Just got off the phone from scheduling a BRCA test. For those who don’t know, that’s the test that will tell you (me) if I carry the gene that will mean I’m more likely to develop breast cancer. Per the Mayo Clinic website: “The BRCA gene test is a blood test that uses DNA analysis to identify harmful changes (mutations) in either one of the two breast cancer susceptibility genes — BRCA1 and BRCA2. Women who have inherited mutations in these genes face a much higher risk of developing breast cancer and ovarian cancer compared with the general population.”

Because my mom was diagnosed and died at such a young age (pre menopause), my chances of inheriting the gene are significantly higher than your average bear. It’s a strange feeling, making an appointment like that. It’s facing your mortality. That’s sobering. I remember having a similar feeling on my 42^nd birthday (my mom died at age 42; my sister even younger at 36). Logically and intellectually, I know that my 40s are, most likely (hopefully!) middle-age for me. That means I’m halfway there. Equidistant between life and death. Only 40 years left to get my shit together. The question is: Is that enough time?!

July is a rough month for my family. My sister died July 1^st. My mom died July 16^th. My brother died July 26^th. Lots of grief this month. Lots of contemplating, remembering, and reflecting. I’m still alive, but why, how? What will I do with this life that I have left? Really, I should be living the hell out of each moment, if not simply because I SHOULD, then because that’s the least I can do to honor their memories and their incredibly short lives.

My 14 year old asked me the other day, “Mom, how do you stop caring about what other people think?” I didn’t have an easy answer for her. My journey started when my mom died all those years ago. Losing a parent as a child shifts your perspective. You view the world differently: it emphasizes both the transience and fragility of life. Because of my mom’s death, I cared MUCH less about what my peers thought than the average 13 year old. (Oh, I still cared, to be sure. Just less than others.) How do I teach my daughter THAT lesson without the accompanying pain? I don’t know that it’s possible. Certainly age helps the process along, but those losses have really carved out my character. And character flaws. Sure, my mom’s death helped me care less about what other people think on a superficial level (“You don’t like my sneakers? Go take a long walk off a short pier”), it created a wound that, to this day, remains. Sure, I’ve gained some perspective about what’s important but I also gained a deep fear of abandonment. That beast rears its ugly head all too frequently.

I don’t like thinking about any of this, frankly. My mortality. My losses. My character flaws. I’d much prefer to live in my Pollyanna-like state where I think and talk about how beautiful life is and kitties and sunshine and chip dip. I don’t want to face my life choices that have gotten me to age forty-four: some good, quite a few, mind-boggling. But as I face the idea that I *could* test positive for the breast cancer gene, I am forced to look objectively at my life. What have I done with it? Have I loved? Have I helped my fellow human beings? Have I raised good, kind children? Have I been fair, kind, equitable, and generous? And, if I haven’t, when do I start? How do I change? How do I leave behind the fears that drive the questionable choices and live in the love that sustains the good ones?

I don’t know.

I feel like I should have this figured out by, now. I remember my dad at this age and he was SUCH an adult. I look around at my friends and they seem so grown up. I still feel like that 13 year old who is scared and sad and alone and confused. Am I doing the right things? How do I know? Over the next forty years, will I continue to make the mind-boggling choices or will I, hopefully, make more of the healthy ones? How do I get there? How do I make sure that I keep growing? Most importantly, how do I make sure that I keep learning? One of my greatest fears is continuing to make the same mistakes I’ve made in the past. I don’t punish myself for mistakes but I certainly do punish myself for REPEATED mistakes. I’m great at forgiving my neighbor seven x seventy times; it’s my own flaws/choices that are difficult to forgive. Once or twice, sure, but that sin of laziness/selfishness/gluttony/greed/pride for the 137^th time? Well, come on, Jen! Your mom & sister had it together by now: WHAT IS YOUR EXCUSE?

This is an unsatisfying blog because there is no resolution/no solution. I don’t know if I’ll get my shit together in the next half of my life. I hope I do. But my track record is full of crappy choices so sometimes it’s hard to believe that I’ll suddenly start making better ones. Good thing my therapist has her PhD. That means she’s good at buckling down for the long haul.

I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t end this with least an attempt to remind myself that I have made *some* progress along the way.

1. I walked away from a very unhealthy marriage.
2. I went back to school for nursing.
3. I found a way to support myself and two kids as a single mom.
4. I landed my dream job.
5. I bought a freaking condo. All by myself!
6. I continue to go to therapy even though it feels SO HARD.
7. I haven’t drunk myself into oblivion even though sometimes I want to.
8. I haven’t attempted suicide in AGES. Nor will I. I know that’s not much of an accomplishment for some, but for me, that’s big.

Okay. So I’m not a complete failure. I suppose there’s some hope for the next forty.