Correction. I used to be Angelina’s ovary. Now I’m a grey clump drying in a steel tray, dying in a steel tray. Is that any end for a decent ovary? Clamped, cut, avulsed, evicted, tossed into a cold emptiness, I lie here leaching out my juices and turning into a sticky pebble that will soon begin to stink.
Sure, I’m famous. She’s famous, is Angelina.
I powered her fame. I made her, though you wouldn’t think that from my appearance now. My pearly skin has lost its sheen, I’ve gone from ashes-of-roses to pallid blue. I’m beginning to get wrinkly at the edges.
Of course I worry – wouldn’t you?
What’s that you said?
You don’t have be polite. I heard you, and you know what, I completely agree. Why bother about looks now?
I bother because of who I am. I am an ovary. I define sex. I’m female.
Gender made me, as much as I made gender. It made Angelina. I made Angelina. But gender got me in the end, didn’t it? Couldn’t face the truth for 39 years, but I have to admit it now. It’s what we call a universal truth. It is not a law of nature; far from it. It is the nature of humankind. Since being human gives us bragging rights, we consider it intelligent and evolved.
Here it is, then, that ‘universal truth’: Being female makes you biowaste.
Biowaste. Love that word.
We’ve been wasted often, Angelina and I, but this is a new one.
Biowaste. A living discard. Oh yeah, c’est moi.
Let me explain. I’m bursting with health – or was, till my arteries were clamped and my oxygen cut off. I was a perfect 39-year-old ovary at its acme, running Angelina like a pro, making her dance to my tune as always when – wham!
The air is knocked right out of me. I feel this sickening gripe, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Steel bites into me. I hover briefly, catching a glimpse of the landing strip. Then I fall. A moment later, my twin drops down next to me, and then come the rich cousins, our two fallopian tubes. Not so grand now, are they? Their frilly ends droop and they’re about as interesting as squishy spaghetti. I’m going to look right through them. I’m done with being nice with these low life – what use was a tube ever, without an ovary?
Death sentence
As I was saying, I was in the prime of life, intelligent, fit, productive, ebullient with hormones, sexy as hell when I was handed this death sentence.
What happened?
Angelina discovered she had a mutation of the BRCa1 gene. Why did she discover this?
She went in for genetic testing because her mother, grandmother, and aunt all died of cancer.
What exactly did that mutation mean?
The BRCa1 and BRCa2 genes repair damaged DNA and keep cells healthy. When these genes are altered, these mutations, or changes, render cells less effective in protection and repair of DNA. People who carry such mutations may be more prone to cancer.
Let’s look at the numbers. In general, between 5% and 10% of women who suffer from breast cancer have mutant BRCa1 or BRCa2 genes. Twenty-five percent of inheritable breast cancers occur in women with mutant genes. Women with these mutations will transmit these defective genes to their children.
Men too may have these mutations. In case you haven’t noticed, men have breasts too, and yes, these mutations increase the risk of breast cancer in them also.
A child may inherit these mutant genes from either of her parents.
And it isn’t breast cancer alone. Let’s look at what got me here.
Risky mutations
In the general population, 1.4% of women will develop ovarian cancer, but the incidence can jump to 39% among women with a BRCa1 mutation, and to about 12% with a BRCa2 mutation. Bad, huh?
Angelina has a mutation in her BRCa1 gene. This gave her a 65% chance of developing breast cancer and a 39% chance of developing ovarian cancer. There was, of course, nothing to tell her that she wouldn’t fall in the lucky 35% of women with BRCa1 mutation who escape breast cancer, or the 61% who would escape ovarian cancer.
Fatalistically, Angelina decided she was doomed to get cancer. I can’t argue with her angst, but I can and will with the medical advice she received.
In 2008, Angelina, then 37, was given the option of cutting off her breasts to prevent their 60% chance of getting cancer. “Prophylactic bilateral mastectomy” sounds so much kinder, I know, but I prefer the brute truth. Angelina took that option. She had both her healthy breasts removed – and then she told her story. The impact was tremendous. Hundreds of women who might never have considered genetic testing otherwise queued up for it. They’ve been calling it the Angelina Jolie Effect ever since.
