Well, HEY there!
It feels like a very long time since I've issued an update, but I'd wager that you've all taken that as a good sign. Yes?
YES.
Since being sprung from isolation, life has gotten quite busy again. We resolved those pesky undissolved stitches and, upon removal, I was rewarded with a much flatter, less noticeable scar. Word. The landscape of those three and a half inches of my neck is now less rocky inlets and craggy coasts and more gently rolling dunes and soft, sandy shorelines. And, in just a few years, I'd expect the natural erosion to wash away even those last remaining crests of gritty beach. Scar? What scar? Tide and time and all of that, y'know?
Meanwhile, what's going on on the inside: We visited the Nuclear Med folks one more time for my follow up whole body scan. With Colin Hay crooning in my ear buds, I gamely lay still and silent while the machine assembled intimate information with the most detailed of images. This round of body scan was to determine one crucial thing: did it work? Was the radiation effective at ridding my body of cancer?
And, the short answer...
Kinda. But not yet.
Sigh.
However, this is not bad news. This is, in fact, good news.
The longer, less enthusiastic, but still rather positive, answer...
According to my Endocrinologist and the report he was quoting, my first surgery did not remove 100% of my right thyroid lobe. This, he tells me, is quite common when they originally don't suspect cancer (which, if you recall, was the initial diagnosis: benign, but remove due to nodule size). Surgery two was more successful, scraping away far more of the left half and creating an excellent chance of full radioactive ablation on that side. Unfortunately, due to the remaining thyroid tissue on the right, the Radiologist had to administer a lower dose of the 1-131 than would have been necessary to totally wipe that badboy out. The more thyroid remaining, the more radioactive uptake, the higher the chance of damaging surrounding soft tissues in my body. So, instead of a complete knockout round of 100 millicuries of hard-hitting radiation frying my throat, brain, glands, lungs, etc., I got a suckerpunch dose of 60 millicuries. Because, you know, having the rest of your body function is important, too. Yeech.
But, wait! I said this was good news, right? And it is. That 60 millicuries still comes out swinging. The Nuclear Med report shows a fantastic amount of ablation, absolutely no metastasis, and only some remaining uptake in my neck.
Where's that leave me? Well, since it is absolutely impossible to determine if that uptake in my neck is malignant or from normal leftover thyroid tissue, we're now retreating to our corner to wait for the next round. September will bring more bloodwork to check my thyroglobulin levels. Prior to the radiation treatment, my level was 10.4. Doctors will now use this number as my cancer marker. Since completing the treatment, that number should be on a drastic downward trend. 0 is ideal. As thyroglobulin is a thyroid protein, anything above 0 indicates the existence of thyroid tissue and, most likely, cancer. Here's hoping for nothing!
The first page of the next calendar will find me under the wand of an ultrasound tech to see what's happening in my neck. This will give the doctors a decent idea of what and where is going on in there.
February puts me back with two injections of Thyrogen and the Low Iodine Diet. The Nuc Med folks will have me down a tracer dose of I-123 and attempt my best mannequin pose to get their prone closeups. Colin Hay and I will make at least one more pass through the mouth of the great white machine in 2014.
Ideally, the I-131 I received in July will have continued to work its radioactive magic and ablated all traces of angry thyroid cells. In a perfect world, I will walk out of Virtua with only a ticket to ride the following year.
And, if all is not ideal, they'll stamp my passport, give me that metallic gym sock cocktail of I-131, and isolate me again with my lemon drops and cheesy movies while it finishes what it started this summer.
And THIS time
::finger jabbing::
its irritating ass
::shoulder roll::
will be fully ablated.
::neck wobble::
::neck wobble::
::neck wobble::
So there.
Was it unbelievably, excruciatingly, painfully disappointing not to hear the doctor say, "Congrats!You're in remission!?"
Yes.
It hurt in a deep, profoundly personal way. A way that made me both furious and sad and frustrated all at once.
However, a lot of that was born simply of being tired of being so wrapped up in cancer, of having everything revolve around my health, of feeling that focusing on staying alive was beginning to affect my ability to essentially live. And that, my friends, is dumb whinyness.
The results were not unexpected. The radiologist had alluded to that every time we had discussed the treatment plan. And the results are not uncommon. And, in actuality, as the doctors have all stated, the results are good. This is what we want to see. We have brought this beast to its knees, prevented it from pillaging any other village, forced it to surrender. If it does not go quietly by February, we will undoubtedly slay it then. Drop your sword, cancer cells!
