7 years ago today, I went radioactive for Valentine's Day. Thanks to the Manhattan Project and the iodine-absorbing qualities of the thyroid, "chemotherapy" for thyroid cancer takes on the form of a pill that you swallow. Pretty amazing actually.
It was the most special Valentine's Day delivery I have ever had. Said "pill" comes in a very unique package with a very specific procedure. Step one: enter closet sized room by yourself. Step two: notice various people coming in and out of the room in head to toe radioactive suit gear. Step three: watch a airplane-like drink cart be rolled into your little space by another radioactive suit gear person (RASGP). Step four: RASGP speaks, "Lizzy. So, I am going to open this box and then I am going to need you to just swallow this like a pill. Here are your radio-active fall out instructions. Do you have any questions?" Step five: Just say no. Step six: One compartment, two compartment, three compartment, four. Swallow the pill, and RASGP is out the door.
Done and done. I swallowed a pill that has "fall out" instructions. Including that my family was to leave my meals for the next 24 hours outside of my room door and I was to come pick them up myself. Kind of like Sloth from The Goonies. (He turned out to be a real sweetheart). But Dad brought it to my bedside anyways. It was Valentine's Day after all.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Oh Blog and Tell Me When Lent Begins
Oh blog of mine. I have neglected you. Too much sickness, too little energy to type...
I am not sure about your neck of the woods, but mine has been virus-ridden and sleepy-laden. Hibernation might have been a better option for January.
But!, the holidays were lovely and February is well on its way. Both involve a lot of red, which is my new favorite color. Good book ends to a icky sicky month.
And, once again, I am back at it. Gone are the excuses; here is the resolve. I need to tell the rest of my 7 Years Later story, I want to tell you about Project I See You, I have a storyline in my head about the Church that needs critiquing... When does lent begin? (Forgive me, I was raised in non-liturgical tradition; loving and lovely though it was). I think I will blog daily for that season.
Next up: memories of a radioactive Valentine's Day.
I am not sure about your neck of the woods, but mine has been virus-ridden and sleepy-laden. Hibernation might have been a better option for January.
But!, the holidays were lovely and February is well on its way. Both involve a lot of red, which is my new favorite color. Good book ends to a icky sicky month.
And, once again, I am back at it. Gone are the excuses; here is the resolve. I need to tell the rest of my 7 Years Later story, I want to tell you about Project I See You, I have a storyline in my head about the Church that needs critiquing... When does lent begin? (Forgive me, I was raised in non-liturgical tradition; loving and lovely though it was). I think I will blog daily for that season.
Next up: memories of a radioactive Valentine's Day.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
7 Years Later: In Theory
"We used to joke in medical school that if we have to have any cancer, then we would want to have thyroid cancer." Hm. Funny joke.
I say that with sarcasm, and a huge dose of understanding though. I mean. Everything is easy to talk about in theory and hypotheticals. Who you want to marry, how many kids you want, where you want to live, how you would act if this or that happened, what kind of cancer you would have... But the reality is always so much. Hm. Different.
The stats on thyroid cancer are great. Especially for a young female. Like 99% curable. Sha-BAM!!
But I have to tell you, truly, that my reality sucked. After the physical trauma of the surgery and anesthesia, my body was a neurological circus on steroids; Cirque Du Soleil on acid style. And lets not forget that my head had just been cut off. (Smirk).
Prognosis really is only as good as you feel. I totally get people going on an African safari after a terminal illness diagnosis when they still feel great. Because, hell!, you could get hit by a bus tomorrow. (This is the material for many a movie).
Yet, and, still, I would not advocate for that alone. Wisdom, it seems comes from living in between theory and your experience. Believing that life comes when not denying either.
____________________
My therapist called me a few days after the surgery, "So was it cancer?" "Yes." "Shit. I'm sorry." "That's okay! Really. I'm happy. There is something actually wrong with me that has a name. And there are tests to prove it."
I say that with sarcasm, and a huge dose of understanding though. I mean. Everything is easy to talk about in theory and hypotheticals. Who you want to marry, how many kids you want, where you want to live, how you would act if this or that happened, what kind of cancer you would have... But the reality is always so much. Hm. Different.
The stats on thyroid cancer are great. Especially for a young female. Like 99% curable. Sha-BAM!!
