Dear Kenna

Dear Kenna,

Your little cousin Lane says he has been talking to you. He is only four so I listen hard when he tells me this. He wasn't big on saying his prayers until your angel wings brushed his cheek. It was then that he would pray, always mentioning that I missed you.

But just as quickly as this began, it stopped. Lane told me he stopped hearing from you. He hasn't said a prayer since.

I remember the last time I saw you. It was two days before you died. You were in your bed on the eve of your eleventh birthday. We talked about your uncle Brenner bringing you pizza for dinner and how your cousins were downstairs wanting to see you if you felt up to it. I only had a moment but I stopped to wish you a happy birthday and gave you a swift kiss on the cheek before leaving. How was I to know it would be the last time I would see you?

Your cancer was like a thief in the night. It stole you away from your mom and dad all too soon, sweet girl. It stole you from all of us and we've barely had a moment to stop and figure out how we got here.

I remember the morning you left. A woman at the hospital was checking your grandma and me in and told us your little sister and Lane weren't allowed to go in with us. I looked at them dancing across the corridor without a care in the world and nearly choked on my words, "They told me she might not make it." Tears were falling and the woman began to cry too. A few keystrokes later and we were all heading to see you.

I was met by a few nurses who whisked your sister and my Lane away. I saw your mom. She was crying, wailing. You were already gone. I stopped for a moment but I pushed my way through the door to see you. I looked through the nurses waiting in front of your room as they stared helplessly at me. I walked in and there you were. You were surrounded by a roomful of nurses and doctors that had just come down from furiously working to keep you with us. Your dad pulled me to you and kept telling me to talk to you. That you could hear me. I didn't understand. Weren't you gone? I took your hand. I held on for hours. The room was thick with your presence, and later your grandma would tell me she wished she'd looked up to see you testing out your new wings. I wish I had too.

We watch for you now, hoping God will let you brush our cheeks as well. Hoping you will let your mom and dad know you are ok. Hoping your little sis knows too. I took her to a movie the other day and darned if the preview for Annie wasn't playing. I looked down to see her singing along. I knew she learned that song from you when you played in Annie last year. I can still hear you stomping on that stage when I hear that Hard-Knock Life song.

I am sure that you were my angel as I recently went under the knife to cure my own cancer. I imagined you were there as I was wheeled into the OR and I felt a little more at peace. Thank you.

Your cousin Rowen misses you too. You were his first best friend. I am sure he's sorry that he drove you a little nuts as you got older, but we'll just say that's how he knew to love you. Ok, and annoy you. What are cousins for, right? He sure loved you though. He always will. We all will.

 

So from time to time, feel free to brush our cheeks. Let your mom and dad know you are ok. We love you, Kenna. Always will.

Love,
Aunt Amanda

P.S. I was listening to an old Amy Grant song today, "I Will Remember You." I thought of you. Let's meet someday on golden streets. Deal?

I Will Remember You (excerpt)

I will be walking one day
Down a street far away
And see your face in a crowd
And smile

Knowing how you made me laugh
Hearing sweet echoes of you from the past
I will remember you

*This letter was shared with permission from my sister, Kenna's mom.

My Head's in the Clouds

I think I will always be in denial.

Cancer sucks, so sometimes I opt for denial. I don't even know that it is a conscious decision.

I just pulled an over-nighter for my second thyroid cancer removal surgery. I feel like a truck hit me. I have quite the scar lining my neck now to prove it. The verdict? This will probably go on forever. The doctor's report was that he found a few more lymph nodes in surgery so he took those out as he went. Kind of like playing Asteroids. Pew, pew pew. Got one. Pew pew pew, there's another! He said there is a good probability he got it all. He also said there is a good probability there is more cancer. How 'bout them odds?

I shared a recovery room with another equally sedated person across a partition that I never really saw until she left. The whole time I pictured an old lady recovering from gall bladder surgery or something. Hello, Amanda. You are at the James Cancer Hospital. No gall bladders here. Unless they are full of cancer.

I was naively shocked when I met a tiny, young mother on the other side of the room. She didn't have any hair. Her husband came in to help her with her drains and passed out. I heard all of this from my side of the room. He hit the floor and I realized how far reaching this stuff really is.

I could barely move from all the sedation, but after sleeping it off for nearly 24 hours, I hopped (well, maybe slithered) out of bed and blearily walked the halls for a bit to see it for myself.