So, am I healthy? Yep! Am I cancer-free? No. I am getting there? Hells yes! Am I living again? Most definitely. Though there are occasional days where I struggle to remind myself of these facts, for the most part, I'm feeling pretty good. I'm back in public and back at work and back to not getting enough sleep and eating way too many carbs. Slowly, I am taking my heart and head out of the hospital rooms, away from the surgeries and tests and allergic reactions and threats of missing too many minutes of savoring my babies and I am giving myself back to me. It's not always easy and, truth be told, from the first moment my family doc uttered, "Now, I don't want you to freak out, but..." until the almostalmostthere of now, it has affected me in ways I never could have anticipated. I'm both stronger yet more fragile, stubbornly fiercer and endlessly more malleable, oh so extraordinarily grateful for the plainest of things, and more open and raw than a slightly silly introvert like myself is prone to. Each new day, I discover more about what my "normal" now is. And, happily, joyously, amazingly, I am okay.
Keeping the gloves handy. Still swingin'. We've just about got this.
Thyroid Cancer? Now what?!
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Release these (imaginary, not so bad, really kinda boring) shackles! I am free!
I am unisolated!
Yesterday marked day seven of my required week-long isolation period. Am I excited to be able to leave the house and interact with people not wearing protective gear?
It's 8 am and I'm typing this from aisle 12 of my local Walmart as I sing showtunes over their PA system. Price check on my freeeeeedom?!
I kid. But not much.
I've spent this past week catching up on my reading, my Netflixing, my Pinning, and my project-ing (shhh! that last one is a surprise for a someone for a something on suchandsuch date. Forget I even mentioned it. ;) )
Today, I have a ENT doctor's appointment to look at and hopefully remove the few centimeters of dissolvable stitches that never dissolved (!) that are currently poking out of the end of my scar.
Tomorrow: Whole body scan! And end of low iodine diet! Yay!
BREAKING NEWS: Matthew has just informed me that we did NOT win the Powerball last night. I'd wager you didn't either. Soooo, in honor of numbers that are not going to make us millions, here's some numerical facts from my week...
59.8 - millicuries of radioactive iodine I received
43 - miles to home from hospital
2.5 - trash bags I filled with empty bottles of water. Gooooo hydration! Gooooo kidneys! Gooooo radiation out of my body as quickly as possible!
8,765 - approximate times I said, "ewwwww!" as the hot, metal radioactive sweat sock tang flooded my mouth
54 - lemon drops sucked in an effort to help prevent the radioactive assault on my salivary glands
1,893 - quality massages I gave my jawline, bottom of my chin, and neck. Much like the lemon drops, but more painful.
0 - times I've lost my sense of taste. Wahoo! Here's hoping it stays that way!
1 - terrible movies I had the misfortune of believing the Netflix recommendation of. Avoid Happy Poet. It is not about a happy poet. It's just dumb.
2 - movies viewed simulateanoeusly in the bedroom and in the living room so that Matt and I could watch a movie "together."
5 - channel we eventually located on the walkie talkies that was "trucker-free." Not that we didn't want to open up the party line for discussion, but some things aren't meant to be shared with the gang at the gas pump.
14 - times I ate chicken breast and steamed zucchini. Thanks to this low iodine diet, there's some decidedly flat-fronted fowl running around. (What I wouldn't do for a cheese burger, some mac and cheese, and some sauteed spinach!)
2 - times Matt Betty Crocker'd it...and produced some extraordinarily delish LID blueberry muffins and chocolate brownies.
50 - Shades of Grey. Finally found the time to read it. What? Don't judge; you read it, too! ;)
2 - walks per day I've been taking. Sunshine always feels good!
1 million - times I've missed my kiddos
1 - more day until they're home!
Several bajillion - number of thank yous I need to give to everyone who has been supporting me and continues to support me. Even just knowing there's people out there, praying and hoping and thinking positive thoughts on my behalf, helps more than you could possibly know. For serious: you're great!
12 - minutes it's going to take for me to shower and dash out the door...and into the general public.
Here I come, big world! I will try to restrain myself in Walmart.
Yesterday marked day seven of my required week-long isolation period. Am I excited to be able to leave the house and interact with people not wearing protective gear?
It's 8 am and I'm typing this from aisle 12 of my local Walmart as I sing showtunes over their PA system. Price check on my freeeeeedom?!
I kid. But not much.
I've spent this past week catching up on my reading, my Netflixing, my Pinning, and my project-ing (shhh! that last one is a surprise for a someone for a something on suchandsuch date. Forget I even mentioned it. ;) )
Today, I have a ENT doctor's appointment to look at and hopefully remove the few centimeters of dissolvable stitches that never dissolved (!) that are currently poking out of the end of my scar.
Tomorrow: Whole body scan! And end of low iodine diet! Yay!
BREAKING NEWS: Matthew has just informed me that we did NOT win the Powerball last night. I'd wager you didn't either. Soooo, in honor of numbers that are not going to make us millions, here's some numerical facts from my week...
59.8 - millicuries of radioactive iodine I received
43 - miles to home from hospital
2.5 - trash bags I filled with empty bottles of water. Gooooo hydration! Gooooo kidneys! Gooooo radiation out of my body as quickly as possible!
