The original plan was to be seated in a movie theater this evening for the premiere of the new James Bond movie. That notion was scuttled when, somewhat early on, the movie studio pushed-back the film to November, out of concern regarding the novel coronavirus. Not to be put-off, plan B was the general idea of getting together with some friends at a restaurant, to celebrate. Whatever happened, it would be the polar opposite of that day exactly one decade ago. Alas, fate intervened yet again.
The morning of April 9th, 2010, I awoke after a fitful night of barely any sleep, and arrived at Provena Covenant Medical Center (now OSF) at 5:30am. Surgery would be at 7:30am, but you have to get there early, much like at an airport, for the check-in process. Insurance information was verified, there was a brief wait, then a journey into the bowels of the hospital as the prep work began. Several medical personnel came and went, introducing themselves to me and mentioning what role they would be playing in the morning's surgery.
A co-worker had warned me that the operating room would be cold. She was right. As I was wheeled closer to it, the temperature in the hallway seemed to drop several degrees. We waited for the surgeon, Dr. Haynes, to arrive. The anesthesiologist, whose name I don't remember now, had a very soothing voice, and he was kind. An argument broke-out amongst members of the staff about something, there were raised voices and, post-op, someone apologized to me for it. Then, Dr. Haynes arrived, the laid-back anesthesiologist had me count backward, and finally there was temporary oblivion.
All of that happened on a Friday morning. I spent the weekend at the hospital, those first few days of the rest of my life without a thyroid. I was groggy from the anesthesia and, as the pain medicine slowly began to wear-off, it felt as though someone constantly had the heel of their boot upon my neck. Sleep came in brief snippets while at the hospital, interrupted by nurses checking my status, providing medication, or being startled awake by the ever-increasing heaviness felt on my neck where they'd cut me open.
Ashley took good care of me the next couple of weeks while I convalesced at home. I'm not a very good patient, whether it's recovering from wisdom teeth removal, or surgery for thyroid cancer. Sleep was still a rare commodity, even at home, due to the neck pain. I slept in a recliner for a month, and had to be prescribed Ambien by my primary care doctor. For awhile, being able to walk halfway around the block - at a snail's place - was considered to be an accomplishment. And, it took years to feel 'normal' again, whatever that means. My energy levels just never felt quite right, for quite a long time, after the thyroid was removed.
A couple of months after the surgery -- on mine and Ashley's 10th anniversary, in fact -- came the next step in the process of dealing with the thyroid cancer. I arrived back at Provena, this time led to a different section of the hospital from before, where a jolly, bearded man sat outside a room. He smiled often, and was there to give me the Radioactive Iodine pill (I think they call something its size a 'horse pill'). A technician in a sterile white coat brought a grey cylinder to my bearded guide, and inside it was the drug. He couldn't touch it, he said, so he turned the cylinder upside down and dropped the medicine into my awaiting palm. Down my gullet it went.
I think the term used is an 'ablation?' The Radioactive Iodine basically destroys any remaining thyroid tissue, and required me to be isolated for a few days, until such time as I was no longer dangerous to be around. They provided me with a wallet-sized card to carry with me for the next several months, as I could apparently set-off the detectors at various places like airports, sports arenas, etc. -- anywhere with a checkpoint. The card was to explain why. Dr. Haynes joked with me that they could even tell whether someone was left-handed or right-handed with this. It took me a moment to get the joke.
There were periodic ultrasounds of the neck, first every six months, then on an annual basis, to make sure everything looked ok and that there were no abnormalities. I met with an endocrinologist to go over the results. After one particular ultrasound showed enlarged lymph nodes, I was referred to an Ear, Nose and Throat (ENT) specialist from Rush University Medical Center who would visit Champaign on certain dates. It was eventually determined to be a false alarm, but those were some tense weeks. And, after my most recent ultrasound a few months ago, the endocrinologist determined that it's been a decade cancer-free, so no more ultrasounds are needed.
April 9th, 2010 sucked, dear reader. The following days, weeks and months weren't too hot, either. Everyone has different perspectives, and has lived different lives, so your mileage may vary. For me, dealing with thyroid cancer has been nadir of my life so far. And, you know what? I ultimately consider myself pretty lucky in that regard. It could've been much worse. When all of this was happening like a whirlwind, at one point - my mouth dry and words almost stuttering - I asked Dr. Haynes what my chances were. Reassuringly, he remarked that, if you're going to have cancer, this is the kind to have.
Every time I go for a walk, I remember the week or so post-op where I could barely make it half-a-block in my neighborhood, and am thankful for the ability to move freely, at a good pace, and without pain. That is no exaggeration. I think of the staff on-hand that day in the operating theater, and the kind of work they do on a regular basis, of the surgeon who must have skill, and whose hands must be precision-like in their accuracy. I will always fondly remember the comforting voice of the anesthesiologist before going under. I appreciate the ENT doctor from Rush, whose bedside manner was calm, reassuring and thoughtful. I am thankful for so much of what happened.
Finally, I am grateful to be here. Not everyone gets to come out the other end of a cancer diagnosis. It's a scary reality to experience, but don't think for a moment I am not aware of how fortunate I am to be writing a 'ten years later' retrospective about it. Too many have not been afforded such an opportunity. Someday, it won't be like this, I understand that. Someday, there won't be coming out the other side of a cancer diagnosis, or there will be a heart attack, or stroke, or accident and, like a cat at the end of its ninth life, my luck will run out as everyone's must. Until then, I will appreciate every lovely, beautiful, mundane walk. And the next James Bond movie, whenever it comes out.
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