When I saw my family doctor on Monday I was a wreck. Last Thursday I got the news that I most likely have medullary thyroid cancer.
It's rare, making up only 3-5% of thyroid cancer cases. Therefore, it's highly probable that the friend/family/acquaintance that you know that had thyroid cancer did not have this type. It's more aggressive. I could tell you more but I am sure you can google as well as I can. It's got a very good prognosis if it is caught early and all of the cancer is removed.
So from Thursday to Monday, I had time to think. Time to read. Time to quietly freak out. I didn't have the scariest thyroid cancer, the one that kills you within a year of diagnosis, but the one in the middle. Not the easy cure one. The must catch it early one. I felt the prayers of so many people but by Monday I'd spun into a very dark place. I absolutely could not crawl out of that dark hole. I couldn't sleep at night despite an assortment of prescribed meds. The uncertainty took over my logic, sense, everything.
I've never felt that way before so I knew I needed help, so I saw my doctor. She gave me something to help (yay ativan! Use with caution!) and finally I was out of the dark hole. It was a brain reboot. It has made all the difference. I am back to my normal, optimistic, let's get this done self.
So yesterday at stupid o'clock, my sister picked me up, kids in tow, still in their pajamas and we dropped them at my mom's house. Then we were off to the surgeon's office. The results from the ultrasound and the CT scan would be in their hands and we'd know what we were dealing with.
The way it works in this office is a student comes in, goes through your results/questions/etc, talks to the surgeon and then they all come back and discuss what happens next.
The student had the radiologist's version of the results from the ultrasound - and just as the technician had said, they showed no reason for concern. Sylvia and I both had questions about the surgery, whether family testing was necessary, and others I have since forgotten. The CT scan didn't have any scary bits on it either, in fact, it was done mainly to give the surgeon a better picture of what they needed to take out. A road map, if you will.
The relief was palpable. I could have done a conga line but remained seated. The student went off to talk to my doctor and soon they both came back. My surgeon is great. Personable, friendly and competent. Awesome. He even laughs at my jokes, bless his heart.
So we went through the surgery plan. Went through the ultrasound report step by step, he gave me a copy and then I went and left it on the counter in the office. Bugger. I was going to scrapbook that (in fact, we all joked about whether one could get a thyroid sticker at a scrapbook store). I'll call the office and have them send it to me.
The surgeon explained that he was sitting on the fence about removing additional lymph nodes. Since there was no visible sign of disease in the nodes, they might not need to be removed. But there could be microscopic bits of disease in those nodes. He said he meets with a group every Thursday that discusses these types of cases and he'd bring me up this week. (I'm an agenda item. Awesome). Then he asked me how I felt about it.
I said I don't need them, right?
Right.
Then I want them out. I don't need them. So get 'em out.
That's how I went from a left neck dissection to a modified radical neck dissection. I'll have an extra festive scar that may prove useful for future halloween costumes. I've had scars on my neck for most of my life anyway since I drove a trike (since outlawed, trikes have been replaced by quads) into a barb wire fence when I was 9. (Kids under 14 should not use ATVs the end!)
Things look good. Very very good. It'll be a 3-4 hour surgery at the Misericordia hospital next Wednesday. I'm praying (and welcome your support in this) that I have an early surgery time so I don't have to sit around all day without food or water. I'll still be released the next morning to the care of my sister the RN.
We won't know exactly what I've got inside the nodules in my thyroid until the pathology gets back. BUT. The surgeon agreed that it was entirely possible that I could go to Brazil after all.
I think some people think I am crazy for wanting to go. There are times *I* think I am crazy for still wanting to go. However. I've been planning to go on this trip for years. I'm not going alone. I wisely booked myself (and my travelling buddy) into business class (way back in March!) so we will be flying comfortably. I have a healthy savings account so I can afford to stay in nicer places when the business part of the trip is done.
It's a goal. I work well with goals. If it's the day before I'm supposed to leave and I know I can't do it, TRUST ME. I'm not going. I'll need to hire a porter or pack extremely light because I can't lift more than 10 pounds for 6 weeks.
As for the surgery itself. Sylvia and I spent a couple hours at a pre-admission clinic at the hospital in the afternoon. They went through my meds (I am accumulating an alarming number. It's like I am getting old or something). They went through our questions. What will happen. I met the anesthetist since I have an inhaler - medical people always ask if I have asthma, and I say, no, not really. I just have this problem with chicken dust and ammonia, and oh, by the way, I am a chicken scientist, and isn't that ironic? Invariably this leads to a lively discussion about something to do with chickens or poultry. How I hated chickens when I was a kid, etc, etc. How they loved chickens as a kid and wish they could still get eggs fresh from the hen every morning. It can derail a conversation for a while. Kinda like I just did here.
Anyway.
I am glad I got to talk to the anesthetist because I have this thing about nausea. Back in the sands of time, in January of 2006 I babysat my eldest niece while her mother, my sister the RN was at work. Anna was sick. With a stomach something or other. Gave her the runs basically. She gifted me with her lovely virus despite my stringent hand washing protocols.
