I am about 4 weeks away from taking my radioactive iodine pill. All joking aside, I've been pretty scared about the process. I have been off my thyroid hormone pill for 2 weeks now and have been taking a substitute pill that goes out of my system almost as fast as it goes in. It gives me a boost for now, but that even goes away Tuesday when I have to stop taking that. It took some time to even get that dosage right. It was making me hyperthyroid for awhile. I found my heart beating out of my chest and woke up one night needing a 4-course-meal at 1 a.m. Needless to say, I called my doc the next day.
I'm not sure if I will become zombie-like in the next few weeks or if I will escape the mortal consequences of having no thyroid. I am praying I won't have to accept what seems to be the inevitable, but I have to be prepared either way. I recently read someone else's blog that stated she'd rather take her chances with cancer than to go hypothyroid. It feels like I have an anvil around my neck waiting to pull me under.
I think the many prayers I've received have given me a peace about the whole process. There are days I forget I even have cancer. I can listen to my son go on and on (and on) about steam engines and coal cars and actually engage. Ok, that's a lie. There's only so much train talk I can take, but I do feel happy and plugged in to spending time with my little train conductor.
I bought my first-ever can of infant formula today. Just another reminder of the choices that have been taken away from me. I hadn't planned on cancer taking away my decision to nurse, but here I am. Public service announcement: it's not about the great formula vs. breastmilk debate. It's about my choice.
So if my next blog post is in zombie-speak, please disregard and send happy thoughts my way anyway.
Now where is my little train conductor? I think I have some train talking to do.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Don't stand so- Don't stand so- Don't stand so close to me
So that Police song pretty much covers the next step here. I don't think Sting said anything about standing at least 6 feet away, but you get the point.
The date is set for February 25. That's the day I swallow a pill that contains such extreme amounts of radiation that I can't be close to another human being for 5 days. Maybe I can wear one of those lamp shades they put on dogs after they have surgery- excuse me, but do you have this in a 6-foot?
I walked out of the doctor's office last week with a detailed schedule of how the next 2 months will go. First thing's first: stop taking my thyroid medication. That is the part I am most worried about. I imagine the doctor could have said something like this:
You will feel so sleepy that you might not even be aware that you are conscious at times. Forget about eating anything and actually getting it to come back out. You will probably feel extremely depressed, so don't keep any sharp objects nearby. You don't own a gun, do you?
This is honestly the part I had to hold back tears about. I have become somewhat fond of my thyroid meds. So if you see me trying to score some levothyroxin on the streets, just turn the other cheek.
I also have to start a low-iodine diet two weeks before taking the radioactive iodine (RAI) pill. No salt. No dairy. No chocolate. No taste. This helps the remaining thyroid tissue that will be targeted by the RAI pill to better soak up the sun-shiny rays of radiation.
For three days straight before the treatment, I have to report to the hospital at the crack of dawn to subject myself to poking and prodding-most of which I don't yet understand. They have to give me a test pill and make sure I haven't been impregnated without my prior knowledge. Then the big day... drum roll please...
I will choke down my glow pill and high-tail it into hiding for five days. I guess I will do my best to stay in the car pool lane on the way there.
The date is set for February 25. That's the day I swallow a pill that contains such extreme amounts of radiation that I can't be close to another human being for 5 days. Maybe I can wear one of those lamp shades they put on dogs after they have surgery- excuse me, but do you have this in a 6-foot?
I walked out of the doctor's office last week with a detailed schedule of how the next 2 months will go. First thing's first: stop taking my thyroid medication. That is the part I am most worried about. I imagine the doctor could have said something like this:
You will feel so sleepy that you might not even be aware that you are conscious at times. Forget about eating anything and actually getting it to come back out. You will probably feel extremely depressed, so don't keep any sharp objects nearby. You don't own a gun, do you?
This is honestly the part I had to hold back tears about. I have become somewhat fond of my thyroid meds. So if you see me trying to score some levothyroxin on the streets, just turn the other cheek.
