Leases

A little on where I've been and where I'm going

Photo by Eugene Golovesov

Here’s something I started writing last month but didn’t send, let alone finish:

Before I lay face down onto the gurney for an MRI, I choose an aromatherapy scent. Music too, which they’ll pipe into headphones placed over plugs stuffed in my ears, like pillows in too-small cases.

I pick lavender for the scent. Piano for the sound. Anything to relax.

I wrote this six weeks ago, during the first week of March, as an opening to talk about my experience with breast cancer screenings in the days before I underwent a partial mastectomy. I was fearful and anxious, and frankly, spiraling.

No one likes a health cliffhanger, so I’ll cut to the chase: I’m fine. Surgery went fine, everything is benign, I’ve healed well, and my screening protocols were actually downgraded, which was a huge relief.

But this overdue check-in isn’t about the surgery itself (though I have included a “how we got here” summary at the end of this post). Instead, I want to talk about leases.

When I received the results of the excision, I called my husband with the good news. He was thrilled, and said, “Are you so happy?”

My candid response was, “Yes. I mean—I think so?” 

In the hours and days after, as I unpacked my response, the words a new lease on life kept floating through my head. It was accompanied by weightlessness, the sense that a massive boulder I’d been shouldering had instantly vaporized. I’d been carrying that rock around for over a year, since January of 2023, when I started getting MRIs every six months to monitor a suspicious spot. I don’t think I realized how much the monitoring weighed on me until there was reprieve. A release as much as a re-lease. If I’m honest, I’d expected something terrible to happen to me.

For context, I turn 40 in a couple months. My father got sick around the age of 44 and was dead before he was 46. The bulk of my family—my stepparent, all four of my grandparents, my aunt—have gotten sick and then died, mostly younger than anyone could have imagined. That people get sick is a given; that they often die unexpectedly an inheritance.

In the lead up to every MRI, my mind went to a dark place. Why won’t it be the same for you?, it asked repeatedly. I think I was subconsciously waiting for things to turn south.

But with the big, happy news post-surgery—you’re OK, that light on the horizon is not sunset, but sunrise—I’ve been thinking a lot about my chapter of dread, how to set it aside, and what a new lease can mean, mentally. What type of place I am searching for, what terms I am seeking, how I might inhabit it.

Actually a sunset, but taken on an evening when I drove my daughter to the beach with all our art supplies to draw what we saw. It was freezing and windy and magic and she said the sunset looked like a volcano. I’d lease this place for the rest of my life. Buy it, the minute interest rates went down.

I wonder if I was so sure something bad would happen to me because in parenthood, a part of me has slowly died. A lot of my internal tension these last few years has meant reconciling the fact that the old me—pre-pandemic, pre-child me—is gone. But I’m becoming okay with it. Perhaps the surgery took the last bit of it, that stubborn part of me wrestling with the change.

In the UK, to be leased is to be let. Maybe that’s me now—released so I can let myself live without fear; let myself seek and enjoy small pleasures fully, presently; let myself grow in new if uncertain ways. With a clean bill of health and a new lease, I’m wondering: what are the parts of myself to let go of and how can I let more life in?

While writing these rambling thoughts, I jotted a list of joyful things, each a part of my letting. They feel simple, almost trite: remembering to bring the AirPods when I walk to pick up my daughter from preschool, because that 20 minutes of music improves my mood (and day) immeasurably. Getting the cappuccino, extra hot, every Monday, because I like the way it feels to start the week with a paper cup of coffee in my hand. Booking more weekend trips, even if they’re to places I already know. There are many more like this—small items amongst the bigger pieces, but they make this place feel like home.

One last thing.

It’s miraculous I ever ended up on the operating table. I wouldn’t have qualified for imaging had I not found my Korean family nearly 6 years ago, learned my sister was diagnosed with cancer in 2020, and sought early screenings myself. I wouldn’t know to be looking. And then what if, in another three years, or five, or ten, when the lease on that part of my life expired, and with no knowledge of my family history, maybe the outcome would be different, and I’d be too late. A lease for a place I hope to never live, inked. 

But the discovery—and all the pain and longing and curiosity before it—put into motion the lease I have now. I can’t refuse a universe which showers me with such…well, if not luck, then certainly happenstance. I’m trying to do what it asks, stay present, keep working for and towards the things that have always called me. 

Let this be a message which drives you to do the same.

And also, let’s talk boobs.

First things first: if you have questions about breast health and how yours may be impacted due to any number of factors, please talk to your primary physician. The below is only my experience. 

When I learned my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer, I contacted my doctor and asked if there was anything I should do. This is what happened next:

• I started with genetic screening and counseling, because even as an adoptee in reunion, I have limited access to medical histories/records. The screenings are far (FAR) beyond what you can get via 23andMe and were even more comprehensive than the screening I had while pregnant. If you are interested in this type of testing—especially because research and treatments continue to evolve—talk to your provider.

• I qualified for an annual mammogram and ultrasound, because I was within 10 years of the age of my sister at the time she was diagnosed. These didn’t yield anything concerning, only that my tissue is dense, which in mammograms can make it difficult to see things.

• Because of my dense tissue and family history, we decided to do an MRI to set a baseline for any future changes. That was done at the end of 2022. It caught a suspicious area, which was biopsied in January 2023.

• The biopsy revealed atypical ductal hyperplasia (ADH). Google it, and you’ll find all types of articles and forums that treat it as everything from a non-event to "pre-cancer” and worthy of complete excision. The condition means: Atypical (this is weird). Ductal (in a duct). Hyperplasia (lots of cells). ADH increases my risk of developing breast cancer substantially in my lifetime, so the diagnosis led to a semi-annual MRI screening schedule. On I went, with no major changes, until this past January. The area had doubled in size—it was very big.

• We could’ve done more biopsy-ing, but it was so large the team felt partial surgical excision was a better call. I was in favor of this too, because I could feel the area and it frankly stressed me out all the damn time. And hence, the partial mastectomy. The surgeons did a phenomenally great job—I’m still fairly symmetrical!

I know that this background info may stoke fear/worry in some folks. It did for me, obviously. But as much as the knowledge weighed on me, I’m SO glad I know versus being in the dark. So with that:

• If you have a history of any type of cancer in your family, ask when you are eligible for screening, even if it feels early. For breast cancers specifically, it doesn’t matter whether or not you test positive for the BRCA gene. If there’s a history, you should be eligible to begin screening before you’re 40, depending on the age of your family member at diagnosis, and their relationship to you.

• Fellow adoptees: ask your doctor about genetic testing. It’s an imperfect screening method, but it could flag something important.

• Mammograms are good, and ultrasounds are too! Ask if you can get both. If you have dense breast tissue (which will show up on a mammogram), and you're at high risk, you may wish to ask for an MRI. I couldn’t believe that my insurance would pay for this, but it did. My particular condition never would have been caught without it. Now I’m on a screening schedule that means anything suspicious is going to be caught and monitored early.

• Do not let fear prevent you from knowing. Go in, get it done! 

Next week: Souvenirs is back (and better than ever). Wishing you a quick rest of the week and a wonderful weekend ahead!