I am in a cancer hospital. Everyone here is fighting. For survival. To be a mom. To be a husband. To be alive. Some win, some may not, but we all suffer.

I shuffled through the halls, very aware of the new scar across my neck and the looks I will probably get from now on. What happened to you? Are you ok? Maybe a touch of what that sweet young mother gets when she takes off her hat.

I feel like we are a giant social experiment. We are infected with cancer and all we can do is cut it out or chase it out with more sickness. Or die. How 'bout them odds?

I don't mean to be so sobering here, but I continue to be shocked at this little piece of the cancer world that I reside in. It is full of pain, both physical and emotional. It might, however be full of life if we choose to look there. It's hard to see in the dark crevasses of this cancer fight, but it's there. The mom who put on her hat and smiled at me as she left. Wishing me luck. The niece with Leukemia I once had, but will forever reside only in my heart now. The smiles of the kids on the cancer ward who indulge in laughter and find life despite the pain.

I am not sure where I fit into all this. I just know I need some Ibuprofin right now. They told me long ago this was the "best" cancer to have, and maybe it is. At this point I don't have to go through chemo or radiation therapy, but the cancer has never gone away. Despite my best efforts, it's been probably close to 8 years now, 4 of them in treatments and 4 in monitoring and testing.

This sucks but I am trying to find the silver lining. Some days it's shinier than others, but we'll keep at it. I replayed this song tonight that I love, thinking of the boy who wrote it and passed away not long ago from Osteosarcoma. Beautiful. Up in the clouds. Maybe with my niece. I bet their view is a little nicer. Just as he says.

Here's the link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7zxXAtmmLLc

In It To Win It

My boys are at the age where you should be able to look at my calendar and get an idea of my soccer mom status- minus the soccer in our family, of course.

Instead of loading the kids in the car with their shin guards and cleats, we load up to get mom to her next doctor appointment. Of course, it can't all be blamed on me. My kids don't do sports. One just plain doesn't like it, and the other one tackles other players with his teeth like Dracula. So instead we load up with mom saying, "Hey kids, it's time to go to grandma's! Mom has another doctor appointment!"

While thyroid cancer isn't the monster of all cancers by any means, it nickels and dimes until you want to wave the white flag. My new doctor has told me that since I have "only" had one surgery to remove cancer, I am among the few. I should definitely count on going under the knife several more times before all is said and done. I have recently done CT scans, biopsies, ultrasounds, and blood work to confirm there is still thyroid cancer in my neck. There are also some obscure nodules in my lung that no one can say for sure is cancer. All we know so far is that it isn't aggressively growing so that could mean it is nothing special, or it is metastases of the thyroid cancer.

For now, I have surgery on my neck again in a few weeks that I will have to pull an all-nighter (maybe two) in the hospital for. Super duper looking forward to that. Anyone want to homeschool my kid for a few days while I soak in some anesthesia and painkillers? I would also appreciate prayers because the cancer itself lies between my jugular vein and carotid artery. You might think I am kidding when I say I am going to ask the surgeon if I can see if his hands are shaky that morning. I might even give him a breathalyzer. I'm pretty sure I don't want either of those bad boys severed. Although I will say that my doc made me feel better when he said I can live without one of them. I forget which one. Let's hope he doesn't touch that one. I much prefer to live with both intact.

There are so many other things that cancer patients have to deal with other than curing the cancer itself. I have met with a long list of doctors in the past few years that I am convinced I would never have crossed paths with except for the radiation, and of course the cancer itself. Hence, mom fitting in another doctor appointment. It's commonplace for my kids these days, which has the welcome side effect of them not thinking much of it.

I often think of my niece who earned her angel wings following a short but painful Leukemia battle in May. She is my angel- and hero- as I go through this. I think of her every day but her presence is stronger when I find myself in another doctor's office, half the time with a needle in my arm.

 

 Keepin' in it to win it for you, sweet girl.

 

I love this picture of Kenna and her grandpa, my dad. Dancing on streets of gold now...





I Think My Doc Lied to Me

I think my doc may have lied to me.

My optimism has waned a bit. After my CT scan to show whether I had any spread to the lungs, I got a cheerful 30-second call from my someone at my doctor's office that said "He wanted you to know the scan was clear except for the cancer nodules we already knew were in your neck."

Call me crazy, but I think that was a lie.

Fast forward to my actual doc appointment where he goes over the results.