I also have to start a low-iodine diet two weeks before taking the radioactive iodine (RAI) pill. No salt. No dairy. No chocolate. No taste. This helps the remaining thyroid tissue that will be targeted by the RAI pill to better soak up the sun-shiny rays of radiation.
For three days straight before the treatment, I have to report to the hospital at the crack of dawn to subject myself to poking and prodding-most of which I don't yet understand. They have to give me a test pill and make sure I haven't been impregnated without my prior knowledge. Then the big day... drum roll please...
I will choke down my glow pill and high-tail it into hiding for five days. I guess I will do my best to stay in the car pool lane on the way there.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
A new superhero: Radioacto-girl!
The morning after surgery, my surgeon came in to give me the play-by-play of the procedure. He told me he removed the cancerous tumor along with my thyroid. He said it looked like it was fully enveloped in the thyroid and he got it all. Got it all... yay! Before I did a cancer-free dance (ok, I was still loopy and hooked up to IV's... it was a cancer-free gesture), the surgeon dropped a bomb and ran.
"Your lymph nodes looked a little enlarged so we took samples from them to test. Enjoy your jello!"
Translation: your cancer is spreading.
Although my doctor says I am still stage 1 cancer, it is hard for me to understand. Stage 2 means that it has spread. This is true in my case. Some of the texts I've read attest to this as well. I guess there is still a lot I have to learn.
So the next leg of my journey is treatment. There is a treatment that is specific to thyroid cancer called radioactive iodine therapy. From what I gather, it is a pill I will take that will destroy any remaining thyroid tissue left in my body. It is a process by which I will have to go into isolation for 2 to 5,682 days (depending on who you talk to) so that I don't spread my radio-activeness to anyone. I have to stop breastfeeding my son, which breaks my heart to no end. Being away from my husband and kids for a few days is bad enough, let alone having to change my baby's routine like that.
In the meantime, I can't help but be scared. I have divvied up the life insurance payout Brenner will get in my mind about a hundred times. I know God will not forsake me, but there are various definitions of what that might look like. It sounds like this cancer is fairly easy to beat, as it has a 95% cure rate if it is in stage 1, but still nothing to mess with.
So I have to figure out how I am going to go radioactive and stay sane all at the same time. I have to give up the craziness of life for a few solitary days of peace and quiet. Wait a second, what am I saying? Er, was this radioactive thing a ruse for tired mamas who wouldn't mind watching Twilight for the 42nd time in peace? Hmm... anyone have a cabin I can borrow for a few days? Preferably with a hot tub?
"Your lymph nodes looked a little enlarged so we took samples from them to test. Enjoy your jello!"
Translation: your cancer is spreading.
Although my doctor says I am still stage 1 cancer, it is hard for me to understand. Stage 2 means that it has spread. This is true in my case. Some of the texts I've read attest to this as well. I guess there is still a lot I have to learn.
So the next leg of my journey is treatment. There is a treatment that is specific to thyroid cancer called radioactive iodine therapy. From what I gather, it is a pill I will take that will destroy any remaining thyroid tissue left in my body. It is a process by which I will have to go into isolation for 2 to 5,682 days (depending on who you talk to) so that I don't spread my radio-activeness to anyone. I have to stop breastfeeding my son, which breaks my heart to no end. Being away from my husband and kids for a few days is bad enough, let alone having to change my baby's routine like that.
In the meantime, I can't help but be scared. I have divvied up the life insurance payout Brenner will get in my mind about a hundred times. I know God will not forsake me, but there are various definitions of what that might look like. It sounds like this cancer is fairly easy to beat, as it has a 95% cure rate if it is in stage 1, but still nothing to mess with.
So I have to figure out how I am going to go radioactive and stay sane all at the same time. I have to give up the craziness of life for a few solitary days of peace and quiet. Wait a second, what am I saying? Er, was this radioactive thing a ruse for tired mamas who wouldn't mind watching Twilight for the 42nd time in peace? Hmm... anyone have a cabin I can borrow for a few days? Preferably with a hot tub?
