For as long as I can remember, I've worked out because I wanted to look better. For our wedding and the honeymoon. For college theme parties and the tiny costumes I wore to them. And before that, I trained for cross country and swimming because I wanted to win. They were self-centered reasons, but at least they kept me in shape. The only problem was that they never stuck around longer than the photo or the party or the race.

The past year and a half or two have been hard on me emotionally, and they've taken a physical toll as well. I started going to barre last March and stuck with it for about nine months, but I was eating a lot of crap (and like I mentioned in this post, I never felt like barre on its own was enough of a workout for me). When my mom had her double mastectomy in September, I used it as license to eat whatever I wanted, especially because our sweet neighbors were bringing over so much food so that my brother and I wouldn't have to cook while we helped her recover.

I'll never forget the day of her first surgery--after they wheeled her back to the operating room, Sean and I rushed to the market building in downtown Roanoke and nervously ate two of the biggest plates of Chinese food you can imagine. We were anxious and scared but also felt relief that our mom was making the best choices possible for her health and would hopefully soon be on the road to recovery. Another thing I'll never forget is how impressed her surgeons were with her chest muscles--my mom has always been a badass and CrossFit definitely set her up for some successful surgeries.

For months I've been telling myself that I need to eat better and to get back in the gym, but I couldn't seem to find the motivation. My Pure Barre membership was really expensive so I ended up not going back. Back in the fall, my neighbor and I both bought these Groupons for a 30-day membership to a cool gym in our neighborhood, so finally in February we started going. They have some really intense classes like TRX, kettle bell circuits, tabata workouts, and rowing; which is my new favorite. My body was sore for the first time in months and I was loving it. 

All of this fitness inspiration coincided with my first biopsy last month, and as I took a few days off to recover, I realized that I had found my lifetime motivation. Not a dress or a bikini, but a true and important reason to physically care for my body. Here's a thing I've thought about a lot lately but haven't actually written: I want to have a few babies and a double mastectomy within the next six years. 

It's an aggressive plan and if God/the Universe has taught me anything these past few years it's to not get too attached to your plans, but I have found so much peace in working my body for nothing more than the sake of becoming as strong as possible this year. So I joined the gym, and I've gotten back into more intense, CrossFit-style workouts. I lift heavy things and I jump and do lots of body-weight exercises, and twice a week I get my ass handed to me by a rowing workout.

I want to have fit pregnancies, and I want to go into that operating room in the best shape possible. I've always been pretty thin, but I haven't always been pretty strong. I want to leave cancer in the dust as I run and jump and swim and hike and play with my young, healthy family.

I'd say that's a pretty good reason. And I think it's finally going to stick.

As you may already know, in November I found out that I tested positive for the BRCA2 gene mutation, and after what felt like forever, I finally got around to scheduling my first mammogram. Because mammograms aren't super effective before age 30, the radiologist wanted to do an ultrasound as well, and it was then that we all saw a black mark on the image of my right breast.

"It's probably just a lymph node or a benign cyst," he said. "But because of your family history and the fact that you have a BRCA gene mutation, I think we should do a biopsy to be 100% sure."

My heart sank and tears pricked the surface of my eyes as he and the nurse explained what would happen during my biopsy. I know that no one likes needles, but the thought of a lidocaine injection followed by a larger needle digging beneath my flesh was enough to send me into a panic. And that was before even giving myself a second to process the thought that at age 27, I might already have cancer.

"It's probably nothing." That's what they said to me. But it's also what they said to my mom.

For almost six days all I thought about were double mastectomies and the babies I might never have. I thought about surgery, and chemo, and radiation, and numbing injections into my right breast under fluorescent lights.

But I made the appointment, and then I went in on Wednesday afternoon, filled out some paperwork, and proceeded to get a little loopy on Valium. I put on a hospital gown and lay down on a table next to an ultrasound machine and some syringes. The procedure wasn't nearly as terrifying or painful as I thought it was going to be. I barely felt the initial needle, and after that it was just pressure. If I ever have to do it again, I think I'll be okay. The loud clicking sound of them taking tissue samples was probably the worst part.

