April
Judy-Ann McMallow’s office still smells like a hot cinnamon bun. The last time I was here, over one year ago, it felt like the walls were closing in on me. Now, it is Mara who has that look on her face as we sit across from the genetic counselor, awaiting Mara’s results.
My sister decided to get tested for the BRCA1 gene mutation three weeks before her thirty-first birthday. Originally, she didn’t want to see a genetic counselor. After an hour of passionate negotiation, I convinced her to meet with Judy-Ann to talk through both possible outcomes, and then take the test with her: what I should’ve done in the first place. She insisted on going alone, so I waited for her in the café next door. When she met me afterward, she looked pale. I could tell she’d been crying. But she didn’t look broken. She looked resolute. “I’m glad I did it,” was all she said. “Now we wait and see.”
It’s not her own health she’s most worried about.
It’s Storm’s.
I’ve been thinking a lot about family these past few months. What we pass down and what gets passed down to us. The gifts we’re given and the cycles we work to break. It wasn’t until I had my mastectomy that I realized how much anger I was carrying. Anger directed at my father, but also at my mother. I was angry they’d left me, one purposefully, one not. I was angry at the ways I was like them: in my genetic makeup and in my personality. I was angry because I felt vulnerable. I was scared. Scared of being alone. Being abandoned. Being left behind in a city like New York. And while that fear has not magically evaporated, recognizing it and looking it in the face has helped dissipate it. I don’t feel as scared anymore. I feel more sure of myself as an individual. I am the child of two complicated people but I am my own person. I have agency. I feel sure of my friends. I feel sure of my community. I feel sure of my sister, sitting beside me, holding my hand with an iron grip.
“Whatever happens,” I say, “I’m here for you. We’ll get through this, okay?”
I was feeling strong this morning, confident that Mara would be negative. But as we sit in the waiting room, tension fills my body. My chest—a site of many strange phantom pains these past few months—is a new kind of tight.
I’m more than just scared for her. I’m terrified. I know what this knowledge brings. I know what it puts you through.
My diagnosis was out of the blue. The anxiety about hers has been building for weeks.
Mara is breathing shallowly. I can feel her heartbeat. She’s sitting ramrod straight. Every muscle is tense. I’d always associated this posture with my sister’s anger: I thought it meant she was mad. Now I see, she’s just scared.
Judy-Ann sits across from us. She has a large white envelope in her hands. We watch her pull a single sheet of paper out. She looks up at us, speaking in her calm counselor voice. “I have your test result here.” Her tone is neutral: neither celebratory nor watchful.
Mara lets out a small whimper.
I break out in a sweat. My teeth are chattering. I clench my jaw.
Please don’t let her have it. Please, please, please.
Judy-Ann clears her throat. “Mara, you have tested negative for the BRCA1 gene mutation.”
My sister lets out a strangled cry. Her entire body collapses forward. “Oh my God,” she moans. “Oh, thank God.”
Hot tears spill down my cheeks. I’m shaking. “Are you sure?” I demand. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Judy-Anne smiles. “A completely clear test.”
My sister starts sobbing, her face buried in her hands. “I don’t have it. She doesn’t have it. She doesn’t have it.”
“That’s right,” Judy-Ann says. “There’s no way you could have passed this down to your daughter.”
“She’s safe,” Mara weeps. “She’s safe. My baby’s safe.”
I’m crying now, my arms around my sister. I can’t quite feel where my breasts touch her: that part of my chest is numb now. But I feel everything else. “You’re safe too, Mar! You’re safe too.”
“I’m safe,” Mara says, her body shaking with sobs. “I’m safe and she’s safe and so are you. Oh, thank God. Thank God.”
We sit there together, crying and holding each other.
My sister is safe. And she is here, with me.