But I have to tell you, truly, that my reality sucked. After the physical trauma of the surgery and anesthesia, my body was a neurological circus on steroids; Cirque Du Soleil on acid style. And lets not forget that my head had just been cut off. (Smirk).
Prognosis really is only as good as you feel. I totally get people going on an African safari after a terminal illness diagnosis when they still feel great. Because, hell!, you could get hit by a bus tomorrow. (This is the material for many a movie).
Yet, and, still, I would not advocate for that alone. Wisdom, it seems comes from living in between theory and your experience. Believing that life comes when not denying either.
____________________
My therapist called me a few days after the surgery, "So was it cancer?" "Yes." "Shit. I'm sorry." "That's okay! Really. I'm happy. There is something actually wrong with me that has a name. And there are tests to prove it."
7 Years Later: Waiting Room
The family and friend's journey parallels that of the patient, but rarely do their experiences intersect. It is a strange and careful distance, a precious and dear closeness.
I am told this is what happened in the waiting room while I was in surgery. I am told that my family took up most of the waiting room. I am told that my parents, grandparents, aunt etc..., and church friends huddled around; my cousin learned to knit at some point in there.
I am told that when the doctor came in to tell of the surgery, of the thyroid cancer, that the whole waiting room went silent. That my mom and dad heard the news first only due to the laws of physics; you know, sound waves and all; but really, they all heard at the same time.
I am told my mom cried, my dad was shocked, and my grandfather said, "Not her. It can be me, but not her."
This is a sacred story to me. One that is passed on by oral tradition. The details maybe sketchy, but the heart of it is huge: I am loved. While I was oblivious, hearing German, and emotionally dulled with pain meds, these others bore my story.
I am told this is what happened in the waiting room while I was in surgery. I am told that my family took up most of the waiting room. I am told that my parents, grandparents, aunt etc..., and church friends huddled around; my cousin learned to knit at some point in there.
I am told that when the doctor came in to tell of the surgery, of the thyroid cancer, that the whole waiting room went silent. That my mom and dad heard the news first only due to the laws of physics; you know, sound waves and all; but really, they all heard at the same time.
I am told my mom cried, my dad was shocked, and my grandfather said, "Not her. It can be me, but not her."
This is a sacred story to me. One that is passed on by oral tradition. The details maybe sketchy, but the heart of it is huge: I am loved. While I was oblivious, hearing German, and emotionally dulled with pain meds, these others bore my story.
7 Years Later: Sprechen Sie Deutsch?
I swear there were two people speaking German next to me in the recovery room. The patient was male, the visitor (translator?) female. "Would you like to sit up some?," the lady said. I envisioned her with short blond hair, rosy checks, and a full, broad body. I could only hear them. 'The surgery is done...that was fast,' I thought to myself. German, blurred vision, cotton mouth, woozy head, ...do i have cancer?, the voice said faintly. I fell back to sleep.
Oriented again, my thoughts a little clearer, 'Do I have cancer?...' 'Open your eyes.' Blurrrrrrry vision. I closed my eyes. 'Do I have cancer?' I opened my eyes, I moved my head a little.
"Do you want your glasses?" 'She is talking to you.' "Lizzy, would you like your glasses?"
"Yes." I could hear her stooping down to my bag of things.
"Do I have cancer?" "Just rest now." "I know but do you know?" "The doctor will talk to you when you get back to your room." "Okay, just tell me did they take the whole thing out?" "The whole thing?" "Yes, did they take the whole thyroid out?" "Yes they did." "Then I have cancer." "Okay, just rest."
I felt the metal touch my temples, on the right, now left. A flash of clarity and I nodded off again.
Oriented again, my thoughts a little clearer, 'Do I have cancer?...' 'Open your eyes.' Blurrrrrrry vision. I closed my eyes. 'Do I have cancer?' I opened my eyes, I moved my head a little.
"Do you want your glasses?" 'She is talking to you.' "Lizzy, would you like your glasses?"
"Yes." I could hear her stooping down to my bag of things.
"Do I have cancer?" "Just rest now." "I know but do you know?" "The doctor will talk to you when you get back to your room." "Okay, just tell me did they take the whole thing out?" "The whole thing?" "Yes, did they take the whole thyroid out?" "Yes they did." "Then I have cancer." "Okay, just rest."
I felt the metal touch my temples, on the right, now left. A flash of clarity and I nodded off again.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Too Much and Not Enough
It is Thanksgiving. What am I thankful for? Too much and not enough.