8,765 - approximate times I said, "ewwwww!" as the hot, metal radioactive sweat sock tang flooded my mouth
54 - lemon drops sucked in an effort to help prevent the radioactive assault on my salivary glands
1,893 - quality massages I gave my jawline, bottom of my chin, and neck. Much like the lemon drops, but more painful.
0 - times I've lost my sense of taste. Wahoo! Here's hoping it stays that way!
1 - terrible movies I had the misfortune of believing the Netflix recommendation of. Avoid Happy Poet. It is not about a happy poet. It's just dumb.
2 - movies viewed simulateanoeusly in the bedroom and in the living room so that Matt and I could watch a movie "together."
5 - channel we eventually located on the walkie talkies that was "trucker-free." Not that we didn't want to open up the party line for discussion, but some things aren't meant to be shared with the gang at the gas pump.
14 - times I ate chicken breast and steamed zucchini. Thanks to this low iodine diet, there's some decidedly flat-fronted fowl running around. (What I wouldn't do for a cheese burger, some mac and cheese, and some sauteed spinach!)
2 - times Matt Betty Crocker'd it...and produced some extraordinarily delish LID blueberry muffins and chocolate brownies.
50 - Shades of Grey. Finally found the time to read it. What? Don't judge; you read it, too! ;)
2 - walks per day I've been taking. Sunshine always feels good!
1 million - times I've missed my kiddos
1 - more day until they're home!
Several bajillion - number of thank yous I need to give to everyone who has been supporting me and continues to support me. Even just knowing there's people out there, praying and hoping and thinking positive thoughts on my behalf, helps more than you could possibly know. For serious: you're great!
12 - minutes it's going to take for me to shower and dash out the door...and into the general public.
Here I come, big world! I will try to restrain myself in Walmart.
Friday, July 26, 2013
It's Glow Time!
The elevator at Virtua Hospital's Health and Wellness building has the most depressing way of announcing its descent. "Going doooown," the robotic lady moans, and you can't help but feel that she'd be better assisted on her journey with a Xanax or two.
Fortunately, Nuclear Medicine is located on the the second floor and the ride in either direction is brief, leaving you little time to worry about the mental well-being of your transport.
And, on this past Wednesday, my concern for that sci-fi tin gal ranked even lower. Becoming my own radioactive laboratory experiment, however, raced to the top.
We arrived to the Radiology Imaging department at 1 pm and checked in. Within minutes, we were ushered to the back. Steve, our friendly radiologist, took us to the scanning room and explained the upcoming full body scan procedures: I'd lay on a flat board, neck hyper-entended, legs bent over an oddly-placed pillow, while the scanner took picture after picture of my neck and body to view where all of the I-123 radiation from the day before had landed. This would help determine the correct dosage of I-131 I'd need that day for treatment. Cool. The process would take about 45 minutes. Still cool. And - "Arms at your side, please...Now hold still!" - they would be wrapping me up like a little mummy and taping the sheet closed. Erm.
Thank God for my iPod and Colin Hay.
After the scan, I was brought to another room for a thyroid uptake test to measure the amount and location of the radioactive iodine in my neck.
That machine only involved holding still for a minute while it worked its gamma magic:
After that, Steve told us we had about an hour's wait while he ordered the I-131. He suggested taking a short walk and returning in half an hour to go over my instructions. I suggested making a break for it. Matt sided with Steve, so we ventured down to the parking lot to enjoy a non-nuclear, sunny bench for a bit.
Inside of Nuclear Medicine, you'll find maze of hallways and doorways and rooms with crazy, yellow radioactive symbols. If you continue through the labyrinth, you'll notice the signs getting yellower, the warnings larger, and the doorways more prohibitive. Follow that last hallway allllllll the way back to a deceptively sunshiney window and hang a right. There, in a small, rather ordinary room with a firm, rather large hazard warning hung by the door, on this previous Wednesday afternoon around 2:30 pm, you would have found me. There I sat, Matt by my side, as the tech explained all of the precautions I'd legally be required to take once I ingested the I-131 pill. As she went over the precautions, I calmly nodded my consent. And then I definitively signed my consent on their papers, because the law and the hospital like to know that you really, really mean it.
Steve dropped in to tell me how much I-131 he ordered: 59.8 millicuries. He explained that the amount was rather low because I still had a decent amount of thyroid tissue hanging out in my neck and a higher dosage might damage the surrounding tissues and organs. Ookay. He also said that, depending on how well this round went, there was a good probability I would have to repeat the process in six months...but, there'd be no way of knowing until the first RAI was complete. Oof. On the positive side, my initial scan did not reveal any metastasis. Yay!
And then we waited.
After another half an hour, two men with a handtruck passed by my door. One wore a hospital security uniform and carried a clipboard. One wore khakis and a polo shirt and pushed the truck. On the truck was a black box emblazoned with more yellow hazard signs than even my door. Yikes.
