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IN HER OWN WORDS
SYDNEY HOPKINS No matter the hand we’re dealt, there is no chance we fold
I
don’t remember first learning about breast cancer. I was only four and my mom had just found a lump the size of a pea. Now, barely a decade younger than she was when diagnosed, I am preparing for a bilateral prophylactic mastectomy. I knew early on that the deck was stacked against me. Much like my mom, my maternal grandmother and aunt fought the disease. It’s a family history that has made every one of my doctor’s cringe and is proof that – as science goes - my chances of meeting the same fate are extremely high. When I was 16 years old, I had no idea that from that deck, I was about to be dealt an even more unfortunate hand. Though I was, by all accounts, an active, healthy, happy sophomore in high school, my mom noticed some irregularities in my body and growth. Scared and knowing the depth of our family history, she took me to a breast specialist. Shortly after that visit I had the first MRI-guided biopsy of my left breast and was ultimately diagnosed with a disease called Juvenile Papillomatosis. It’s incredibly rare, meaning there is very little research and even fewer medical journals to peruse, but among the minimal information collected is a prominent statistic: Juvenile Papillomatosis increases my chances of getting breast cancer by double digits.
OC TOBER 2021
In the 12 years since that diagnosis I have had several lumps. This has led to a lumpectomy, half a dozen biopsies, the loss of nearly 20 percent of my breast tissue, and countless nerve-wracking, emotionally draining appointments. Fortunately, I have been met, so far, with all benign tumors. For that, I’m extremely grateful and the good fortune is not lost on me. But for years I’ve been unable to shake the feeling that the other shoe is about to drop and it’s going to drop in the form of a tumor turned malignant. I could tell that my doctor, who had been with me for 12 years, felt the same. About two years ago she suggested to me that a prophylactic mastectomy, while incredibly intimidating and scary, was probably my best form of treatment. Frankly, she said it was the only treatment that would eliminate the emotional and physical trauma of constant imaging and of the biopsies that were becoming more and more frequent. In addition, it was likely to drop my chances of getting breast cancer to almost zero. I was sold. Well, almost. You might imagine that a medical decision, particularly one with lifelong consequences, is not made in a silo. For me, it was made after dozens and dozens of conversations (and tears) with my parents and my sister. It also meant countless conversations and SU RVIVORS EDITION
