Thyroid Cancer and Panic! At the Parking Lot

I’ve tried to make myself maintain a pretty decent attitude about this whole cancer thing. After all, this is the “best cancer you can get,” right?
Sure…up until I found out it was in my lymph nodes. I tried to limit the amount of Dr. Google-ing, but I also want to be an informed patient who isn’t a doormat to an overbearing doctor (that I hadn’t met yet). So, I did my research, and found very little about what changes when the cancer metastasizes. I also didn’t find any information about a tumor the size of mine. By Saturday, I had a friend over that had also had thyroid cancer, but hers hadn’t spread. She eased some fears, and was a great listening board to the spiritual aspect of The C Word.
After all, no one expects to hear THAT WORD, especially at 37 (my friend is in her 50’s,  and is more in the typical demographic of this  kind of cancer).
By Sunday evening, I had a volcanic meltdown over not being able to find what I want in my house, when I want it…about a leaky roof…about a rebellious body…and about this bloody fatigue that is like a lead cloak. David informed me that I had lost my damn mind.
I’d say that although that was true (and he was entitled to say that, as he was the one catching my ridiculous freak-out), his timing could have used some work…and by the end of it, our trashcan was full of God-knows-what, and I was too tired to sleep.
I went to work as usual on Monday, with a careful eye on the clock…I was having another “Monster At the End of this Book” moment, except this time, I already knew the monster at the end was me…but it was Me + Cancer.
I have continued to have this image of myself in my head, of standing on the edge of a cliff while a tornado bears down on me. I have nowhere to go; all I can do is watch it coming, and know that it’s going to hit. All I can do is pray.
When I pray, I see myself as a child, sitting at my Father’s knee…”Abba, what is going to happen to me?”
It is not that I don’t trust Him…it is more that I do not do well with The Unknown….it is that I have a promise of a long life, but I do not want to see the quality of that life compromised. It is that my husband has had to carry so much, and I feel I am a  burden when I shouldn’t be…It is that my mother should not have to once again, watch her child deal with yet another medical issue. It is a myriad of questions, methods, lifestyle choices…and it is all under the lead cloak of fatigue that comes from currently having no thyroid.
I do not consider this a series of Dark Days…I consider this a series of Tumultuous Days.
And I consider this a far shorter series of days like this, than for people with more serious cancers.
Thyroid cancer truly is very treatable.

So, yesterday afternoon, we arrived at The Cancer Center at St. Anthony’s. Just being in the parking lot set off the waterworks and a huge wave of panic; I truly, seriously wanted to grab the keys and leave, and just forget this whole thing ever happened. I literally could not get out of the car. David came over, opened my door, and took my hand: “C’mon, honey.” (BTW, my son says that now. It’s adorable!)
I checked in at the window, and was promptly given a card with a barcode on it. “Whenever you come in for treatment, just scan your card, and we’ll know you’re here.”
A Barcode?!?!?!?
The waiting room was full of cancer information; in the corner, a cabinet with complimentary wigs and hats was there for patients who needed chemo. My stomach churned; I did not want to lose my dignity in a waiting room with other patients who were no doubt dealing with far worse.
My name was called…It was TIME.

We knew our consultation would be an hour; it was 2 ½  by the time I had my labs drawn. My doctor is actually the Medical Director of oncology, and I was extremely impressed by her caring nature and clear way of explaining what was happening to me. She understood that she was dealing with someone who was in a thyroid-less brain fog, and she took her time with David and I. A protocol was established; lines were drawn. Definitions were given, and an excellent prognosis was reached.

All will be well…which I knew…but it was wonderful to hear it.

