When Guy’s Hospital called asking me to come in, I already knew what was coming.

Hearing that I had cancer at 31 was, of course, a shock – but there’s no way I could have  predicted that, because of my ancestry, spitting into a tube would lead me here.

I have Jewish ancestry on my mum’s side, but I’ve never really felt Jewish. My family and I aren’t practicing and don’t go to a synagogue.

But in February 2024, when the NHS Jewish BRCA programme first launched – offering free BRCA testing to anyone with a Jewish grandparent – my brother, a doctor, shared a link in our family WhatsApp group.

BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes help repair DNA breaks that can lead to cancer. But when there’s a mutation, or ‘fault’, with these genes, they stop working correctly and the level of protection against cancer goes down.

BRCA gene faults affect around 1 in 200 people in the general population, but for those with Jewish ancestry, the risk rises to 1 in 40 people; and up to 40% of ovarian cancers and 10% of breast cancers in the Jewish community are linked to a BRCA gene fault.

I wasn’t remotely concerned that I might have a BRCA gene fault myself. But I was curious.

So I ordered a test kit, which was in the form of a saliva test.  I simply had to spit in a tube and post it off.

I then didn’t think about it at all until a letter arrived in September 2024. When I opened it, I was shocked to find I had a BRCA1 fault.

I couldn’t understand it.

The families I teach about are the ones with a long generational history of breast or ovarian cancer. My mum had lung cancer at the time I received the letter, but the disease was still rare in our family and nobody I knew of had had breast or ovarian cancer. All my grandparents lived until 90.

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Within a week, I spoke with a genetic counsellor who explained my options. He put me into an annual breast screening programme and went through symptoms to look out for: lumps in my breasts or armpits, abdominal changes, or changes in the frequency of needing to wee.

The counsellor said that at 31 and with my family history, he wouldn’t recommend a preventative mastectomy yet. But I felt reassured that this was an option I could consider in the future.

I started checking my breasts regularly – something I hadn’t done before. One morning, in the shower, I found a lump and, a few weeks later, called the GP. They referred me for a biopsy – I was sure it would be nothing.

But two months after my genetics result and six weeks after I’d found a lump in my breast, I found out I had grade 3 triple negative breast cancer – an aggressive cancer, thankfully caught early.

Strangely, I felt calm and prepared. I knew catching it early was key, and I knew about the range of treatment options available.

My biggest worry was how to tell my family.

I told my parents and my brother together. This was especially hard because my mum was already undergoing treatment for her own cancer and suffering from the side effects.

Then, less than two weeks later, my dad was diagnosed with terminal bile duct cancer out of the blue, after a routine blood test from his GP.

This was a huge shock to us all. We felt battered by wave after wave of bad news – my brother became the only member of our immediate family who hadn’t been diagnosed with cancer.

It was a gruelling time. I went through seven months of chemotherapy, a year of immunotherapy, and a double mastectomy. 

My dad and I started chemo at the same time, just before Christmas in 2024, so it was a challenging time as a family. There were some weeks where I had chemo on a Monday, my dad on a Tuesday and my mum on a Wednesday.

One of the hardest parts of chemo for me was losing my hair, eyebrows and eyelashes – it made me look like a cancer patient, and made visiting work each week more daunting.

The double mastectomy felt like a double-edged sword, I didn’t want to have it, but I knew it would reduce my risk of the cancer returning. I was nervous about how I’d look and, being single, what dating would be like after surgery. 

In the end, the results were much better than I expected; on any average day, nobody would know that I had undergone the surgery, and I have been able to go on holiday and wear bikinis happily since.

In my first check-up after surgery in July 2025, I was told there was no more evidence of disease. It felt like all the challenges of the chemotherapy and surgery had been worth it, and it was a joy to celebrate with all the people who’d supported me.

But, devastatingly, we lost my mum to her lung cancer in December 2025 and my dad is on his final cycle of palliative chemotherapy. We are an incredibly close family and it has been hard to celebrate my own recovery while grieving for my mum and seeing what my dad is going through.

If it wasn’t for that free NHS BRCA testing programme, I wouldn’t have started checking my breasts. As someone who hadn’t been to the GP for years, I doubt I’d ever have found the lump before knowing my BRCA1 status.

This knowledge ultimately saved my life – and, after my diagnosis, several of my cousins decided to take the BRCA test. Eight people in my family tested positive for the gene fault.

Ovarian Cancer Action are currently raising awareness of BRCA gene faults, as so many ovarian cancer cases could be prevented with knowledge, preventative surgery and screening. They’re also funding pioneering research like OvarianVax – a potential vaccine that could one day prevent ovarian cancer altogether.

I’m proud to be supporting Ovarian Cancer Action with their campaigning – and if you have Jewish ancestry, even without a family history of cancer, I urge you to get tested for a BRCA gene fault. Registrations for the scheme I took part in have now closed, but your GP may be able to refer you to a genetic specialist if you meet certain criteria; or you can pay for private testing.

Knowledge is power. My BRCA test didn’t just lead to my own early cancer diagnosis; it’s helping protect my entire family.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk. 

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