Those were just breasts.
An ovary isn’t just a pretty face. She lives unnoticed in the depths of the pelvis, but nothing she does escapes notice. I did everything that had to be done for Angelina. When the world looks at her, it looks at me. How did things go so right for Angelina and so wrong for me?
Very soon I’m going to be sliced up by a microtome, my cells scrutinised for the first signs of anarchy.
I can tell you right away, there’s no cancer in me. Yes, I carried a statutory health warning. Given that mess-up in the BRCa1, there was fair chance I could turn rogue. Actually, there’s a fair chance that other parts of Angelina might turn rogue too – her pancreas, gall bladder, bits of intestine – there’s no telling, really. Will she start worrying about those soon?
I know what you’re going to say. What’s the big deal? She’s got her kids, her family’s complete, she’ll get hormone replacements. She doesn’t need a pair of ticking bombs in her pelvis. You might also remind me that ovarian cancer is notoriously difficult to detect, and what if it had crept up on her unnoticed till she was past help?
Pre-emptive strikes
The truth is, every body part can turn sick without notice, and get well without reason too.
We don’t like that thought. We like to think we’re in control of our destinies, and genetics is the astrology of our age. We cast our horoscopes in fancy laboratories – and act out their verdict. Had I developed cancer, I would have landed up just where I am now—sharing this steel trash can with my twin. My excision hasn’t been so much preventive as pre-emptive. A propitiatory rite, really, a sacrifice to appease the genetic prophecy.
I’m iconic.
There will be other steel trays with dying ovaries, hundreds, thousands of them, healthy ovaries like me, massacred in their prime.
I can’t stop that, can I?
I’m maybe a dying ovary, but I’m still Angelina Jolie!
Ishrat Syed is a surgeon, writer and photographer. He shares the pseudonym Kalpish Ratna with surgeon-author Kalpana Swaminathan. Their newest book ROOM 000 – Narratives of the Bombay Plague (PanMacMillan India) was published last month.
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Sure, I’m famous. She’s famous, is Angelina.
I powered her fame. I made her, though you wouldn’t think that from my appearance now. My pearly skin has lost its sheen, I’ve gone from ashes-of-roses to pallid blue. I’m beginning to get wrinkly at the edges.
Of course I worry – wouldn’t you?
What’s that you said?
You don’t have be polite. I heard you, and you know what, I completely agree. Why bother about looks now?
I bother because of who I am. I am an ovary. I define sex. I’m female.
Gender made me, as much as I made gender. It made Angelina. I made Angelina. But gender got me in the end, didn’t it? Couldn’t face the truth for 39 years, but I have to admit it now. It’s what we call a universal truth. It is not a law of nature; far from it. It is the nature of humankind. Since being human gives us bragging rights, we consider it intelligent and evolved.
Here it is, then, that ‘universal truth’: Being female makes you biowaste.
Biowaste. Love that word.
We’ve been wasted often, Angelina and I, but this is a new one.
Biowaste. A living discard. Oh yeah, c’est moi.
Let me explain. I’m bursting with health – or was, till my arteries were clamped and my oxygen cut off. I was a perfect 39-year-old ovary at its acme, running Angelina like a pro, making her dance to my tune as always when – wham!
The air is knocked right out of me. I feel this sickening gripe, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Steel bites into me. I hover briefly, catching a glimpse of the landing strip. Then I fall. A moment later, my twin drops down next to me, and then come the rich cousins, our two fallopian tubes. Not so grand now, are they? Their frilly ends droop and they’re about as interesting as squishy spaghetti. I’m going to look right through them. I’m done with being nice with these low life – what use was a tube ever, without an ovary?
Death sentence
As I was saying, I was in the prime of life, intelligent, fit, productive, ebullient with hormones, sexy as hell when I was handed this death sentence.