Very early the next morning, after Anna went back home to her parents house, I got on a plane to Atlanta with my friend and colleague Val. To attend a poultry meeting that happens every January. I remember being dehydrated when I got on the plane and it only got worse. We flew on a Sunday and I think our presentations were the first day, early in the morning, say at 10am? Ish? We got up at stupid o'clock, ordered room service and made ourselves presentable for our presentations. We had to get in line early to register so we could actually get in to the meeting and give our talks.
I remember that I kinda just picked at my breakfast. Something wasn't.... right.
We got down to the registration area and Val got in line. I found a bathroom, and that's when the vomiting began. I came out long enough to register and find the presentation room, and then I found the nearest bathroom to it on an adjacent floor so I wouldn't disturb the conference with the sounds of my distress. I threw up at 15-20 minute intervals (give or take) right up until it was time for me to talk. I threw up immediately before my talk, went in to the room, listed to Val give her 2 presentations and then I was up.
My mouth was so dry it could have given the Sahara or Mojave a run for their money. Yet I gave my talk. Was crestfallen to see a forest of hands when I finished for I was pushing my 20 minute interval.
I left when the moderator moved on and went immediately to the hotel room. Where I proceeded to throw up for hours. Val came back (seemed like no time had passed) and realized I was actually very, very ill. I went to the hospital after she called my insurance company and the hotel to have me driven over. After a lengthy wait that included a run on my credit card, and several trips to the bathroom to dry heave, they gave me intravenous stop puking drugs.
They worked, for a time. Eventually I threw up again (you'd have to get Val to tell the story of that vomit instance) and they gave me more stop puking drugs. Along with 9 bags of fluids. They kept saying they'd discharge me once I stabilized. My BP was low, my heart rate was dodgy and Val finally refused to take me back to a hotel room (quite wisely, I might add). They kept asking if my chest hurt because my BP and heart rate were so wonky. When they moved me to my room outside of the ER I realized that my chest in fact, did hurt. So I got an ECG? for my troubles. Turns out I'd strained the muscles in my chest so badly it would hurt for days. Also the tape on those leads is really sticky.
You'll have to get Val to tell you the story of how I was discharged. How I kept asking for more warm blankets while we were in the ER. How I got the prescription instructions wrong and took double the dose of stop puking/nausea drugs and would sleep for hours at a time. Barely breathing. She had to use her angry mom voice to get me to eat the rice she'd collected from the CNN food court for me. I couldn't speak above a whisper for days, for I'd strained the hell out of everything near my vocal chords. I was like that kid in the wheelchair on Malcolm in the Middle. It was not fun.
It was traumatic for both of us. I emerged from this ordeal with a pathological fear and loathing of nausea and vomiting in general. I traveled with gravol or dramamine on my person at all times FOR YEARS.
That was an overly long and possibly slightly extraneous background to say this - the thing that freaks me out most about surgery? The possibility of puking from the general anesthetic. Not the forceful putting to sleep (that actually sounds quite nice), dissection of my neck and total removal of a fairly important bit of me, but that I might throw up afterward.
Bless the anesthetist. I told her a shortened version of the above story and she assured me that they did not want me to barf. In general, and also because I am having neck surgery, and vomiting would in fact be very very bad for me. I am to alert nurses immediately in recovery if I feel barfy. They'll load me with stop barfing drugs before I even wake up. In fact, they don't even want me to cough. They will provide oxygen with added moisture to ensure I do not cough. I am to clear my throat as if I am trying to politely break into a conversation.
Whew. Alrighty. Commence with the neck dissection then. I won't have to barf. Yay!
I've been writing this off and on all day. I spent a bit of time working today. My doctor suggested that I limit work to only a few hours per day and not make any important decisions. I am working on relaxing and chilling out and resting up. I had a massage today and will have another on Tuesday. I have booked a facial at a spa in Leduc that had facials advertised on their window. I spent 2 hours on the phone with an old friend this evening. I am watching only happy cheerful programming (so the Esks game on Friday night, I might have to PVR it and find out how it ends before getting too invested).
I bought new curtains for my bedroom. A new duvet cover (well, 3 actually. They were on sale! And I have CANCER!), new sheets and a brightly colored pillow shaped like a hen. She has orange tailfeathers! I was convinced to move a meeting from next Monday to September. I am meeting my pastor on Tuesday. On Saturday I'm getting my hair cut. I'll go to a street fair in Leduc afterward.
When I get tired (which is often) I lay down. I drink lots of fluids. I've invested in vegetables and fruits. Tomorrow when I go out I will get more vegetables and more fruits. I'm walking and getting fresh air (when it isn't raining) on doctors orders.
I'm doing ok. I know that's got a lot to do with all the love and support and most importantly, the prayers of so many that are holding me up. Bless you all.
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