The details: I have papillary thyroid cancer, metastasized to the lymph nodes. The tumor was large enough to break through the “capsule,” and grew into the skeletal muscles of my sternum. This means that during my surgery, a lot of mass was scraped off of my trachea (yeah, that’s fun). The tumor also snuck into my lymph nodes; although one was removed, the margins of the cancer within that node were too close for comfort, so it is assumed that it spread to the surrounding nodes of my neck.
Normally, with this cancer, they do a baseline scan to determine whether or not the surgeon removed all of the cancer; then you take a radioactive iodine pill, stay in isolation for 3-5 days, wait a few more days, and then they do a second scan to make sure the cancer is gone. The radioactive iodine pill treats and destroys any remaining thyroid cancer cells, wherever they are in the body.
They are pretty much positive that the surgeon was not able to remove all of the cancer cells (due to size, entanglement, etc.), so my doctor is being very proactive. We’re skipping the first scan, and going straight into treatment. I’ll take my awesome pill (truth be told, this will probably make me pretty sick. I’ve got some prescriptions to take the edge off, but I’m not optimistic about this part, just based on my history). I’ll do my isolation at my parents’ house, return to work after 3-5 days away, and have to stay separated from my son for a week (worst part). 5 days after I take that pill, I will finally, FINALLY start synthroid, and be on the way out from under this evil, evil, evil fatigue that is frying my brain.
7-10 days after I take the pill, I do a full-body scan to make sure that Ding-Dong, the Cancer is Dead….once I get a clear scan, we wait 6 months and do follow-up work. I’ll do the same routine every year for 2 years (good to know my vacations are planned, boo); 2 years of clean scans, and I’m clear with just regular lab work. 

The doctor did a great job of explaining the severity of the cancer. Had I been over the age of 45, this would have been diagnosed as Stage 3 cancer. Since I’m only 37, it’s Stage 1. I have never been so happy to be the age that I am! My age means that I have a higher chance of recurrence, but not for a long time (like, decades). I’m really not concerned about that. Once I’m through the body scan, I am prepared for a radical lifestyle overhaul. I have a son to raise, and I’ll be damned if my love of Nutella gets in the way of that. 

So, after all of the emotions of coming face-to-face with The C Word over the weekend, and of nearly passing out at the sight of The Cancer Center, I believe the hardest part is now behind me. The psychology of cancer is overwhelming, and because I already struggle so much with fear and anxiety, maybe it hits me a bit harder than the average person? I’m sure of it. I’m very thankful for your continued prayers; I know this is going to be okay (and I knew it before; it’s just not a fun thing to go through), and that the Lord understands me where I am, and the way I am. He gets me, even when I’m ranting about sippy cups and egg separators.
I hugged my son last night, tighter than ever. We were watching “Up,” and so much of Carl and Ellie’s story has been our story…from cracking into our savings account for flat tires and medical bills, to dealing with being told we would never have another child, after Hannah’s death. When Ellie gently touches Carl’s face to say goodbye from her hospital bed, I bawled. That’s the hardest part of life…saying goodbye.
JD saw me crying, and promptly ran over to me. I didn’t mean for him to see me like that…but his little hugs were the sweetest thing ever. How I love that boy…How I love watching him grow…
We have a long, beautiful life together to do just that…Me, David, and our Bug…

Happiness, Joy, and the BS of Cancer...

Updates….

I feel like it’s been so long since I blogged that if I start writing, I’ll have that Great American Novel ready to go, before I can stop…It’s been a while; I think that despite my best intentions, motherhood/employment has me putting writing on the backburner.

And that’s okay.

I officially give myself permission to write when I can.

A few weeks ago, I thought, “Sheesh, it seems like I only write when I’m struggling with something that I just can’t process any other way. Things are good right now. Guess I have nothing to write about!”

Oh, how a few weeks can change things!

Sometime during the month of April, I was driving through our valley with my son in the back seat, and I was thinking about how beautiful life is for our little family right now. After so many years of heartache, our little world was as picturesque as the scenery I was driving through….but before I could embrace the happiness of that moment, I had an internal fight:

“Don’t say you’re happy. Don’t say it out loud. If you say it out loud, it will be taken away from you. It always is. You’re not allowed to be happy. God doesn’t want you to be happy. You’re not allowed to be happy.”

“That’s ridiculous. He loves us. We ARE allowed to be happy.”

“No, you’re not; just look at what happened to David’s job, to your daughter, to your car—you’re NOT allowed to be happy. God wants you to struggle so you can be broken and totally rely on Him. You’re NOT ALLOWED TO BE HAPPY.”

“I refuse to accept that.”