"Just an FYI, the scan showed several spots in your lungs. One was big enough that the radiologist thought I should point it out to you. Don't worry about it though. It happens all the time."

Don't worry about it? Huh? What just happened here?

While he assures me there are several benign reasons I could have spots in my lungs, it's still a hard pill to swallow given I have had cancer in my body for at least 7 years and it has already taken it upon itself to spread. Just for kicks, it may have thought my lungs was a good resting place. Call me crazy again, but now I am a little more concerned. I could deal with the nodules in my neck, even though my doc has reminded me that someone with thyroid cancer typically has several surgeries before calling it quits and I am only at lucky number one. That kind of blows too.

So despite my honing in on the lung issue, I think my doc is distracting me. He said we will deal with that after the surgery for the neck nodules. I feel like he is holding a shiny toy in front of my face while telling me to keep my eyes forward. Except that this toy isn't so shiny. And the distraction isn't working.

I was talking to a friend today who is also going through this cancer crap and he said he feels like he is going crazy at times too. Every symptom is another sign that God is calling him home. I am not really afraid of dying, but I found myself praying last night that I could just live long enough to see my kids grow into adulthood. Not even for me, but for them. I know I won't always be the cheese to their macaroni, but they don't need anything like that to happen to them.

I am also pretty let down by the cost of care. I switched docs recently to get a second opinion on the cancer train that was heading straight for radiation again. I didn't want that. I switched to OSU where the care is great, I am assured, but the cost is astronomical in comparison to what I am used to. For only part of my testing, I have racked up bills close to $25,000. I haven't even had treatment yet. Or met the surgeon. I didn't even get any anesthesia out of the deal. At least give me some of that.

So heads might be spinning at my extreme wavering between optimism and doubt. I guess that's the way it goes with cancer. We have come a long way, but we really haven't either.

I know I try to minimize what I am going through, because really in the end it truly isn't much compared to so many others. But I will step forward and ask for prayer here. I admit to being pretty unsettled about all of this. So if you would, keep us in mind as you kneel at the cross. I'll be there with you.

Cancer Rant

I must be missing something here.

I know the world doesn't go 'round perfectly, but c'mon.

Awhile back, this blog was titled something akin to the usual "fighting cancer" slogan we have all come to know well. I changed it to "Thyroid cancer on the run" because I just felt like I wasn't putting up much of a fight. That's not to say that I wouldn't have put up a fight if I had to, but as I looked around to others fighting cancer I really didn't fit in.

This isn't a self-pity rant, like boo-hoo, did she really just say she didn't fit in with the cancer fighting community? It's more of a how the heck could I be called a "fighter" when I had cancer for at least 3 years before I was even given full rights to the name?

So again I say I don't get it. Here's why...

My 11-year-old niece was diagnosed with Leukemia on May 3 of this year. I still can't believe I am writing this, but she earned her angel wings on May 30. Her entire cancer battle happened in less than a month. I won't tell her story because it's not mine to tell, but I will say she was up against a monster. Talk about a fighter. She was the ultimate.

I was so naïve. My heart broke for her, but never once did I think we would lose her. Never. How could I when my cancer had sat around for 8 years and never bothered to even stretch a muscle? My doc recently found cancerous nodules in my neck again and actually said they were probably missed in my last surgery. Gee, doc, that was 4 years ago. What the heck has the cancer been doing all this time?

He did wonder if it had spread to my lungs, so he ordered a CT scan to see. The bittersweet news came this week when the scan showed no sign of spread, but for those few little nodules in my neck. A little surgery later and it should be taken care of. No rush either. I may even be able to schedule it for the fall of 2022 and be just fine.

I mean no disrespect to those fighting thyroid cancer. I know it can be deadly and is nothing to sneeze at, but right now I just can't see that it really makes much of a difference for me. My perspective has completely changed. A little girl changed all that for me. I came out swinging with a toothpick, while she managed an arsenal of weaponry at the young age of 11.

I have been stuck with needles and an IV in recent weeks for my latest round of cancer testing and I thought of her every time. The test I had was on the chemo ward and the lady at registration asked if I'd had chemo that day. Chemo. Such a big word, but now I see it much differently. I saw her when I was asked that question. I saw her when they put a line in my arm. I saw her when I realized how much of a hero she is to me. She showed me how to come in swinging.

And while I don't feel right calling myself a fighter, I think I still might just win this war for her. It's the least I can do. Rest easy, sweet girl. I will follow your lead.

