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As surreal as my diagnosis feels at times, it is not as random as it might seem.

In the fall of 2015, my dad was diagnosed with non-small cell lung cancer. I was devastated. I quit my job working in fashion PR in New York City and moved to my family home north of Philadelphia. My father’s diagnosis came only two years after we lost my younger brother.

After initial rounds of chemotherapy and radiation, there was good news and bad news. The good news first: the original growth decreased in size. But there was a new spot detected. The oncologist recommended genetic testing to map out the next step in treatment.

The results revealed my father carried the BRCA1 gene mutation. Known as the “breast cancer gene” or at one point the “Angelina Jolie gene,” BRCA carriers have a much higher risk of developing breast or ovarian cancer compared with non-carriers.  The results gave us new perspective on the present, and the past: my paternal grandmother had passed away young – in her 40s – from complications of breast and ovarian cancer.

I met with a genetic counselor to understand what it all meant for me as my father’s only daughter, and without hesitation I handed over a saliva sampling and waited. I will never forget crying hysterically on my way to results meeting, it was like I could feel the bad news I would soon receive coming.  As a confirmed carrier, my next step was to set-up an appointment with a medical oncologist team at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania – and I shit you not - the very same hospital where my dad was being treated, and my brother Morgan had passed away two years earlier.

Before my first appointment, I gave a lot of thought to pursuing preventive surgery, and have both my breasts removed. But after speaking with doctors, counselors and my parents, I decided on regular screenings instead.  This left me with much higher odds of potential cancer diagnosis but I had just turned 30, I was single, and those risks were outweighed by the possibility of my future husband knowing my body in its original form. Starting with my first breast MRI on June 30, 2016, I would rotate preventative screening every six months.

After about a year in Philly, I made the decision to move back to New York City in the fall of 2016. My screenings always kept me back and forth to Philly, and my dad and I would even coordinate our schedules to have scans and appointments on the same day when I would drive back to the Penn oncology center.

My dad, Michael Dougherty, ultimately lost his battle with cancer on February 7th of this year. Watching his strength, his will to remain positive at all costs, his grace, his sense of humor, changed my life. And if I couldn’t (and still can’t!) imagine losing my dad – there is no way anyone on earth could have ever predicted what would come next.

In a weird twist of fate, my next mammogram had been scheduled for the day after my Dad passed away. I rescheduled, but the next few weeks were a blur. When March 4th rolled around, I almost blew my appointment off.

It felt like the universe was sending me sign. It was my late brother’s birthday and the weather was awful as it snowed the night before. I had planned to have my mother join me for the appointment and take her to lunch in Rittenhouse Square. Due to the snow, my brother Mikie’s work had a two-hour delay and my mom wouldn’t be able to join. He is special needs and can’t be home by himself. The last thing I wanted to do was leave my mother alone on her late son’s birthday less than a month after losing her husband. But as life would have it, I went and all I can say is thank God I did.

More stories will be coming in this space on my diagnosis, my IVF journey to save the chance at starting a family, my surgery, which is scheduled for April 17, and my chemo treatment that is currently to be determined. It all scares me and makes my head spin daily but my goal is to not make this the headline of my life.

So while my dad is no longer here, he is the inspiration behind starting this “blog” and keeping the journey a positive one. He taught me how to be graceful during the worst of times and humble during the best of times. He also taught me that humor is one of the best medicines. He was in the beginning of his battle cancer in the photo above, taken in the summer of 2016 after finishing his first rounds of chemo and radiation. I think he forgot about cancer in that photo.

So in the words of Michael Dougherty, who rarely cursed, “we’re gonna beat this shit!”