"You don't suppose that's the pizza I ordered?" I whispered to Matt, but he didn't think so.
The tech led the guard and truckpusher in through a locked door across the hall and closed it behind them.
And then we waited some more.
Time passed. We continued to wait.
Even more time passed.
Eventually, Steve stopped by to let us know that the Radiology Oncologist, a necessary component to delivering the medication, was still stuck in his 3 pm consult, but he'd be there real soon. Ooookay.
And, eventually, he was!
We saw them walk by. Heard them unlock the door across the hall. Listened as heavy sounding things thudded against other heavier sounding things.
"Release the Kraken!" I hissed at Matt, but, instead, they returned with a silver cylinder about eight inches tall. It was covered in even more warnings of terror and danger.
Steve had me put on some blue, plastic gloves, to help prevent me from accidentally touching the pill. I chose not to remind Steve that I'd soon be swallowing it. If the gloves made him feel better, well, whatev.
He reviewed the procedure with me again. "I'll dump the pill in the empty cup. You prime the well with the cup of water. Then the pill. Then the water. See? Chaser. Pill. Chaser. Got it?"
This was like no bar game I'd ever played.
Steve unscrewed the top to the metal canister and tipped the capsule into my plastic cup. It was blue and white and innocuous-looking. It could have been a simple vitamin or a headache remedy.
Except it wasn't. It was 59.8 miC of radioactive iodine, which I would be swallowing in concentrated effort to send it on a mission of thorough cancer-eradicating/ass-kicking.
Bottoms up!
I chugged it down in a way that would've made a frat boy proud. Steve used the geiger counter to measure the radiation filling my belly and then led us back through the maze to the the front.
"See you next Friday!" he called, from a safe distance.
Matt and I walked to the parking lot, not touching. I slid in to the backseat, as far away from him as possible. 43 miles to home with a tummy full of radiation. Mindful of the expectation that I spend no more than an hour in the car with another person, he set off.
We drove homeward, catching the opening chords of rush hour, but, fortunately, missing the melody. While Matt deftly avoided traffic jams, I sat in the backseat and tried to think cancer-kicking thoughts. And then I tried to ignore the fantastically terrible, burning taste that was spreading through my mouth. It was like hot metal sweat socks. Yuck. I sipped my water and focused on the knowledge that, while radiation is not delicious, it is life-saving and extremely helpful. And I'll take a mouth full of tinny, smouldering, locker room gear any day if it means victory over cancer.
Fortunately, Nuclear Medicine is located on the the second floor and the ride in either direction is brief, leaving you little time to worry about the mental well-being of your transport.
And, on this past Wednesday, my concern for that sci-fi tin gal ranked even lower. Becoming my own radioactive laboratory experiment, however, raced to the top.
We arrived to the Radiology Imaging department at 1 pm and checked in. Within minutes, we were ushered to the back. Steve, our friendly radiologist, took us to the scanning room and explained the upcoming full body scan procedures: I'd lay on a flat board, neck hyper-entended, legs bent over an oddly-placed pillow, while the scanner took picture after picture of my neck and body to view where all of the I-123 radiation from the day before had landed. This would help determine the correct dosage of I-131 I'd need that day for treatment. Cool. The process would take about 45 minutes. Still cool. And - "Arms at your side, please...Now hold still!" - they would be wrapping me up like a little mummy and taping the sheet closed. Erm.
Thank God for my iPod and Colin Hay.
 |
| Meanwhile, Matt amused himself by taking pictures... |
After the scan, I was brought to another room for a thyroid uptake test to measure the amount and location of the radioactive iodine in my neck.
That machine only involved holding still for a minute while it worked its gamma magic:
 | ||||||||||||||
| This is what 60 seconds of fun looks like! |
After that, Steve told us we had about an hour's wait while he ordered the I-131. He suggested taking a short walk and returning in half an hour to go over my instructions. I suggested making a break for it. Matt sided with Steve, so we ventured down to the parking lot to enjoy a non-nuclear, sunny bench for a bit.
 |
| Preparing to glow... |
Inside of Nuclear Medicine, you'll find maze of hallways and doorways and rooms with crazy, yellow radioactive symbols. If you continue through the labyrinth, you'll notice the signs getting yellower, the warnings larger, and the doorways more prohibitive. Follow that last hallway allllllll the way back to a deceptively sunshiney window and hang a right. There, in a small, rather ordinary room with a firm, rather large hazard warning hung by the door, on this previous Wednesday afternoon around 2:30 pm, you would have found me. There I sat, Matt by my side, as the tech explained all of the precautions I'd legally be required to take once I ingested the I-131 pill. As she went over the precautions, I calmly nodded my consent. And then I definitively signed my consent on their papers, because the law and the hospital like to know that you really, really mean it.
