@hughharris94America’s policies are the last thing you should be bringing into this argument . . .
@millieandipaxtonRight, because your country is perfect and definitely not still dealing with the fact that it was stolen from indigenous peoples . . . oh wait . . . how could I forget it’s STILL stolen because it’s still a commonwealth nation? Although I’m not sure how that slipped my mind, considering you have the most royally pompous name ever.
@hughharris94Your name is literally Millicent.
His grainy Instagram profile picture blooms across my brain. I’ve been checking to see if Hugh commented on Millie’s article again. He hasn’t said a word, and something about the pointlessness of reloading the page deepens my embarrassment about giving him so much attention. I’ve tried to kick the habit of constantly refreshing our conversation and Millie’s article, but hating Hugh has been a nice distraction from what’s going on with Millie.
As if on cue, Millie speaks. ‘This is my sister, Andi,’ she says, startling me from my thoughts. I watch Millie stretch her lips into another smile and wonder if the doctor can also tell it’s forced.
‘Hi. Pleased to meet you,’ I say.
‘Dr Taylor.’ He turns to greet me with a firm handshake. He has even more wrinkles up close. Despite his warm grandpa energy, his hand is freezing. ‘I can see the resemblance.’ Dr Taylor smiles at us and takes the seat across from me. ‘No use in delaying it,’ he begins, ‘good news, the lump is benign.’
Millie lets out a rush of breath. ‘OK,’ she sighs with relief.
I immediately fish my phone out of my purse to text our mom.
‘We did find something else,’ Dr Taylor continues.
My heart clenches and my hands feel clammy. I drop my phone back into my bag.
‘When we ran your bloodwork, you tested positive for a harmful variant of the BRCA gene. Do you know what that is?’
I shake my head no, but Millie nods. She’s frowning.
‘The BRCA genes are inherited from your parents and produce proteins that help repair damaged DNA. But there are harmful variants of the genes. Millice—excuse me, Millie, you tested positive for a harmful variant of BRCA1, which increases the likelihood that you will develop breast cancer at some point in your life. While your scans are clean now, this is something you should be aware of. And—’ Dr Taylor looks meaningfully at me ‘—it’s genetic. So, you should probably get tested as well.’
I swallow. My throat feels dry.
‘Got it.’ Millie fidgets with her hands.
‘So . . . what’s next?’ I ask, filling the silence.
‘Well, you have a couple of options.’ Dr Taylor folds his hands in his lap and peers over his glasses. I focus on the wisps of white hair that are out of place instead of on his face, which I’m sure is about to deliver more bad news.
‘You can do nothing, which is not recommended given your family history and genetic makeup. Or, you can explore taking preventative measures, which is what I would recommend. You could be a good candidate for a double mastectomy.’
Millie doesn’t say anything, she just looks at Dr Taylor.
‘Double mastectomies are getting more and more common. We separate your breast tissue from your skin and muscle and remove it, which substantially lowers your risk of getting breast cancer. There are reconstructive options as well.’ He pauses, and his tone softens. ‘Look, I know this is a lot to think about. Why don’t I give you two a minute . . .’ he pauses, and pulls a pamphlet out of his front coat pocket ‘. . . and I’ll leave this here. It explains BRCA in more detail. I’ll come back shortly to answer any more questions you have.’
Millie nods.
‘And remember, this isgoodnews,’ he emphasises on his way out the door.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ I manage to choke out, but my voice sounds scratchy and foreign. The room falls into silence apart from the gentle ticking of the clock on the opposite wall.
Millie collects herself quickly, taking a few deep breaths before she starts explaining to me how much research she’s already done. It only takes her a few moments to decide. She’s going to get the double mastectomy. She doesn’t want this hanging over her head. If insurance will cover it, she’ll do double mastectomy and reconstruction at the same time.
She’s speaking with such force and surety that I can tell she’s been thinking about it for days, anticipating this as one of the outcomes of her biopsy. She’s thought through all her options and charted the best path forward. I’ve always been impressed by her decisiveness.
Dr Taylor returns to the room and Millie launches into her plan. Within minutes, he’s recommended a surgeon. He reminds me to schedule my blood test with the front desk. He schedules a time to have a follow-up call with Millie.
I’m still in shock when Dr Taylor leaves. We are supposed to get out of the room, leave the hospital, return to our lives, but I can’t even seem to get up from my chair.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Millie tells me, ‘I have a plan,wehave a plan.’ But I can’t shake the feeling that everything’s about to change.
The only thing that makes me smile the rest of the day is a message from Hugh:
