7 Years Later: A Pill to Swallow

"...a bitter pill to swallow."  This is a phrase we all know well; one that holds the irony of something we must accept but do not wish to.  The bitter taste increases in our mouth.  The resistance to ingest it meets the knowledge that we cannot heal if spit out. 

I swallowed a pill that was risky; it was radioactive.  And I did not even think for a second about spitting it out.  It was easy to follow the procedure for healing - it had instructions.  Fall out instructions, follow up instructions.  I knew what to expect.

And then there are the pills that I have resisted swallowing.  They are healing pills too, but they do not have instructions.  They do not have shape and form.  I cannot touch them.  You have them too.

Days after the easy-to-swallow pill, I underwent a full body scan.  To trace the movement of the medicine.  To notice any areas of my body that were thirsty for iodine and had absorbed its deadly, and therefore healing, properties. 

Oh, to have the kind of progress report on all pills in life I must swallow.  To see how they kill cancerous things and enable healthy life.

7 Years Later: Radioactive Vday

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.

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."

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.

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.

7 Years Later: Chances

I've said it before and I will say it again (for the umpteenth time): If someone had said to me, "Lizzy, we would like to try a surgery where we cut off your head and reorganize some things in there.  It is an experimental procedure, with a 50% chance that it will reduce your dizziness and a 50% chance you will die," I would have said, "Sign me up."  The chance was worth the risk, in my little fantasy world created to describe the level of misery of my invisible injury.

So, I was actually happy to be back in the MRI machine that cold October day.  My symptoms were worsening and doing nothing was not an option.  I waited anxiously for the results from my neurologist.

The call came quickly, (in medical exam results sort of quickly), but strangely.  I expected the easy, monotone, Russian accented voice of my neurologist and instead I had heard the chipper, familiar, Minnesota-esk voice of my primary care doctor.

"Lizzy, it's John.  So - I got the results of the MRI.  The good news is that the lesion in your brain is healing quite nicely...  The other part, though, is that there seems to be a mass on your thyroid..."  The next day at John's office, "So, most masses in the thyroid are benign nodules, but some are cancerous.  There is roughly a 10% chance that it is the latter.  But who wants to walk around with a 10% chance of having cancer when we can know if it is or not..."

Good point.  Is this the point where he suggests that they cut off my head?, she thinks sarcastically.  (Your thyroid is in your neck, by the way).