There is More to this Cancer Fight

Life used to be much simpler.

It used to be bike rides in the driveway, swimming in our pool in the summer, and eating ice cream stirred into a soppy mess just the way I liked it.

It's not so simple anymore. And here is why.

'Nuff said.

Just a sec while I get on my soapbox.

Call me a conspiracy theorist, but this is why we are sick. We are sick, tired, aging poorly, and full of cancer. I have thyroid cancer. My sweet, 10-year-old niece was just diagnosed with leukemia. We are fed and exposed to so much crap our bodies were not designed to handle. I thought food ingredients were supposed to be things like potatoes, wheat, and beans. Instead we are chewing on coal tar, MSG ("poison" to the body), nitrates, and synthetic hormones.

Not long ago I was introduced to the idea of the lesser known chronic deficiency of Iodine in our country. Around the same time I started reading up on other toxins, such as heavy metals that are rampant in our systems. Iodine in particular was reduced in our food supply just as the toxin Bromine was on the rise. It is in our food as well as pesticides, fire retardants, and the furniture we sit on to binge watch the Food Network. If you think I am crazy, take a look at the bread we buy from Whole Foods:

Unbromated. Hmm. I wouldn't have given that a second look before. Now I know why they are bragging about it. Iodine acts as an army against this toxin. And not to get ahead of myself again, but lack of iodine is linked to thyroid and breast cancers as well as mental retardation in infants born to iodine deficient mothers. Here is an excerpt I got from the examiner.com:

"Bromated flour has been treated with potassium bromate to improve dough elasticity, allow it to stand up to commercial baking practices, and produce a higher rising bread. Potassium bromate is a potential carcinogen that may be harmful when consumed and is outlawed in the U.K. It has been associated with thyroid dysfunction. Some states but not all require that potassium bromate be disclosed on food labels."

Way to go U.S.A.

So I went hook, line and sinker for iodine, picked up my supplement, and bottoms up! Since then I have been detoxing. I know, you are about to fit me for bell bottoms and dangly peace sign earrings. But seriously, I have experienced detox symptoms such as itchy skin, headaches, and excessive sweating. That was all the proof I needed. I guess our bodies just want that stuff out.

If you ask me, stuff like this is why I am fighting cancer and have yet another cancer removing surgery in my near future. It is why my son has autism. It is why my niece is hooked up to chemo machines and stuck in a hospital bed. We are all affected by cancer in one way or another. I am sure there are thousands of docs that would stand in line to tell me I am crazy, but forgive me if I don't trust the systems we have put in place. The powers that be are the ones telling me this is ok.

I feel like I need to be a highly decorated detective just to read a food label and weed through all the junk. While I am not naïve to say that this is the cure for cancer, I do think we can make it part of our fight. I guess it will take the collective whole to say no to this crappy system we have in place to make it simpler and safer. I know organic foods cost a little (sometimes a lot) more, but we can make one small change at a time. Think of it like you are casting your vote when you purchase something at the grocery store. Are we lobbying for something better or are we giving in to what we are being told?

My vote is that the FDA can kiss my butt.

Off my soapbox.

And one last thing, if I may give a plug for my cancer-fighting niece. Give if you can or share the link for others to help her fight. It will take an army there too. She is our rock star.
http://www.gofundme.com/8y03h8

Wait, I lied. One last, last thing. Ever heard the song Radioactive by Imagine Dragons? I guess I feel a kinship to being radioactive with my own cancer treatments, so I may be partial to the lyrics. Take a gander at some of them.

I'm waking up to ash and dust
I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust
I'm breathing in the chemicals

I'm breaking in, shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus
This is it, the apocalypse

I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
I'm radioactive, radioactive
I'm radioactive, radioactive

True dat.

Here is a link to the song if I haven't lost you yet:
http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=radioactive+imagine+dragons+snl&FORM=VIRE1#view=detail&mid=DE1732FF7431A0F01187DE1732FF7431A0F01187

Here We Go Again

Recently I've had visions of my old friend, Lab Coat Guy, who administered my radioactive iodine treatment a few years ago to drop an atom bomb on my thyroid cancer. I have had a few good laughs over the good times we shared when he cautiously gave me a radioactive- let's swallow that one again together "ra-di-o-ac-tive"- pill and stepped away to let me ingest all of its glory. For some sick reason, I found it all amusing at the time. Maybe my old blog will remind you why. You can find it here if you are just dying to know: http://awashel.blogspot.com/2011/02/radio-acto-girl-on.html.