Steve dropped in to tell me how much I-131 he ordered: 59.8 millicuries. He explained that the amount was rather low because I still had a decent amount of thyroid tissue hanging out in my neck and a higher dosage might damage the surrounding tissues and organs. Ookay. He also said that, depending on how well this round went, there was a good probability I would have to repeat the process in six months...but, there'd be no way of knowing until the first RAI was complete. Oof. On the positive side, my initial scan did not reveal any metastasis. Yay!
And then we waited.
After another half an hour, two men with a handtruck passed by my door. One wore a hospital security uniform and carried a clipboard. One wore khakis and a polo shirt and pushed the truck. On the truck was a black box emblazoned with more yellow hazard signs than even my door. Yikes.
"You don't suppose that's the pizza I ordered?" I whispered to Matt, but he didn't think so.
The tech led the guard and truckpusher in through a locked door across the hall and closed it behind them.
And then we waited some more.
 |
| Still not nuclear! |
Time passed. We continued to wait.
 |
| Not glowing! |
 |
| Just me, two cups, and a Geiger Counter! |
Eventually, Steve stopped by to let us know that the Radiology Oncologist, a necessary component to delivering the medication, was still stuck in his 3 pm consult, but he'd be there real soon. Ooookay.
And, eventually, he was!
We saw them walk by. Heard them unlock the door across the hall. Listened as heavy sounding things thudded against other heavier sounding things.
"Release the Kraken!" I hissed at Matt, but, instead, they returned with a silver cylinder about eight inches tall. It was covered in even more warnings of terror and danger.
Steve had me put on some blue, plastic gloves, to help prevent me from accidentally touching the pill. I chose not to remind Steve that I'd soon be swallowing it. If the gloves made him feel better, well, whatev.
He reviewed the procedure with me again. "I'll dump the pill in the empty cup. You prime the well with the cup of water. Then the pill. Then the water. See? Chaser. Pill. Chaser. Got it?"
This was like no bar game I'd ever played.
Steve unscrewed the top to the metal canister and tipped the capsule into my plastic cup. It was blue and white and innocuous-looking. It could have been a simple vitamin or a headache remedy.
Except it wasn't. It was 59.8 miC of radioactive iodine, which I would be swallowing in concentrated effort to send it on a mission of thorough cancer-eradicating/ass-kicking.
Bottoms up!
I chugged it down in a way that would've made a frat boy proud. Steve used the geiger counter to measure the radiation filling my belly and then led us back through the maze to the the front.
"See you next Friday!" he called, from a safe distance.
Matt and I walked to the parking lot, not touching. I slid in to the backseat, as far away from him as possible. 43 miles to home with a tummy full of radiation. Mindful of the expectation that I spend no more than an hour in the car with another person, he set off.
 | |||||||||
| Matt, happy not to be seated any closer to me. |
We drove homeward, catching the opening chords of rush hour, but, fortunately, missing the melody. While Matt deftly avoided traffic jams, I sat in the backseat and tried to think cancer-kicking thoughts. And then I tried to ignore the fantastically terrible, burning taste that was spreading through my mouth. It was like hot metal sweat socks. Yuck. I sipped my water and focused on the knowledge that, while radiation is not delicious, it is life-saving and extremely helpful. And I'll take a mouth full of tinny, smouldering, locker room gear any day if it means victory over cancer.
 |
| Tastes like winning! |
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Day 16 and a smidge: Almost glow time...
It's Wednesday!
::trumpets and fanfare::
I don't think I slept more than four hours last night, if you gather all of the little bursts of slumber and toss them together into a sleeping bag.
Yesterday was an adventure in last minute prepping as we set up my personal containment unit (aka the upstairs). This will be my home away from home within my home for at least the next eight days. Matt's limbering up in preparation of a week's worth of couch riding. Trail mix has been bagged, LID Peanut Butter Oatmeal Chocolate Cookies have been no-baked, Dual Mad Libs have been purchased, walkie talkies have been batteried, and the kids have been briefed on the appropriate use of Skype while at Daddy's. We are as ready as we can be. I hope.
I received my second shot of Thyrogen at the Endocrinologist yesterday and was relieved to experience, once again, not a single side effect, aside from a sore butt. Whew!
At Virtua Nuclear Medicine later Tuesday afternoon, I received my test dose, a small, gray capsule of I-123. This non-damaging radiation dose is used to allow for the thyroid uptake and full body scan I will have today, Wednesday. Once the doctor has a clearer picture of how much thyroid tissue and/or cancer is present, he will be able to determine the correct dose of the knock-your-cancer-socks-off I-131. He'll place an order for the pills and, an hour or two later, I'll be saying a prayer, swallowing those bad boys, and getting the heck out of the hospital before I endanger the masses. Wheeeeee!
Meanwhile, I'm off to snuggle my babies for just a little longer...
::trumpets and fanfare::
I don't think I slept more than four hours last night, if you gather all of the little bursts of slumber and toss them together into a sleeping bag.
