'There is at least a moderate risk that there is in your family
an alteration in a gene that can cause breast and ovarian cancer.'

Okay. I give in. My genes are suspect,
pre-disposed to kamakazi tendencies;
familial links to cancer now detected.

I will agree to surgery, sign away
redundant reproductive parts without
a backward glance; put up no struggle.

But luck can work both ways: my uterus,
though suspect, has been declared 'mobile',
thus less invasive methods can be used.

Mercifully I will not be expected to rise,
fresh from the knife, curtsey, apologise
for bothering the good surgeon, as did

one early pre-antisepsis patient, only
to fall dead, biblically, on the third day.
Nor will I have my incisions doused

in best French brandy, though I dare say
a nip or two would take the sting away.
Things have moved on through centuries.

And I'll be driven there and back, with
cushions for additional comfort. As I ride
I'll recollect pioneers of gynaecology:

Ephraim McDowell bringing his patient
sixty miles on horseback to his surgery;
the long ride back to unimagined health.

My gratefulness extends to each discovery
that makes such journeys relatively safe.
However, it must be said, God is a man,

otherwise we would have a system that
comes away itself when redundancy
is the only option on the table.