I have been going through my yearly testing, which is probably the reason my subconscious has been bringing up Lab Coat Guy. I guess it was figuring I might be seeing him again soon. My subconscious may have been onto something.

After two weeks of waiting, I got word from my doc last night that things weren't looking good. The numbers continue to rise... numbers for thyroid cells as well as the antibodies fighting them. It's like my own personal army rising up in my neck. How special am I? I know you are jealous.

So mid-panic attack already (another story for another time) I got the "you just won the cancer lottery" email from my doc. I realize I might be a little dramatic here, throwing the word "cancer" around since my doc has avoided using that term rather nicely. She was able to say we will check my levels again in August and then blast me with some more radiation if it continues to go in that direction. Well, she didn't say "blast" exactly, but I think that word does the trick.

So my mind has been a little distracted, but I think I am doing ok. I immediately went into spiritual reflection, since I firmly believe there is always something God is trying to tell me in any trial I face. I told Him I know He is in control, a little word that makes me flinch a little when the control freak in me growls and bares her teeth. Funny, I was ok with saying He had control until the thought of ever leaving my kids came to mind. That caused more than a mere flinch- more like a back handspring over the Grand Canyon. I can never leave my kids.

I came home from work (yes, I got the news at work) and kissed their sleeping faces and prayed all would be well again. I know-at least I think I know- the thought of dying from cancer is a rather dramatic thought at this point. I get that. But it's the thought that plagues me. I can't leave Rowen. He needs me. I can't leave Lane. He won't remember me.

Again, dramatic, but it's my reality check.

Rushing around this morning and getting my boys ready for school, my little Lane was standing on top of the toilet waiting for me to brush his teeth when he held his arms out wide, closed his eyes, and said "hug and kiss." I stopped the frenzy for a moment while holding the toothbrush I was getting ready to jam into his mouth (we were late) and leaned in to give him a big hug. It was just the pause I needed in my harried rush to become grounded once again. It's the same thing I am always looking for from Jesus, if I would just put the toothbrush down and fall into His arms. I can do this again if I need to. I can do anything through Him who gives me strength. Even if it involves Lab Coat Guy.

Cancer February

I am starting to really dislike February.

No, it's not because we are pounded with snow all month and I am heavily stricken with cabin fever enough to make me want to take my hair dryer outside to play Cowboys and Indians with the falling flakes. Ok, so it's a reason, but not the biggest one as of late.

February is cancer check up time. February is holy-crap-you-have-to-actually-wonder-if-you-have-cancer-again month. It's a national holiday in our house.

So the blood draw came back similarly to what it had before. The numbers looked good, but not perfect. Does that mean I have cancer? Not necessarily. Does it mean I don't have cancer? Not necessarily. Does it mean I may go out of my mind and actually blast my hair dryer outside to relieve some stress? Maybe.

Take that pretty, white snow! Ahh, I feel better now.

After trying to figure out what the heck my numbers meant and laughing once again at the word "thyroglobulin" (that reminds me, I need to watch Ghostbusters again. I suddenly miss Slimer), my doc ran her fingers across my neck for old time's sake.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

"Let's get you in the ultrasound room," she said.

That doesn't make me at all alarmed. Docs always want to spend extra time with you.

So off we went to the ultrasound room. She glopped my neck up with some- well, glop- and went to it. More quiet. Then a "Let me go get another doctor to take a look." Jeez, why don't you just call in the mortician?

Doc #2 slaps the wand down and they started talking like I wasn't there.

Doc #2: "If I was going to be worried about something, it'd be that right there!"
Doc #1: "Oh that there? And that too? That's the side the cancer was on."
Doc#2: "I had a lady like this and we kept looking and looking and then I just sent her to surgery. You will want to watch that and maybe biopsy it."

All this, mind you, is set to the ever pleasant elevator-tune version of "My Heart Will Go On" from Titanic playing on the CD player. Jeez, I really do hope my heart goes on after this. It sounds like it might not. Maybe they did call the mortician. Sooo, what now, doc?

I never knew what a confusing journey this would be. I am more afraid of being treated with radiation again than actually hearing if I have cancer again. I like the few memory-related brain cells I have left and if I get treated again I fear I may not know my own name. I guess we will see what happens.

So more blood work in 4 weeks. If anything changes again, more testing.

Here's to February (sound of glasses clinking). She sure isn't what she used to be.