Yesterday was an adventure in last minute prepping as we set up my personal containment unit (aka the upstairs). This will be my home away from home within my home for at least the next eight days. Matt's limbering up in preparation of a week's worth of couch riding. Trail mix has been bagged, LID Peanut Butter Oatmeal Chocolate Cookies have been no-baked, Dual Mad Libs have been purchased, walkie talkies have been batteried, and the kids have been briefed on the appropriate use of Skype while at Daddy's. We are as ready as we can be. I hope.
I received my second shot of Thyrogen at the Endocrinologist yesterday and was relieved to experience, once again, not a single side effect, aside from a sore butt. Whew!
At Virtua Nuclear Medicine later Tuesday afternoon, I received my test dose, a small, gray capsule of I-123. This non-damaging radiation dose is used to allow for the thyroid uptake and full body scan I will have today, Wednesday. Once the doctor has a clearer picture of how much thyroid tissue and/or cancer is present, he will be able to determine the correct dose of the knock-your-cancer-socks-off I-131. He'll place an order for the pills and, an hour or two later, I'll be saying a prayer, swallowing those bad boys, and getting the heck out of the hospital before I endanger the masses. Wheeeeee!
Meanwhile, I'm off to snuggle my babies for just a little longer...
Monday, July 22, 2013
Day 15: Cheeky!
"Do you have a preference which side?" the Endocrinologist asked me, needle poised above my exposed skin.
"Umm...they're both equally plump. You pick!"
And that, ladies and gents, is how I got my first injection of Thyrogen.
Amazingly, so far (12 hours later), no weirdly terrible side effects. Wahoo! Prior to my appointment, I made the mistake of googling the possible reactions to the shots. As I was walking towards the front door of the office, I worriedly tried to explain my dilemma to Matt: how could I recognize the side effects when they were happening if they were already happening now before I'd even seen a needle? I mean, as nervous as I was, I was already experiencing nausea, headache, dizziness, rapid heart rate, and muscle aches. Also, clearly, I was 100% batty. Since that last one wasn't going to be on the FDA's interaction list, I took several deep breaths and focused on taking the elevator up three floors. Matt, to his constant credit, continued to reassure me that "we've got this."
There's something very powerful in those three words. "We've got this." Even during those times when I'm positive that I don't, it's unbelievably comforting to know that we do.
Later, we stocked up on some things that'd be necessary for the rest of the week: more pillows, a different toothpaste, walkie talkies, salt-free pretzels, lemon drops. My time to glow is almost upon us...
Tomorrow offers another shot of Thyrogen (maybe in the other cheek, for variety!) and then a visit to Virtua's Nuclear Medicine for the pre-treatment dose of radiation. How's that for a big, busy Tuesday?!
"Umm...they're both equally plump. You pick!"
And that, ladies and gents, is how I got my first injection of Thyrogen.
Amazingly, so far (12 hours later), no weirdly terrible side effects. Wahoo! Prior to my appointment, I made the mistake of googling the possible reactions to the shots. As I was walking towards the front door of the office, I worriedly tried to explain my dilemma to Matt: how could I recognize the side effects when they were happening if they were already happening now before I'd even seen a needle? I mean, as nervous as I was, I was already experiencing nausea, headache, dizziness, rapid heart rate, and muscle aches. Also, clearly, I was 100% batty. Since that last one wasn't going to be on the FDA's interaction list, I took several deep breaths and focused on taking the elevator up three floors. Matt, to his constant credit, continued to reassure me that "we've got this."
There's something very powerful in those three words. "We've got this." Even during those times when I'm positive that I don't, it's unbelievably comforting to know that we do.
Later, we stocked up on some things that'd be necessary for the rest of the week: more pillows, a different toothpaste, walkie talkies, salt-free pretzels, lemon drops. My time to glow is almost upon us...
Tomorrow offers another shot of Thyrogen (maybe in the other cheek, for variety!) and then a visit to Virtua's Nuclear Medicine for the pre-treatment dose of radiation. How's that for a big, busy Tuesday?!
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Days 13 - 14: It's the weekend. Eat this! It's good.
I love food.
Love.
LOVE.
There are few things as wonderful as sinking into my seat at the dinner table, eyes and elbows honored to be seated in front of a hearty, delicious meal, steam rising off of the dish, getting drunk on the aroma and pleasure before I even take the first bite. Add people I adore and some thick, crusty bread, a curl or two of soft, creamy butter...and you have some of my most favorite experiences.
Or give me a good book and some just-released-from-the-oven spiced cookies, a mug of tea to warm my hands around, and a sunny, snowy afternoon, and you have another.
Or let me have some electrically-infused music (think the smoothest of jazz played by an ice cold horn section on a sweltering summer night) while noshing on something crispy and salty and fresh while I swill something equally as cool as the vibe around in my glass, ice cubes tinkling, heart and heat thumpin', belly full and oh so mellow.
