Science

In the six weeks I spent waiting to hear whether I tested positive for the cancer gene, I refused to think about the results. Perhaps I was just as fatal about my genes as my mother. To me, getting the test was akin to having the mutation. It never occurred to me that I might test negative. I speculated about the outcome only during the trip from the parking lot into the office. If it is possible to realize one’s own mortality on a slow walk through a dismal three-story garage, then I did. This was adulthood, a banal march toward cancer and death. I considered skipping the appointment altogether. But then there would be all the explaining. And I’d probably just end up back here anyway. Besides, I needed my parking validated. And then I thought about my mother. The reason that I was here, contemplating my mortality, was because we had made a cockamamie deal. ...

My mother and I made a deal. I would get tested for the breast cancer gene, and in exchange, she would go to therapy for at least six months. I was at a weak point when it all went down. I’d just had a cyst removed from my nether regions, and I was convalescing in her giant bathtub. I was grateful to her for wrangling an appointment with her extraordinarily busy doctor, for taking care of me long past the age when I should be taking care of myself. I felt very lucky to have a mother just then, so I wanted to repay her. With one string attached. The deal made sense at the time. She had the same negative feelings about therapy as I did about the gene test. It would be an equal lose-lose situation. But she agreed so quickly that I immediately knew I’d gotten

I visited my mom in the hospital only once after she had her hysterectomy. I was 12, and the only thing I remember is being jealous that she could watch television in bed all day. The game shows! The soaps! Jello pudding! I reached for the remote immediately. She snapped at me to turn the TV off. That grumpiness followed her home to our West Los Angeles condo. I knew that a hysterectomy meant removing the uterus and ovaries, but I didn’t realize that it would throw her hormones out of whack. And I didn’t understand why she had the operation. She was 35 and in good health. To me, she had inexplicably decided to have surgery for no real reason, and the resulting craziness was her fault. When I think back now, I realize she wasn’t crazier, just unhappy. My mother had her ovaries removed because she was sure she had the cancer curse. Long after her surgery, but shortly after scientists discovered the mutation ...

Later this month, my mother is going to have her breasts removed—not because she has cancer, but because she’s quite sure she’ll get it. It’s not the first time she’s had body parts removed. In fact, I’d had my mother pegged as straight-up insane since I was 12, when she underwent a total hysterectomy at age 35. It took me years to realize she’s not crazy. Or at least not that crazy. Finally, last year, we made The Deal: I told her I would get tested for the breast cancer gene if she would go into therapy. When my mother first told me about the “cancer gene,” maybe five years ago, I didn’t believe her. I remember sitting on the phone with her in my Brooklyn kitchen, rolling my eyes, and probably smoking a cigarette. I’d been on the receiving end of too many articles about cancer prevention to take this to heart. But it turned out my mother wasn’t lying that day. And it also turned out that the feeling ...

Genetically, Ashkenazi Jews are freaks. For most of Jewish history in Europe, cherem-wielding rabbis and an unwelcoming Gentile world made inbreeding a far more appealing option than intermarriage. As a result, Ashkenazim became what scientists call an “endogamous group,” which is another way of saying that they have been sleeping with their cousins for a thousand years. And because endogamous groups often develop distinctive genetic profiles, nothing gets a population geneticist hotter than incest. Ashkenazim aren’t the only group that has kept outsiders out of the gene pool. Most other such groups, however, are isolated, rural populations, like the Amish or the inhabitants of Australia’s Norfolk Island. ...