keeping kosher? None of you would have fixed me up with him if I wasn’t in such a rush to get married and have babies.”
“But you are.”
While I was getting ready for my date with Jack, my friend Liza called. We’d been roommates in London our junior year abroad and had remained close, though our lives had taken divergent paths. She’d given up a flourishing career in journalism to be a full-time mother of two in Connecticut; she lived a suburban life as remote from my urban single existence as the moon. Liza and I had been playing phone tag for ages, so I picked up to talk briefly as I did my makeup. Liza’s tone was serious and full of concern. As with Calista, we hadn’t yet had a chance to discuss my bad gene. Liza told me she’d gotten two calls in the same week—one from me saying I had the BRCA mutation and one from her high school friend Julie saying she had breast cancer. I put down my mascara. Once again, I found myself sitting on a bathroom floor. Liza said Julie (who was our age) had discovered a lump while breast-feeding. She was about to start chemo. “I’m so sorry about your gene, Jess. But I’m so happy you don’t have cancer.”
I had agreed to meet Jack at a fancy Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills. As I drove, I thought about Liza’s friend. I remembered Liza telling stories about her—Julie had been one of the prettiest, most popular girls in their high school class. Had she maybe been a cheerleader …? I tried to fathom that we were no longer girls dealing with problems like who was going to take us to the prom, but women grappling with illness. As I neared Beverly Hills, I started to focus on my date. I was nervous. How was I going to do this? How was I going to be charming and normal with my head full of death and doom? I started singing in the car to get my energy up. I belted out Patsy Kline’s “Crazy”—maybe not the best choice. I told myself there was no reason I couldn’t summon bright energy at will.
Jack was as described—handsome, wearing a suit, very much a man (not a boy). I was overcompensating from the start—being a bit too talkative—yet I managed to maintain some poise. After the second glass of wine my facade started cracking. Kay had often remarked with amusement that whenever I’m feeling nervous or ungrounded my theater training kicks in. My voice projects, my passions become large. I either hate someone or love them. In truth, that’s always my temperament, but on such occasions it becomes amplified. Jack and I discovered we knew several people in common and I was less than politic.
“You wrote on that show?” Jack asked. “Did you know Brian Katz?”
“Yes! Spineless, lily-livered lapdog! He followed our witch of a boss around shamelessly—what a sycophant! He elevated the role of yes-man to an art form.”
“He’s my best friend.”
Needless to say, Jack never called me again.