SHOUTS IN CAR:” I AM HAPPY!  I AM HAPPY!  (Toddler looks up in back seat, smiles beatifically, claps) I AM HAPPY!! THANK YOU JESUS! THANK YOU FOR MY FAMILY! THANK YOU FOR MY CAR! THANK YOU LORD!”

I was so nervous, so scared to proclaim my own joy…it was an unbelievable fight, to make that declaration…to state for the record that yes, Cassidy Sarah Cooley is irrevocably HAPPY.

The next internal monologue went as follows:

“Oh, NOW you’ve done it. NOW you’ve pissed off The Enemy. Now he’s going to come at you full-force; you’ll be lucky if you have a roof over your head, by the time he’s done with you. It’s gonna be Job all over again, you idiot. Why’d you have to do that? Why’d you have to flaunt your happiness like that?!?!?”

“Hey! It’s okay! God is bigger, He’s greater, right? God gets the glory in all of it-Jesus loves me, like the song says! It took me so long to say that I honestly feel like He loves me…there were so many years of feeling like the heavens were silent…but they’re not, and He’s not, and even when I don’t hear Him, I know He’s there, and I know He’s not the Cosmic Killjoy that was beaten into my head. I am allowed to be happy because He is a God of joy! And even if the world caves in, I know He’s there…it’s okay.”

Jesus gives us permission to be happy, in a world that tells us we have to be afraid of having it all taken away.

He gives us permission to be happy in the face of the unknown, to have joy in the face of “what if?”

He not only ALLOWS us to be happy; He CAUSES us to be happy. He is the Bringer of True Joy, and He celebrates those moments with us. He gets no pleasure from our sadness; why do we paint Him to be such a masochist? God does not manipulate us to get His way by forcing pain and sadness in our lives; the Church has done a marvelous job of treating Him like that’s His MO, but it’s just not true.

He loves our joy, and He uses it to bring us closer to Him. He can use our heartache to do the same, and I’ve seen that in my own life, but He doesn’t force it. Joy is a much easier teaching tool than sadness, I believe, and I love having it in my life after so many years of missing out on it (by my own decisions).

 So, there I was, celebrating my family in my country valley, singing along to the radio, and embracing joy in a whole, new way at 55mph, and attempting to stave off the figurative thoughts of “you’ll shoot your eye out” as I headed home…

Fast-forward a couple of weeks…

April 29^th, I had a routine physical. Toward the end of the visit (I had said I was feeling so much better, because I have a nebulizer now, and it’s a Godsend!), my PCP wanted to follow up on an enlarged thyroid that she had noticed back in November. My labs were all normal, so I wasn’t concerned, but she sent me that day for an ultrasound, which showed a mass.

Well, so what? 50% of women in my age bracket have some sort of thyroid mass/nodule. 95% of them are nothing…So, I didn’t tell anyone. My doctor said I had to have a biopsy, and I’d need help with Jericho when it was all over, so I waited a week, and reluctantly told my long-suffering husband, who agreed to come with me (I was afraid, at this point, because biopsies are scary).

Can I just say that biopsies in general are unpleasant? That was the first one I was awake for. I don’t want to repeat that procedure again.

In this age of modern medicine, that freaking biopsy was inconclusive, after all of that discomfort! I was then sent for a CT…also inconclusive. The only thing we knew for a fact was that the mass was about 1” around, it was on the left node of my thyroid, and my lymph nodes looked weird.

Great.

I was referred to a surgeon (who was super-kind about my vocal cord fears), and a date was scheduled to get The Thing out. 6/4, I went into St. Anthony’s (ST. ANTHONY’S?!?!? HAVEN’T I ALWAYS SAID I WOULDN’T SEND MY DOG THERE? WTH AM I DOING IN ST. ANTHONY’S?!?!?!?) to have a nodule/node removed, and a biopsy performed while I was in surgery. My parents, my extra parents, and my husband were all patiently waiting; we’d all prayed together with the OR attendants before the procedure, and as I went under, I was okay. One of the OR attendants was in the room for the sole purpose of monitoring my vocal chords. Cancer really didn’t cross my mind; just SAVE MY VOICE! The thought of my son growing up without me being able to sing to him was what broke my heart into a million pieces before this procedure; I could care less about cancer. I just need to sing. It’s like breathing for my soul, so knowing that OR attendant was there? THE BEST.

