Tough Stuff

In June I found out I had thyroid cancer. I’d had an ultrasound. A biopsy. They freeze the area and then poke it with a needle to draw out cells. It didn’t hurt, but it felt strange. A little scary. The doctor asked how I was doing.

“Great. I’m loving it,” I replied, wryly.

“Out of all the reasons to be here, this is the best one,” he said self-assuredly.

We talked about Top Gun. Wainwright. He’d been there when he was in the military. It was pleasant enough. But there was something about that comment. “This is the best one.” It felt dismissive. I get it, but when you’re lying on a table with a needle being repeatedly jabbed in your neck to see if you have cancer, it’s still tough. There are worse places to have a needle jabbed. There are worse cancers. All of the cancers are worse. But it’s still tough.

I got a phone call two days later. They wanted me to come in. I knew what they were going to say.

“Can you just tell me over the phone?”

So they did. Two weeks later I had surgery. A totally thyroidectomy. It took twice as long as they predicted - 8 hours instead of 4. The tumours were close to nerves. Ones important for swallowing. Speaking. Singing. The surgeon had told me it was a risk. But not that big of a deal. Unless you’re a singer. I hadn’t said anything, but my sister convinced me to tell her.

“It’s not like I’m a professional singer or something.”

“Tell her you do musical theatre.”

I felt silly, but I did. So they were cautious and didn’t cause any nerve damage. I felt awful the first days after the surgery. The worst thing was, because they had to separate my neck muscles so much, I couldn’t lift anything heavier than 15 pounds for six weeks. I couldn’t lift my kids - 2 and 4 - for six weeks. That was the worst thing.

But six weeks came and went. I had help from family and friends. I felt grateful and loved. I went back to work after three weeks. They told me I could go back after two, but I couldn’t manage it. I took an extra week and only started back part time.

I had a follow-up at the Cross Cancer in September. There was some cancer in lymph nodes in my neck. Some cancer in blood vessels. I’d have to do more treatment to get it. Radioactive iodine therapy.

I went for another ultrasound last week. They wanted to look at those lymph nodes. I chatted with a lady in the waiting room. She also lived outside the city. I told her Maps had mis-guided me and made me late. She told me she gets nervous driving in the city, too. She asked if my study was routine, like hers. I told her I had thyroid cancer. Another lady piped up.

“My daughter had that. She was 16. She’s 24 now.”

“Oh, wow. That’s so young.”

“It’s the best type of cancer to have.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

I did the radioactive iodine therapy on Thursday. You go on a low-iodine diet for a week. No dairy, nothing from the sea, no iodized salt, so no processed or packaged foods and nothing commercially baked. If you’re lucky, you get two shots that cost $1000 each. If you’re really lucky, your health insurance covers it. If you’re not lucky, you have to go off of your thyroid medication and feel like death for a few weeks before the treatment. I was really lucky. You go to the Cross Cancer and drink iodine mixed with radioactive material. Any remaining thyroid tissue or cancer that originated in the thyroid gets killed. You stay away from everybody for a week.

I asked to do it before Halloween. So I wouldn’t miss it. I’ve been isolating since Thursday. Day three. And it’s going okay. I have lots of food, snacks, puzzles, crafts, books (thank you, friends). And, most importantly, Netflix.

Yesterday I got a call from my surgeon.

“The lymph nodes haven’t changed. They look okay. We’ll do a repeat ultrasound in six months. But… the reason I’m calling is that there appears to be growths on your parotid glands. They are most likely benign, but we want you to have a CT.”

So I will go for the CT. I will go for the repeat-repeat ultrasound. I will do whatever I have to do. To be home with my kids. To pick them up. To never miss a Halloween. I’m going to be okay. I have lots of support. And this is the best type of cancer to have. And it could always be worse. And there is always, always, always something to be thankful for. And it’s still tough.

Having a needle jabbed in your throat is tough. Getting to appointments is tough. Keeping it all straight. Waiting for results. Not being able to pick up your kids. Being fat in our society. Wondering if people are making fun of you or talking about you behind your back. Relying on people is tough. Asking for help is really tough. No matter your circumstances. Life can be tough. But I’m learning that I’m tough too.