Publishing the Unpretty, AKA, "There's No Such Thing as the 'Good' Kind of Cancer."

I’ve had a few people ask for an update lately, and I have to say, it’s a lightning-rod topic.

This is the part where I remind myself of the person that told me I should never write a blog and not somehow find a way to end it on a positive note…It’s also the part where I remind myself that I promised myself to be honest and real, even when it’s ugly.

It’s gotten really, really ugly.

Sure, minus the gigantic scar across my throat, physically, I look fine. The hair loss that’s a side effect of such large doses of Thyroid Replacement Hormone has begun to decrease…I think. Fortunately for me, the biggest part of the hair loss has been at my temples, so my existing hair covers it fairly well. I cut my hair when all of this began, and as long as I am sure to tell my stylist my issues, you’d never know that I threw around 30% of my hair away this fall. I can’t really color it right now, due to the meds, unless I pay a professional; therefore, my ashy-grayness is starting to come through (if I try to color it myself, I’m guaranteed to go orange, or so I’ve been told). I have the deepest of sympathies for women who lose their hair in chemo/radiation; I had no idea how much my hair meant to me, until it started falling out. It’s pretty emotional.

I have come to the realization that thyroid cancer won’t kill you. That’s why they call it the “good kind” of cancer. You know what will kill you?

Yourself, on Thyroid Replacement Hormones.

This roller coaster of figuring out the right TRH is MADDENING. It’s heartbreaking, confusing, and gut-wrenching...it robs you of your sanity and your dignity, and leaves you doing things like yelling at random teenagers at church or sobbing on your husband in a parking lot after you’ve just told him to f--- off for the third time that morning (when you would normally probably never say such things, to said person). It makes you unsure of your abilities in your job or as a wife and a mother. It makes you call your mother and probably scare the crap out of her, because you’ve done lost your damn mind for the millionth time that morning.

When you already struggle with anxiety and PTSD, TRH makes you paranoid and swearing every cough your son has, is his last breath.

When you’re already exhausted from the physical effects of having no thyroid, TRH makes you swear that your husband hates your very existence and would be better off with your life insurance money.

TRH makes you believe the lies of Satan, and convince yourself that God did this to you on PURPOSE.

Sure, I look fine….

But I’m falling apart.

The thyroid meds are unavoidable.  I have to take enough TRH to keep my Thyroid Stimulating Hormones at 0. They’re currently at 1. If the TSH can’t stay at 0, it will basically cause my body to think I need another thyroid, which it obviously can’t duplicate, and will instead generate another tumor and cause my cancer to return.  So, I can’t just stop taking it; I’m on my 4^th different medication, and Lord knows HOW MANY dosage alterations.

Monday-Saturday on the meds (by the way, they’ve changed my meds every 6 weeks since July. I can’t get used to the meds before they’re being altered, so I can’t regulate), I’m “okay.” I say “okay,” because the anxiety is manageable. I can talk myself off of my own ledge, or I can focus and pray and handle my business.  It’s 180mg/day, and it’s okay. 

Sundays, though…I dread Sundays, and I believe my husband does, too. On Sundays, I have to take a double dose . I’ve done it the past 2 Sundays, and I swear, it’s like a freight-train through my brain and my emotions. I could literally rip my own eyeballs out (I’ve already ripped my fingernails off as far as I can). It’s uncontrollable.

My poor husband—he doesn’t understand why I can’t “just stop it.” I have no reference to make this make sense to him. This past Sunday, he took me to a park and we walked for what seemed like hours while we troubleshot some different ways we could alter the medications. Can my Wellbutrin be increased? It’s been the same dosage for 2 years. Can my TRH be taken 1.5 pills for 2 days/week, instead of 2 pills on 1 day/week? How do we handle this? What do we do? Do I need a monitor to keep me from jumping off of the roof? Should he take my other meds away? Some questions, I asked; others, I didn’t, because I didn’t want to scare him. Always the problem solver, David and I finally decided that I should contact my PCP and my endocrinologist, and have them figure it out; also, I’ve left a message for a psychiatrist who may be able to better help me deal with the fears and uncertainties that cancer leaves. The reality is that in the last 12 months, I’ve lost my ovaries, my uterus, and my thyroid. I don’t know of any sane woman that wouldn’t be a little messed up from losing just one of those. Losing all three of them, and dealing with all of the awful, synthetic replacements for them, is enough to make anyone go ballistic.

We had Benefits Enrollment this week, and we also set up a Trust Fund for our son. Dealing with so many uncertainties (what will this plan cost? I’m probably gonna meet every deductible they throw at me…what do we allow for? Could I have a reoccurrence? Do we have Critical Care/Cancer Care insurance available? How we decide to care for our son if we die?) left me feeling particularly vulnerable, especially since we met with the attorney for the Estate Planning on what should have been Hannah’s 9^th birthday. It was a very emotional process, and one of those occasions where I wish I believed in recreational marijuana, quite frankly. Being stoned sounds a lot better than contemplating the reality of mortality  (Not a very Godly way to handle things, right? It’s okay. I’m still a Christian, even during those times that weed sounds fun. Never tried it; never even had a cigarette. Don’t worry, folks). 

Those people that are able to lay everything at the feet of God and just walk away—those people that seem so able to release the burdens of this world—I want to be like them when I grow up. There’s a lot that I carry around that I’d do a lot better leaving at the foot of the Cross. All of the stress of this medication has me really struggling with anger (which has been a real problem through this process), and on Sunday, I actually got angry with God. It’s really easy to fall into the trap of “why do You keep letting all of this crap happen to us!?!?!? What did I do to deserve all of this?!?!?!?!?”

It’s a struggle, to stay out of that mindset. I know the “reasons” for illness, and that it’s all the result of living in a sinful, broken, jacked-up world. I know God is bigger.

More importantly, I know He loves me, even when I’m not feeling all of those lovely warm fuzzies.

I’m in a rough place right now. I’m hoping my doctors can work together and figure something out, because my family deserves the very best of me. Right now, they’re kind of getting the worst. I’m getting the worst of me, because in this state, I don’t even like myself.  Motherhood is seriously the biggest, greatest motivator to keep going, and keep letting them alter the meds until we get the dosage right. If not for that, I think I’d at the very least not be leaving my bedroom.

Thyroid cancer…

I swear, if one more person tells me that thyroid cancer is the “good kind of cancer,” I’m going to punch them in the throat as hard as I possibly can with my left hand….and when they’re choking and bleeding on the pavement, I’m going to say, “Gee, at least I hit you with my ‘bad’ hand. Could’ve been a lot worse with a right—that’s my ‘good’ hand.”

“Good” and “bad” can be pretty darn relative.