I didn't think I'd hear any news until today or even Monday, but late yesterday afternoon I answered a call from an upbeat woman in the radiology department.

"Hi Megan, I'm calling with some good news about your biopsy results."

Fucking lymph nodes, man.

The relief I feel now is unlike anything I've ever experienced. And I'm so glad I chose to get not only the gene testing last year, but the mammogram, and the ultrasound, and the biopsy. Sure, earlier this week I felt like I was going to puke every day, but if there's something wrong with me, I want to know.

If I can't be a cancer previvor, I at least want a shot at being a survivor.

So here I am today, a little sore and a little bruised, but incredibly thankful. And I feel deeply called to share every step of this journey with you all. I know now that this was always meant to be part of my life. And if you're going through something similar--or even if you aren't--I want to tell you that being brave may be easier said than done, but it's worth the work.

Take care of yourself. Know your options. Get the biopsy. Don't panic. And breathe.

We're going to be okay.

In the past four months, I've spent something like thirty-six hours in the waiting room of the surgery wing at Roanoke Memorial Hospital. Halfway through, I thought maybe I would learn something from people watching--I remembered being in ninth grade and my English composition teacher used to sometimes take us to Mill Mountain Coffee & Tea downtown and tell us to sit down, watch someone, and write about it.

The exercise was good, but I don't know if I ever learned anything about the people. I'd sip my coffee and look around, jot down a few notes, and we'd have to go back in time for our next class.

But spend twelve hours sitting next to a stranger who also has a loved one under the knife, and you learn things.

There was the overweight twelve year-old who wanted new boots for Christmas, hated the seaweed snacks her sister brought in an attempt to be healthier, and cried when she got frustrated. She seemed younger than she was and was hilarious despite some very deep insecurities. 

There was the pastor who dropped everything to be with one of his parishioners as she waited to hear about her husband's surgery that was unexpectedly moved up a day. He complimented me on my ring, saying that it reminded him of the one he gave his wife when he proposed. 

There was the mom whose kids were at home and whose husband got an infection after his appendectomy, and she was livid that he was going to be kept overnight for observation. I think she was just disappointed and worried but she acted angry, and called what seemed like everyone she knew to let them know that apparently there's a new privacy regulation in place that prevents families from visiting their people in the recovery room.

There was a lady who overheard me talking about Ender and couldn't wait to tell me stories about her own pup. We probably spent an hour talking about how much we love our dogs.

Yesterday I sat on my computer and worked most of the day, but I ended up drinking too much coffee and when my mom's surgery took an hour longer than the doctor estimated earlier that morning, I started to panic. I tried to keep myself busy with my laptop, but every time someone walked through the hallway into the waiting room, my eyes automatically darted up in hopes of finding the surgeon. Every time, I made eye contact with the woman across from me, who was also there alone. She smiled every time and yet I didn't really think about her until later, when she was sitting near the parking lot and struck up a conversation.

"Are you finally going home?" she asked.

"Not yet! I'm spending the night, I just need to move my car. Are you heading home?"

She wasn't leaving yet, but once her husband who had spine surgery was put in a room, she was going to spend some time with him and then go home for the night. 

"Did you eat dinner?" she asked me, genuinely; and I realized that other than my mom's doctors and nurses, she was the first person I had talked to all day.

A few hours later I sat on the edge of my mom's bed and we dipped French fries in Ranch dressing, giggling over a successful surgery and feeling totally exhausted from waking up so early for such a long day. We held hands and took two slow laps around the unit and I realized that, even though these past few months have been so incredibly scary, I will look back on them one day with a smile. I'm so proud of my mom, and so grateful that I could be here with her every step of the way. I just wish I had taken the time to write down the things she said while coming off the anesthesia.

The waiting room can be scary. But we have to try to push through. 

“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.”

— Emily Dickinson