We

February, three years ago, I was waiting to have a breast MRI. Although it was an optional test, and would cost us several hundred dollars out of pocket, I chose to have it. (My wonderful husband, in spite of the money, said to do whatever I had to do - one of the many reasons I love him.)

I had cancer in my right breast. Throughout the breast I had DCIS - ductal carcinoma in situ. This cancer is in the milk ducts and is like cancer inside a sealed envelope. As long as the envelope stays sealed, the cancer is actually harmless. The reason DCIS is removed, is because of the potential it has of becoming something worse. In my case, the corner of the envelope had ruptured, and a mass of DCIS cells had formed, creating a lump at the base of the nipple which could be felt. In addition to this, the breast biopsy had shown trace amounts of infiltrating cells, in an amount so small that they couldn't tell anything about it except that it was "there". It seemed that the DCIS was just beginning to mutate into cancer cells that were more dangerous; cells that could spread.

So, the decision was made to have the right breast removed - a unilateral mastectomy. My surgeon talked to me about the option of having a prophylactic mastectomy, which is done to prevent breast cancer from occurring on the unaffected side. The feeling was other worldly, sitting in a clean office, calmly talking with a white-coated gentleman wearing a dress shirt and tie about cutting off parts of my body. And there was no way, absolutely no way I was giving up my left breast if I didn't have to. If the left side remained untouched, then I maintained some modicum of control. I had absolutely no control over what was happening in me, but I did control my choices. They could not do anything to me that I didn't authorize, and somehow, in withholding permission - in saying, "No" - I achieved a sense of power in a situation in which I was otherwise powerless. And I thought that if I had the unilateral, I could just focus on the side that was still me, the side with feeling, the side without scars, and ignore the "missing" side. Was this rational? I don't know, but it was my reality and I became determined to keep the left breast.

This is the reason I was waiting for a breast MRI. I wanted to make sure the left side was unaffected, and for young breast tissue, an MRI is the best scan for seeing even the smallest abnormalities. But I had to wait until the tenth day of my cycle to have the test, and then I waited two weeks for results. The MRI showed "diffuse abnormality" on the right side, but nothing on the left. The left was cancer free. You'd think I would have yelled "woo-hoo", and jumped up and down because I was getting exactly what I wanted.

Except that something happened while I was waiting.

While I was waiting, someone my husband works with told him to tell me to do everything I could and take no chances - because his wife had had a unilateral mastectomy, and five years later the cancer came on the other side, eventually ending her life. While I was waiting, I found out my aunt's breast cancer which she had had years before had become metastatic - stage IV, a death sentence. I didn't know it then, but she would lose her battle in June, 2009. While I was waiting, my doctor ran the numbers and let me know that even if the left side was unaffected, I had a 45% chance of developing cancer on the left in my lifetime. But more persuasive than any of those things, my eight-year-old daughter took my hands, looked me in the eye, and said, "Mommy, do whatever you have to do so that we never have to go through this again." We.

In spite of being caught up in what was happening in my own body, I knew there was a we involved, not just a me. Obviously, I knew what was happening affected my family, my friends. I knew there was a we when people gathered around me at the altar to pray for me, and when I opened my dry eyes, theirs were filled with tears. But the we that was that eight year old, whose eyes were filled with innocence and trust, trumped them all. She changed my mind in an instant. In that moment, I let go my need to control, and chose the path of precaution.

Do I wish it were different? Absolutely. There are times when I look in the mirror at my scarred body, and I wish. But as the saying goes, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride." Wishing changes nothing. I learned, a short time later, that I had made the right decision. My cancer was aggressive - it had already spread. Doing "everything" was the right thing. So I try, not always successfully, to be grateful for those scars. For they remind me, if I let them, that every single day is a gift. Every single day is one more day of we.