Anyways, at some point during the surgery, the biopsy came back. To everyone’s shock, I have cancer. Papillary Carcinoma-that’s what they call it. They say that if you’re going to get cancer, it’s the best kind, because it has the best prognosis.

The “best” kind?!? Ohhhhhhhkaaaaaaayyyy…Sure, if you say so.

It’s been kind of a rock-the-boat moment for the family; when I came to after the surgery, it was my poor mom that had to break the news to me. I have no idea why the doctor didn’t tell me himself, and although he seems like a kind enough person, I don’t think my mother should have had to do that. It’s a tremendous burden, to tell your child that they’re ill. I don’t care if I’m 37—she’s still my mother, and I’m still her baby. Some things, a mama shouldn’t have to do.

Either way, when the surgeon got into my neck, he found a mass that surpassed the 1” diameter that they thought they saw on the tests that I’ve probably paid a fortune for. Instead, the tumor was the size of a small lemon (or of a lime), and was so entangled that my entire thyroid had to be removed.

I really have to stop losing organs, people.

The Monday after the surgery, we met with my endocrinologist. Although I find her staff questionable (in both efficiency and in manners—I pull no punches when it comes to medical customer service), she seems to know her stuff (and I do not think she would be fun to work for, LOL—most geniuses aren’t), and I am hopeful.  She immediately started me on a drug called Liothyronine that was supposed to temporarily take over for my missing thyroid…but it made me incredibly sick. L This means that until I complete cancer treatment, I can’t take anything for my thyroid…which means

I

Am

Beyond

Exhausted.

It’s like, New Mom Tired x 1000%.

I’ve never been so fatigued in my life; I’m so thankful for David, because he’s working overtime to pick up my slack.

Next week, I meet with an oncologist to determine the course of treatment. The “nice” thing about thyroid cancer is that (from what I’ve read) you have a radioactive scan, then a radioactive treatment, then a radioactive scan, and then you’re done, until you have to repeat the scan next year. Thyroid cancer cells react differently to radiation, so you don’t have to have repeated treatments or chemo like with other cancers. I believe that even applies to my lymph nodes; according to my pathology, the cancer metastasized to my lymph nodes, but until I have the scan done, we will not know how much. The surgeon removed one lymph node during my surgery, so that’s one less mutant I have to deal with.

After the cancer treatment has concluded (which will involve some quarantine time), then we begin the process of working with the endocrinologist to get my thyroid replacement medicine figured out. That process is concerning to me…but we’ll take it day-by-day.

If you’re the praying type, here’s what we’d like prayer for:

• The fatigue…the mind-numbing, day-wrecking fatigue. I have a job, I have a child, I have a house. These are things that are incredibly important to me, and I need to keep all of them. I need them to not fall apart around my head. I need energy and I need to be safe about it. With my very complicated medical history, I’m not about to start taking any kind of supplement/oil/whatever that “gives you energy!!”  So, the fatigue is a huge hurdle for me and my family.
•  Radiation: I have a history of getting very, very sick from radioactive isotopes. In fact, I don’t eat shellfish, because after an arthrogram in 2000, I was so sick that my MD told me since radioactive isotopes are derived from shellfish, I’d better stay away from iodine and shellfish for the rest of my life. I miss crab legs…and I am very concerned about any kind of radioactive anything. This will be a big part of our discussion with the oncologist.
• Quarantine: I don’t know how we’re going to do this. I know where I’ll stay, but I don’t know how David will manage with Jericho.
• Thyroid medication: I’m asking for prayer now, because figuring this medicine out can take some time. I can’t start it until the cancer treatment is concluded; I’m praying that it’s figured out quickly, so I can get some energy back.
• Our House: We have some repairs that need to be done. They’re not urgent, but they bother me. I’d like to get them out of my brain.

I’ve spent all of this time going over all of this medical stuff, but I opened this very long blog with an internal monologue about being afraid to celebrate happiness, because I just knew that if I did, my world would cave in….and sure enough, I freaking got cancer.