Hello doctor, what a shiny scalpel you have.
I have thyroid cancer. Not exactly something I will sign my Christmas cards with, but nonetheless it is the newest addition to our brood. The best part about my diagnosis is that it started out with the word "suspected" attached to it. Suspected thyroid cancer. Really? What does that mean? Don't freak out, but you might have cancer. We are going to rip your thyroid out of your neck anyway.
So that is how girl meets boy... or patient meets doctor anyway. He paced in front of me in his flourescent-lit exam room exacting how he would slice and dice. While the picture wasn't pretty, I was finally getting some answers.
He assumed it was cancer. No hope-filled words attached. Just me and my cancer. All the fuss was about a small nodule on an already underachieving thyroid. I had been on a small dose of thyroid medication for a few years for being slightly hypothyroid. That basically means my little thyroid gland was not the varsity kicker. It wasn't working properly anyway, so we may as well go ahead and pull it on out. Anything else in there you'd like to take out, doctor?
The next morning, Brenner and I made it to the hospital at 9:30 a.m. I hadn't eaten or drank anything since 11 p.m. the night before. That is a feat for a breastfeeding mama. Did I mention that before? I was still nursing my 9-month-old. This posed an altogether different problem. I couldn't nurse him for 24 hours following any narcotics (mmm, narcotics) from surgery. I was determined to get back in the game asap, so I was going to do my best to opt out of any drugs (mmm, drugs) as soon after surgery as I could.
A pastor from our church came by beforehand to read me my last rites, er... to pray with me. Yes, I was a little nervous. When they called me back they told me they were ahead of schedule so they had me put on my hospital gown like I was shot out of a cannon. They were going so fast that I had to do some last minute breast-pumping (sorry guys) on the fly with the nurse asking if it was ok that she asked me questions while I did it. Sure, I love to pump in front of strangers. Why don't you call that custodian over there in too. We can make a day of it. Oh well. I pretty much lost all my dignity in childbirth anyway.
After I was saddled up with an IV, a young man came to wheel me and my hospital bed into the OR. Too bad I didn't notice my boob was hanging out of a hole in the front of my gown (sorry again, guys). Nice touch. Is this the hospital gown I will pay $4,000 for when the bill comes?
So somewhere between the anesthesiologist making small talk about my kids and waking up to a stranger asking me if I was going to puke, my thyroid was removed. It was removed along with a cancerous tumor. A real tumor. Double gulp again. On second thought, that kind of hurts now.
So that is how girl meets boy... or patient meets doctor anyway. He paced in front of me in his flourescent-lit exam room exacting how he would slice and dice. While the picture wasn't pretty, I was finally getting some answers.
He assumed it was cancer. No hope-filled words attached. Just me and my cancer. All the fuss was about a small nodule on an already underachieving thyroid. I had been on a small dose of thyroid medication for a few years for being slightly hypothyroid. That basically means my little thyroid gland was not the varsity kicker. It wasn't working properly anyway, so we may as well go ahead and pull it on out. Anything else in there you'd like to take out, doctor?
The next morning, Brenner and I made it to the hospital at 9:30 a.m. I hadn't eaten or drank anything since 11 p.m. the night before. That is a feat for a breastfeeding mama. Did I mention that before? I was still nursing my 9-month-old. This posed an altogether different problem. I couldn't nurse him for 24 hours following any narcotics (mmm, narcotics) from surgery. I was determined to get back in the game asap, so I was going to do my best to opt out of any drugs (mmm, drugs) as soon after surgery as I could.
A pastor from our church came by beforehand to read me my last rites, er... to pray with me. Yes, I was a little nervous. When they called me back they told me they were ahead of schedule so they had me put on my hospital gown like I was shot out of a cannon. They were going so fast that I had to do some last minute breast-pumping (sorry guys) on the fly with the nurse asking if it was ok that she asked me questions while I did it. Sure, I love to pump in front of strangers. Why don't you call that custodian over there in too. We can make a day of it. Oh well. I pretty much lost all my dignity in childbirth anyway.
