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…