Guys can get breast cancer?

I like to kid myself that I’m tougher than nails and nearly indestructible. When I look in the mirror I don’t see a skinny guy with a goofy red beard, I see a totally healthy guy who probably doesn’t even need health insurance. And when I run around the trails, I don’t picture myself as being anything less than America’s version of Usain Bolt, Jamaica’s Olympic runner, often regarded as the fastest man to ever live.

When I’ve got my headphones blasting and I’m kicking up dust on the trails, that’s my self image, an indestructible speed machine. Nevermind the hearing damage from the headphones and the joint damage from excessive running. When I’m out there I’m equally arrogant and ignorant of what’s really possible in regards to my future health.

Then I began preparing for this week’s breast cancer awareness edition of the paper. I set up interviews for the Save A Sister article and Katie Brown’s feature for the front page, and didn’t think too much about the topic until it was interview time.

After all, I’m a guy and guys don’t get breast cancer, right?

Wrong.

According to the National Cancer Institute, there are 2,190 new cases of male breast cancer each year and 410 male deaths from it each year as well.

Cancer can hit anyone, not just people with a family history for it, as I learned from my interview with Mrs. Brown, the volunteers with Save A Sister, and recent articles about breast cancer statistics on the NCI website.

But, family history is a factor worth looking at.

I don’t really know my biological father’s family history other than that I and my yet-to-be-conceived children are candidates for addictive personalities, alcoholism, manic depression, and the combination blessing and curse that is left-handedness.

I’ve got the addictive personality, as any gas station and candy vendor in the valley already knows. And those unfortunate enough to receive a handwritten note from me or sit next to me during a crowded meeting are definitely fully aware my left-handedness is notorious.

Fortunately I’m too cheap and too much of a light weight to worry about alcoholism, and running keeps me too mellow to ever have to worry about problems with mental health. So I guess those genetic bullets have been dodged.

But, I do know my mother’s family history. There are two cases of breast cancer and lots of bright red hair. Up until I started shaving I thought I had squeaked by without inheriting any genes I didn’t want. Since then I’ve learned to embrace what I like to call my “ginger-vitis.”

But what if I’m wrong about breast cancer like I was about the red hair? What if it too is just waiting until I reach the right age to make itself known?

Some day my love for ice cream, cake, cookies, and anything with sugar listed as the main ingredient will catch up with me, probably when my knees decide running is no longer a daily option. Eventually there will be more than just skin and bones on my chest if I’m not careful, and a cancerous lump could form there without me ever even knowing it.

I suppose my current form of health assessment is on par with basing a car inspection on how shiny the exterior is and not actually looking under the hood.

Maybe I should start getting a bit more realistic about my body. Maybe I should put more stock into having an annual physical rather than just looking in the mirror and saying “yup, everything is fine here.”