Aaahhh...
Obviously, then, tossing a Low Iodine Diet into the equation kind of messes with my mangi mo jo. The Low Iodine Diet, followed for the last one to two weeks before RAI treatment is pretty restrictive. It involves avoiding food with iodine, dairy, soy, chocolate, seafood, sea salt, certain food colorings, and specific food additives. Additionally, they advise little to no leafy greens, limited grain servings, no potato skins, and no more than five ounces of (no additive!) meat per day. Also, no eating out, as they say you can't trust a restaurant to prepare things the required ways.
You would not believe how much of our regular food stuffs have other irregular food stuffs in them. Even meat in the grocery store has been injected with other things that are not permitted. Craziness.
Thankfully, mini marshmallows somehow pass the LID test.
This means, then, some creative shopping and some even more creative cooking is necessary.
Breakfast for dinner involved some interesting recipe changes...
Despite some initial hesitation, I managed to frankenstein these (dairy-free, soy-free, yolk-free, iodine-free): "Low-Iodiney-Still-Deliciouslike-Appley-Cinnamony-Pancakes!"
2 c flour
1 tsp white sugar
3 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
sprinkle of kosher salt
1-2 tbs cinnamon
1/4 c brown sugar
1 3/4 c applesauce
3 tbs olive oil
4-6 tbs water
5 tbs + 1 tsp egg whites
2 tsp vanilla extract
Combine dry ingredients (except brown sugar) in bowl. Mix.
In separate bowl, whisk egg whites. Add brown sugar. Whisk again.
Add applesauce, oil, water, and vanilla extract. Mix.
Add dry ingredients. Mix together (adding more water by the tbs as necessary).
Fire up your griddle and MAKE SOME FLAPJACKS! :)
Yesterday, we visited my mother's shop, Candle Corner, at the Amish Market in Vineland. On the lower level of the marketplace, there's a variety of fresh food shops, including a produce stand and a butcher. Fantastic! Fresh, additive-free meat! In addition to some super nice sweet potatoes and corn on the cob, we picked up the plumpest, juiciest-looking boneless pork chops ever. I prepared an Orange-Garlic marinade and let those bad boys lounge around in it for awhile.
In the end, we wound up with this:
Today, since it's Lily's 4th birthday, I'll be making the requested mac and cheese and fried chicken for the brood. There's really no substituting for that, so don't expect anything nearly as tantalizing next. There may, however, be some baked apples soon...
Love.
LOVE.
There are few things as wonderful as sinking into my seat at the dinner table, eyes and elbows honored to be seated in front of a hearty, delicious meal, steam rising off of the dish, getting drunk on the aroma and pleasure before I even take the first bite. Add people I adore and some thick, crusty bread, a curl or two of soft, creamy butter...and you have some of my most favorite experiences.
Or give me a good book and some just-released-from-the-oven spiced cookies, a mug of tea to warm my hands around, and a sunny, snowy afternoon, and you have another.
Or let me have some electrically-infused music (think the smoothest of jazz played by an ice cold horn section on a sweltering summer night) while noshing on something crispy and salty and fresh while I swill something equally as cool as the vibe around in my glass, ice cubes tinkling, heart and heat thumpin', belly full and oh so mellow.
Aaahhh...
Obviously, then, tossing a Low Iodine Diet into the equation kind of messes with my mangi mo jo. The Low Iodine Diet, followed for the last one to two weeks before RAI treatment is pretty restrictive. It involves avoiding food with iodine, dairy, soy, chocolate, seafood, sea salt, certain food colorings, and specific food additives. Additionally, they advise little to no leafy greens, limited grain servings, no potato skins, and no more than five ounces of (no additive!) meat per day. Also, no eating out, as they say you can't trust a restaurant to prepare things the required ways.
You would not believe how much of our regular food stuffs have other irregular food stuffs in them. Even meat in the grocery store has been injected with other things that are not permitted. Craziness.
Thankfully, mini marshmallows somehow pass the LID test.
This means, then, some creative shopping and some even more creative cooking is necessary.
 |
| Hey from Trader Joe's! LID-approved PB! |
 |
| There's ants on my log! And they're yummy! |
Breakfast for dinner involved some interesting recipe changes...
Despite some initial hesitation, I managed to frankenstein these (dairy-free, soy-free, yolk-free, iodine-free): "Low-Iodiney-Still-Deliciouslike-Appley-Cinnamony-Pancakes!"
2 c flour
1 tsp white sugar
3 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
sprinkle of kosher salt
1-2 tbs cinnamon
1/4 c brown sugar
1 3/4 c applesauce
3 tbs olive oil
4-6 tbs water
5 tbs + 1 tsp egg whites
2 tsp vanilla extract
Combine dry ingredients (except brown sugar) in bowl. Mix.
