The C Word

Last August, I went to the doctor for my annual check-up. It’s one of those things I always make time to do. I noticed that my doctor spent a lot of time poking around my neck. Unusual, I thought; my instincts were right, unusual she found.

After an ultrasound, it was confirmed I had a rather large solid nodule on my thyroid. My primary care physician recommended an ENT surgeon who I promptly scheduled myself to see.

The specialist did a fine needle biopsy, and we learned it was “inconclusive.” I couldn’t understand how that was possible, how indeterminate could even be an option at this day in age. But there it was growing on one of my organs, this unidentifiable mass. The surgeon recommended another biopsy in a few months. Hopefully we’d have a more certain answer at that point.

Exactly 3 months later, I was sitting in the exam chair ready for biopsy number two. This one was a little different than the fine needle biopsy. Called the Afirma Test, it would analyze if I had the genetic predisposition for thyroid cancer. Two weeks later I got the results. My doctor said it was “suspicious for cancer.”

Cancer. The scary word. I’d heard it associated with me. Me and cancer; cancer and me.

I called John, my now ex-we didn’t use titles, so I’m not sure how to refer to him. He didn’t answer. Then I spoke to my mom and a close friend. John called back, and that’s when I lost it. It was an intense, heaving, ugly cry.

I cried out of fear and for the unknown and because I didn’t know exactly what to think or what to do or how I was supposed to feel. I cried out of helplessness, because I could not fix myself or my body on my own.

Mostly though, I cried because this news ostracized the truth: that I was 30, single and would go through this alone. Yes, I had friends, and yes, I had family all of whom would fly to NYC to be with me. I am very, very grateful for that support. But the results reminded me that I still didn’t have a partner in life. And honestly, I never thought I would go through something like this without one.

When I went to the follow up appointment, the doctor explained that a “suspicious” result did not mean I actually had cancer. It just meant that the possibility could not be ruled out. Due to the nodule’s large size and the higher percentage of the results, he recommended surgery and a getting a second opinion from an endocrinologist.

I spent a good portion of the next day on the phone with many different doctors offices and my insurance company. After many, many calls, I finally scheduled an appointment with an endocrinologist. He agreed with my surgeon, and after weighing all of the options, we decided on a total thyroidectomy (AKA taking the whole thing out).

I’m a champion troubleshooter, so over the next few weeks, I built contingency plans and then contingencies for my contingency plans. I wrote a will. I even made a binder for “my reliable escort” home with a call list and copies of every test I’d had in the past 2 years. Not wanting to put all my eggs in one basket, I made a digital copy of the binder and shared it with two friends.

I recognize how this sounds: nutty. It’s cool, I completely understand having that reaction. But for me, the extra measures were a coping mechanism, a way of dealing with the stress of facing surgery. It was the one element I could control and by golly, I was going to do it right.

Surgery day came quickly. Even though we’d broken up by then, John was with me. We sat together for a few hours, me in a sheer dressing gown with socks on instead of shoes. I figured we wouldn’t start on time, so I brought a couple coloring books and instructed him on where to color.

When I laid down on the surgical table, I remember having a lovely conversation with my anesthesiologist. We were both ex-Floridians and went to rivaling colleges (me to Florida State, her to University of Florida). When it was time to put me to sleep, she asked where I wanted to travel on my next vacation.

“I’d really like to go to Thailand,” I said.

“That sounds fun. What do you want to do there?”

“Volunteer on an elephant reserve.”

“That sounds great. I’m about to give you something that will make you feel like you had 5 glasses of wine, so start thinking about Thailand, the beach, the water….”

It kicked in pretty quickly. Then the intensity of what was about to happen hit me. I didn’t have any coping mechanisms in the operating room, and I started crying.

I called out to my new friend and asked, “am I going to be ok?”

She gently grabbed my face, looked me in the eyes and gave me the best pep-talk of my life, ending with, “… you are absolutely going to be ok.”

That was the push I needed to let go.

A couple of weeks after the operation, I was in my surgeon’s office waiting for him to remove my steno stitches. When I went back to the exam room, he said he’d just received the frozen biopsy results. As he went to grab them, I took a very deep breath, and quietly told myself, “whatever happens, you are absolutely going to be ok.”

He told me that it was malignant, that I had had two different spots of papillary thyroid cancer on the right lobe. He was very optimistic about my prognosis. It was the “run of the mill” type of cancer, well contained and hadn’t spread to the lymph nodes.

He was very matter of fact about things, which I appreciated. We talked through the next steps and, just like that, I left to go participate in an all day event at work.

I cried a lot that week. My therapist told me I was in shock. I had not expected the biopsy to be positive for cancer—shocked is exactly what I was. Not to mention I’d lost John who’d really become my support system over the past year. The timing was terrible, but that’s how it happened.

Just now, nearly two months after my prognosis, am I beginning to process what’s happening. I’ve learned a lot in these two months. To start, I didn’t know that I viewed my body as a machine. Like a car, if I put good things into it, my body would run well and be healthy.

For the most part, I did all the right things. I exercised, avoided drugs, drank in moderation, ate fruits and vegetables, no meat, organic when possible and even used natural deodorant. I did the right things, so why did my body break down? My doctor’s couldn’t explain why either, “these things, they just happen sometimes,” they said.

Now when I look at myself in the mirror and see that neat scare on the front of my neck, I still feel scared. Afraid that my body will break again, that the cancer will come back or it will find another place to grow.

 

Then I think, “I’m so damn lucky.” Because, I get to wake up in the morning. I get the chance to face all the hard stuff. I get the opportunity to suffer and grow. I also get the chance to live, and that is something to rejoice over.

This week, I’ll be having radioactive iodine treatments (RAI). Kind of radical really as I’ll be literally radioactive for a bit. My dad keeps joking that I’ll be glowing, which really makes me laugh.

The fear is real. There have been times where I’ve wanted to stay home from work and hide in my house all day. Some days suck and feel really painful. Adjusting to synthetic hormones has been challenging too. I’m having to learn what is normal for me now, and that has been frustrating.

It all comes back to fear for me and the choice of whether or not to face it. I never want to be frozen by it, unable to take action or advocate for myself. That drive is the biggest motivator right now, so I find the focus to keep moving forward.

Moving forward doesn’t necessarily mean you’re moving on. It’s a step in that direction, at least I believe that. The fear of my cancer returning will fade or it won’t. I will stop missing John eventually or I won’t. But I choose to believe I will move on. I choose hope because it’s the best thing, the kind thing, the way I want to live.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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