What does that say, and how do I respond? How do I respond to people that say stupid things like, “Aww, you just can’t catch a break, can you?” “You just have the worst of luck!”

Here is how I respond:

I had that thought the other day: “Aww, man, just as I say I’m happy, just as I’m finally bold enough to say it out loud, I get this. What the crap, Lord?” My next immediate thought was: “NO!  NO!!  I am NOT going down that rabbit hole!!! NO! I did NOT get cancer because I decided to actually admit that I was happy!!!!!!!  And it’s not ‘WAS’ happy! I STILL AM!!!!”  God did NOT give me cancer, or allow me to get cancer, because I said I was happy! What a crock! What a load of crap, that we let ourselves believe!  These are the thoughts that as Christians, we have to take captive. We can’t explain the whys and the hows, but we can’t let them run our lives, either. That’s such a pitfall—we can’t get stuck in all of that.

Do you know what I know?

 I know facts: Thyroid cancer is easily treated (although this process isn’t fun). It has a low chance of recurrence (although it is possible). Statistics are crap (I had a 5% chance of getting this stupid thing). I have wonderful health insurance (although I’m sure this is gonna cost us).

I know other facts: My family is an incredible support system. My husband is amazing, and we will figure out JD’s care. JD’s daycare is fantastic, and is very understanding. My employer is understanding, and I am incredibly grateful.

Most importantly, more than facts, I know truth: Jesus knows the outcome of all of this. He is the source of true joy, in easy times, and in times of struggle. My picturesque drive in April was indicative of putting grain in a storehouse; those times when things are beautiful and perfect? Those are the times when you get your battle gear prepped and ready. You know it’s coming. I had that feeling back in April; when I really sat down and meditated over my drive, I felt like a battle was on its way, and I was right. Times of peace are not times of laziness; they’re times of reparation and preparation. You can have joy in both times of peace and times of war; God is the same in both.

Why have I had one medical thing after another? I have no idea. I don’t know how to answer that question, and when I’m asked, I’m embarrassed about it (please don’t ask me that question). I don’t know, and I don’t understand, and I don’t know how to pursue an answer (if there is one). I know that’s a field-day question in my head, and it’s a constant source of shame that I struggle with. I just don’t know, and outside of determining to make healthier choices, I don’t know what to do. I’m praying for wisdom in that area, in particular…for the self-control to do what I know I need to do, and for the discernment to know what information I’m given is actually good, solid information.  After working in alternative healthcare for 11 years, I have a ton of resources to dig back through, which is in process. It’s a lot.

On Sunday, my husband was sitting on the couch. I was so tired, that he took my hand and pulled me into him; he is so strong, and has the most amazingly broad shoulders. I laid there, snuggled up into him, and JD crawled up on the couch. The three of us sat on our old couch, snuggled up, watching TV, and I thought back to my drive in April, where I shouted how happy I was in my car.

I’m happy.

I’m so happy.

I’m deliriously happy.

I’m going to continue to say it in the face of this gnat called cancer, not because I’m trying to be brave, or out of some false sense of duty, or to elicit some kind of a compliment or response.

I’m going to continue to say it because it’s true.

There is wonderful, beautiful joy in my heart because I’m not chained by the thought that trials mean God doesn’t love me. Life IS hard. Things suck sometimes. Jesus LOVES us—He has crazy, insane love in His heart for us, for ME, and the ups and downs in my life do not determine the level of that crazy love. He just loves—it’s what He’s made of!!!  MY TRIALS DO NOT DETERMINE THE LEVEL OF HIS LOVE FOR ME. I’ve said it twice—I need to tattoo it on my head, for when I am tempted to get trapped in that mindset.

Sometimes, my trials affect my love for Him. Sometimes, I get mad; I say dumb things, I forget His provision, and I let all of that steal my joy—it happens, and I’m sure it will happen throughout the course of this cancer-schmancer BS. That’s okay. He still loves me the same. He’s not a stupid human that’s occasionally ruled by her emotions.

He loves me.

Because He loves me—There is joy in the sucky parts of life. And in the awesome parts of life. And in the mundane parts of life. There’s joy. His joy.