What happened?
Angelina discovered she had a mutation of the BRCa1 gene. Why did she discover this?
She went in for genetic testing because her mother, grandmother, and aunt all died of cancer.
What exactly did that mutation mean?
The BRCa1 and BRCa2 genes repair damaged DNA and keep cells healthy. When these genes are altered, these mutations, or changes, render cells less effective in protection and repair of DNA. People who carry such mutations may be more prone to cancer.
Let’s look at the numbers. In general, between 5% and 10% of women who suffer from breast cancer have mutant BRCa1 or BRCa2 genes. Twenty-five percent of inheritable breast cancers occur in women with mutant genes. Women with these mutations will transmit these defective genes to their children.
Men too may have these mutations. In case you haven’t noticed, men have breasts too, and yes, these mutations increase the risk of breast cancer in them also.
A child may inherit these mutant genes from either of her parents.
And it isn’t breast cancer alone. Let’s look at what got me here.
Risky mutations
In the general population, 1.4% of women will develop ovarian cancer, but the incidence can jump to 39% among women with a BRCa1 mutation, and to about 12% with a BRCa2 mutation. Bad, huh?
Angelina has a mutation in her BRCa1 gene. This gave her a 65% chance of developing breast cancer and a 39% chance of developing ovarian cancer. There was, of course, nothing to tell her that she wouldn’t fall in the lucky 35% of women with BRCa1 mutation who escape breast cancer, or the 61% who would escape ovarian cancer.
Fatalistically, Angelina decided she was doomed to get cancer. I can’t argue with her angst, but I can and will with the medical advice she received.
In 2008, Angelina, then 37, was given the option of cutting off her breasts to prevent their 60% chance of getting cancer. “Prophylactic bilateral mastectomy” sounds so much kinder, I know, but I prefer the brute truth. Angelina took that option. She had both her healthy breasts removed – and then she told her story. The impact was tremendous. Hundreds of women who might never have considered genetic testing otherwise queued up for it. They’ve been calling it the Angelina Jolie Effect ever since.
Those were just breasts.
An ovary isn’t just a pretty face. She lives unnoticed in the depths of the pelvis, but nothing she does escapes notice. I did everything that had to be done for Angelina. When the world looks at her, it looks at me. How did things go so right for Angelina and so wrong for me?
Very soon I’m going to be sliced up by a microtome, my cells scrutinised for the first signs of anarchy.
I can tell you right away, there’s no cancer in me. Yes, I carried a statutory health warning. Given that mess-up in the BRCa1, there was fair chance I could turn rogue. Actually, there’s a fair chance that other parts of Angelina might turn rogue too – her pancreas, gall bladder, bits of intestine – there’s no telling, really. Will she start worrying about those soon?
I know what you’re going to say. What’s the big deal? She’s got her kids, her family’s complete, she’ll get hormone replacements. She doesn’t need a pair of ticking bombs in her pelvis. You might also remind me that ovarian cancer is notoriously difficult to detect, and what if it had crept up on her unnoticed till she was past help?
Pre-emptive strikes
The truth is, every body part can turn sick without notice, and get well without reason too.
We don’t like that thought. We like to think we’re in control of our destinies, and genetics is the astrology of our age. We cast our horoscopes in fancy laboratories – and act out their verdict. Had I developed cancer, I would have landed up just where I am now—sharing this steel trash can with my twin. My excision hasn’t been so much preventive as pre-emptive. A propitiatory rite, really, a sacrifice to appease the genetic prophecy.
I’m iconic.
There will be other steel trays with dying ovaries, hundreds, thousands of them, healthy ovaries like me, massacred in their prime.
I can’t stop that, can I?
I’m maybe a dying ovary, but I’m still Angelina Jolie!
Ishrat Syed is a surgeon, writer and photographer. He shares the pseudonym Kalpish Ratna with surgeon-author Kalpana Swaminathan. Their newest book ROOM 000 – Narratives of the Bombay Plague (PanMacMillan India) was published last month.