After I was saddled up with an IV, a young man came to wheel me and my hospital bed into the OR. Too bad I didn't notice my boob was hanging out of a hole in the front of my gown (sorry again, guys). Nice touch. Is this the hospital gown I will pay $4,000 for when the bill comes?
So somewhere between the anesthesiologist making small talk about my kids and waking up to a stranger asking me if I was going to puke, my thyroid was removed. It was removed along with a cancerous tumor. A real tumor. Double gulp again. On second thought, that kind of hurts now.
Conrgratulations! It's... thyroid cancer!
The phone rang the day before Thanksgiving. It was a call I'd been waiting for all day. The surprise in my doctor's voice was not comforting. "The biopsy revealed suspected thyroid cancer," she said. The inflection in her voice on those last two words-thyroid cancer-came through loud and clear. My 4-year-old ran circles around me as I tried to focus on what she was saying.
Thyroid cancer. Radioactive iodine... what?
Happy Thanksgiving.
It started 4 years earlier at my post-partum check-up with my first son. My doctor ho-hummed through the average-joe check-up when she ran her hands across my neck. Her eyes went to the ceiling like she was trying to figure out a math equation. If a train is traveling west at 65 mph...
She actually brought another doctor in to take a stab at the problem. And another train is traveling east at 45 miles per hour...
"You have a nodule on your neck," she said. Double gulp. I think the trains just derailed.
After I made a stupid joke about when I was to start chemo, both doctors looked at me as if I had lost my mind. "You need to see a specialist."
The specialist told me it was a thyroglossal duct cyst. Try saying that with your hands tied behind your back. She explained it as something I'd had since birth that had likely been affected by my pregnancy. No harm done. She wanted to keep tabs on it for kicks though. A biopsy revealed nothing out of the ordinary as did all of my other ultrasounds.
In March of 2010 I gave birth to my second son. I hadn't felt my neck in awhile and in doing so after he was born, I convinced mysef it had gotten bigger. I made an appointment to see my doctor in July.
"It's gotten a little bigger, but it's probably nothing. Let's schedule another biopsy in November just in case," she said.
Um, did you hear a train horn?
This brings me to the day before Thanksgiving. The phone call that changed things. A lot of things. Necklaces will never look as pretty on my Frankenstien neck, I can't get my life insurance upped, and I no longer have a thyroid. I'm pretty sure that last one's gonna suck. A lot.
Thyroid cancer. Radioactive iodine... what?
Happy Thanksgiving.
It started 4 years earlier at my post-partum check-up with my first son. My doctor ho-hummed through the average-joe check-up when she ran her hands across my neck. Her eyes went to the ceiling like she was trying to figure out a math equation. If a train is traveling west at 65 mph...
She actually brought another doctor in to take a stab at the problem. And another train is traveling east at 45 miles per hour...
"You have a nodule on your neck," she said. Double gulp. I think the trains just derailed.
After I made a stupid joke about when I was to start chemo, both doctors looked at me as if I had lost my mind. "You need to see a specialist."
The specialist told me it was a thyroglossal duct cyst. Try saying that with your hands tied behind your back. She explained it as something I'd had since birth that had likely been affected by my pregnancy. No harm done. She wanted to keep tabs on it for kicks though. A biopsy revealed nothing out of the ordinary as did all of my other ultrasounds.
In March of 2010 I gave birth to my second son. I hadn't felt my neck in awhile and in doing so after he was born, I convinced mysef it had gotten bigger. I made an appointment to see my doctor in July.
"It's gotten a little bigger, but it's probably nothing. Let's schedule another biopsy in November just in case," she said.
Um, did you hear a train horn?
This brings me to the day before Thanksgiving. The phone call that changed things. A lot of things. Necklaces will never look as pretty on my Frankenstien neck, I can't get my life insurance upped, and I no longer have a thyroid. I'm pretty sure that last one's gonna suck. A lot.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)