In separate bowl, whisk egg whites. Add brown sugar. Whisk again.
Add applesauce, oil, water, and vanilla extract. Mix.
Add dry ingredients. Mix together (adding more water by the tbs as necessary).
Fire up your griddle and MAKE SOME FLAPJACKS! :)
 |
| I worried how thick they were, but... |
 |
| Fluffy, golden deliciousness! |
 |
| And, even though they look kinda awful, these egg whites with fresh Jersey tomato, sauteed onions, basil, garlic, and oregano were so good! |
 |
| Okay, maybe not as good as what the rest of the crew had! :/ |
Yesterday, we visited my mother's shop, Candle Corner, at the Amish Market in Vineland. On the lower level of the marketplace, there's a variety of fresh food shops, including a produce stand and a butcher. Fantastic! Fresh, additive-free meat! In addition to some super nice sweet potatoes and corn on the cob, we picked up the plumpest, juiciest-looking boneless pork chops ever. I prepared an Orange-Garlic marinade and let those bad boys lounge around in it for awhile.
 |
| See how fabulous?! And it smelled incredible, too! |
In the end, we wound up with this:
 |
| I am saddened that you can not taste through the screen...It was that good! |
Today, since it's Lily's 4th birthday, I'll be making the requested mac and cheese and fried chicken for the brood. There's really no substituting for that, so don't expect anything nearly as tantalizing next. There may, however, be some baked apples soon...
Day 12: Members Only! Where's my jacket?
Friday morning had me sweatin' with the oldies at the Cardiologist's office. I completed my stress test on a fast-moving treadmill, jogging my way to a clean bill of heart health. Yay! While there, the tech regaled me with stories of her struggles with Hashimoto's.
Then, in preparation for the RAI upcoming on Wednesday, I stopped by Quest and had some blood drawn. The phlebotomist, looking at my lab order and my neck, started quizzing me about my thyroid. Turns out, she's struggling with hypothyroidism.
It seems my scar is now an all access pass into a previously silent Thyroid Disorder Club. Its members are numerous and varied. I've run into women of all ages, sizes, colors, and lifestyles who, upon seeing the three-and-half-inch slash at the top of my collarbone immediately touch their own necks (scar or not), smile, and spill stories of their journeys with problematic thyroids. I've heard tales of hypo, hyper, Hashi's, nodules, ablations, Synthroid, endocrinologists, TSH, surgeries, radiation, and cancer. And I've been imparted words of encouragement, hope, laughter, wisdom, and, yes, frustration. I didn't ask to join this club (and lord knows, neither did they), but it definitely is nice to feel welcomed.
This membership has not come cheaply, however. After my morning appointments, I went to pick the kiddos up at daycare. Lily, my youngest, upon seeing the bandage across the inner crease of my arm, sighed loudly and said, "Mommy, bloodwork again?"
I hear ya, Lil, and I couldn't agree more. The sheer amount of medical attention I've had over these past four months is enough to make both my little family and me quite dizzy -and with much lighter piggy banks! I have now officially reached my "maximum annual out of pocket expense" with my health insurance, a feat I'm not sure I should be impressed or appalled at. But this part of my battle with thyroid cancer is (hopefully) coming to a victorious close soon and, if it takes a couple more bandaids and a few more copays to get me through, I can deal with that.
Then, in preparation for the RAI upcoming on Wednesday, I stopped by Quest and had some blood drawn. The phlebotomist, looking at my lab order and my neck, started quizzing me about my thyroid. Turns out, she's struggling with hypothyroidism.
It seems my scar is now an all access pass into a previously silent Thyroid Disorder Club. Its members are numerous and varied. I've run into women of all ages, sizes, colors, and lifestyles who, upon seeing the three-and-half-inch slash at the top of my collarbone immediately touch their own necks (scar or not), smile, and spill stories of their journeys with problematic thyroids. I've heard tales of hypo, hyper, Hashi's, nodules, ablations, Synthroid, endocrinologists, TSH, surgeries, radiation, and cancer. And I've been imparted words of encouragement, hope, laughter, wisdom, and, yes, frustration. I didn't ask to join this club (and lord knows, neither did they), but it definitely is nice to feel welcomed.
This membership has not come cheaply, however. After my morning appointments, I went to pick the kiddos up at daycare. Lily, my youngest, upon seeing the bandage across the inner crease of my arm, sighed loudly and said, "Mommy, bloodwork again?"
I hear ya, Lil, and I couldn't agree more. The sheer amount of medical attention I've had over these past four months is enough to make both my little family and me quite dizzy -and with much lighter piggy banks! I have now officially reached my "maximum annual out of pocket expense" with my health insurance, a feat I'm not sure I should be impressed or appalled at. But this part of my battle with thyroid cancer is (hopefully) coming to a victorious close soon and, if it takes a couple more bandaids and a few more copays to get me through, I can deal with that.
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