My Jewish DNA: humour, trauma and BRCA

In 2020, when Melbourne was part-way through COVID lockdowns, I thought a nice way to break up the dark, isolating, never-ending period of suffering would be to get a DNA test.

The test was to determine whether I’m destined to get cancer.

If that’s not the most Jewish thing you’ve ever heard – piling suffering onto existing suffering – I don’t know what is. Of course, it’s only now, five years later, that I can even begin to apply some humour to what was the most devastating news of my life.

I was BRCA1 positive, the doctors told me on a Telehealth call. Why did I do that call sober?

My therapist is nervous that I use humour as a coping mechanism. To that I say, does she know how the Jews survived centuries of exiles, pogroms, a Holocaust, October 7? It’s culturally on-brand and, my god, a hell of a lot better than other things I could be using (but I could still do with a drink).

Since learning about my BRCA1 gene, I’ve been getting annual MRIs to screen for breast cancer. Devastatingly, early detection of ovarian cancer is not a thing. My risk starts to grow when I turn 35 in November.

Has the medical world invented Viagra? Yes. But despite millions (or maybe billions) of dollars used to fund medical research, ovarian cancer is a silent killer. In 2024, there were over 2,200 deaths from gynecological cancer in Australia alone.

You might be wondering: surely there is something that can be done? The short answer is yes. A woman can have her ovaries, fallopian tubes and uterus removed. Simple, right? As far as I know, the procedure itself is straightforward, but the decision-making required to get to that point carries huge risk, uncertainty and a heavy emotional burden.

Without your ovaries, you go into menopause instantly. There is a lot of stigma about what this means for women. It's not a death sentence, but imagining myself as a young woman experiencing changes to my body reserved for a decade or two in my future does not sound like fun to me.

There is also hormone replacement therapy (HRT). This is my favourite option. I want to be drugged to my eyeballs with hormones. I want to be Samantha from Sex and the City, arguing my way through Abu Dhabi customs because they won’t let me enter with my hormones. For so many reasons, I want to be Samantha from Sex and the City. However, to have HRT, I would need to have a mastectomy to offset the high risk of breast cancer it comes with (something which I am already prone to).

So now I’m left wondering, without my ovaries and my OG breasts, what would my body feel like? Would I still function as a typical 35-year-old woman? Would I still experience pleasure? Would I feel like me?

Of course, there’s the elephant in the room... babies. There hasn’t been one appointment I’ve been to where I wasn’t asked if I am married/in a relationship/have children/want children. Babies are as much an obsession in the medical world as they are in the Jewish world, it seems. 

To put to rest this dire concern, I did two rounds of egg freezing last year. That’s two lots of 13 days of injecting myself with two different medications, and two separate procedures that involved a probe through my vagina and a needle going through my vaginal wall to suck out the eggs.

The trouble is, even as I’m about to turn 35, if I were to have a child, I’d totally feel like a teen mum. I feel so unqualified and there are so many things I still want to do. So many dreams I still have. And there is actual research (it’s been re-published far and wide) that single childless women (and married men with kids) are the happiest people on earth. Mic drop.

When I think about the intersection of my Jewish identity and my BRCA status, I can’t help but feel the heavy weight of my Ashkenazi heritage. BRCA1 and 2 mutations are more prevalent amongst Ashkenazi people than the general population.

I know this is not logical and there are many more abhorrent things in the world, but I think it’s not fair that on top of the unprecedented antisemitism we are all experiencing – just for being Jews – my ancestral heritage is giving me this genetic lottery as well.

I recently attended a Jewish event and suggested to someone on the organisation’s board that it would be beneficial to run an information session on BRCA testing. To my surprise (and shock), the board member said such a session would not be well-received by Orthodox members of the organisation… because having a BRCA status is not good for the matchmaking business.

As much as I was disappointed at being labelled an ‘unattractive’ partner, I was more concerned about the missed opportunity to provide critical education. I couldn’t help but feel angry that there are people in our community who may be completely unaware of the screening and interventions available to them.

Having the BRCA1 gene is a monumental life challenge that impacts my own survival, my identity as a Jewish woman, my sexual health, my fertility (however I may feel about that), and my body image. Living alone in lockdown (and not really dating because of that), turning 30 while single and alone in the aforementioned lockdown, and finding out about a mutation in my DNA was brutal.

But with five years of introspection and going through some real low moments (that never truly disappear), I want to say that if you’ve also got BRCA1 or 2, you must share the burden. Tell your co-workers, family, friends, dates, even strangers at Jewish events.

There is nothing you should feel responsible or shameful about – as a woman or as a Jew. This is your thing to milk (pun intended), and it’s a very difficult, long-term journey. You might even be surprised to find others who have gone through the same journey or know someone who has.

The most beautiful thing to come out of this for me is knowing there is a community of men and women out in the world facing the same thing I am, and to know that I'm not alone.