I am thankful for too much food, too much choice, too much love.
Too much food, that I can worry about calories if I chose. Chose the food I like if I want. And want a meal a few days out if I desire. I am never hungry. I am thankful.
Too much choice, that I can organize my days. Makes plans in my planner. And consider things like "what is my calling?" and "how do I want to get there?" I am free to decide today. I am thankful.
Too much love, that I can focus on the quality of my relationships, rather than the quantity. That I can get angry, laugh ridiculously loud, make mistakes, act as if I am alone in this world, yet Love always finds me. I am thankful.
And, (although I write this with trembling), I am thankful for not enough.
Not enough health so that I am nearly always reminded of life's fragility.
Not enough certainty, that I am regularly reminded, and sometimes flattened, by my finiteness.
Not enough in and of myself, that I am compelled and wooed by Grace.
I am thankful for too much food, too much choice, too much love.
Too much food, that I can worry about calories if I chose. Chose the food I like if I want. And want a meal a few days out if I desire. I am never hungry. I am thankful.
Too much choice, that I can organize my days. Makes plans in my planner. And consider things like "what is my calling?" and "how do I want to get there?" I am free to decide today. I am thankful.
Too much love, that I can focus on the quality of my relationships, rather than the quantity. That I can get angry, laugh ridiculously loud, make mistakes, act as if I am alone in this world, yet Love always finds me. I am thankful.
And, (although I write this with trembling), I am thankful for not enough.
Not enough health so that I am nearly always reminded of life's fragility.
Not enough certainty, that I am regularly reminded, and sometimes flattened, by my finiteness.
Not enough in and of myself, that I am compelled and wooed by Grace.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
7 Years Later: Exposed
I felt naked walking around. Sometimes I would freak out hours into my work day and grab my shoulder to find the strap: "Oh good, I put on a bra today." One day I forgot to put on a bra; thankfully I realized it on the way to work. That is how out of it I was. If you know Lizzy, you know, this is like really, really out of it.
"Free to be" day was easy to recover from, though, compared to how exposed I felt in other ways. I felt like someone had turned me inside out and my internal mess was out there for all to see. Perhaps it was all the processing I was doing; perhaps the therapy. But mostly, it was that I could not hide behind anything I had anymore: not my productivity, not my good nature, not my Christianese, etc, etc...
I walked around feeling like everyone could see "my junk," (double meaning intended - go ahead and laugh). It felt terrible for a time...and a time again. To not be able to hide behind your normal defense mechanisms is a terrible and wonderful thing. Terrible and wonderful are a great team - especially 7 years later. In the moment it totally sucked!, yet I am grateful. Especially since I have been assured in retrospect, "No, Lizzy, I really could not see that you were afraid all the time; that you really felt you were dying most moments of the day even though it was totally irrational. Or that a close secondary concern was how your ass looked in those jeans. (Every thing is relative?). Or who you have a massive, embarrassing crush on." But the point is I started to be honest with people; being honest is a lot easier when you think "they" have seen it anyways.
To be seen is a wonderful thing. Now people saw in part what God saw in whole. Only I don't think God requires modesty. But, don't worry, people like me do: occasionally I still check my shoulder for a strap.
"Free to be" day was easy to recover from, though, compared to how exposed I felt in other ways. I felt like someone had turned me inside out and my internal mess was out there for all to see. Perhaps it was all the processing I was doing; perhaps the therapy. But mostly, it was that I could not hide behind anything I had anymore: not my productivity, not my good nature, not my Christianese, etc, etc...
I walked around feeling like everyone could see "my junk," (double meaning intended - go ahead and laugh). It felt terrible for a time...and a time again. To not be able to hide behind your normal defense mechanisms is a terrible and wonderful thing. Terrible and wonderful are a great team - especially 7 years later. In the moment it totally sucked!, yet I am grateful. Especially since I have been assured in retrospect, "No, Lizzy, I really could not see that you were afraid all the time; that you really felt you were dying most moments of the day even though it was totally irrational. Or that a close secondary concern was how your ass looked in those jeans. (Every thing is relative?). Or who you have a massive, embarrassing crush on." But the point is I started to be honest with people; being honest is a lot easier when you think "they" have seen it anyways.
To be seen is a wonderful thing. Now people saw in part what God saw in whole. Only I don't think God requires modesty. But, don't worry, people like me do: occasionally I still check my shoulder for a strap.
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