At church this morning:
“But continue you in the things which you have learned and have been assured of, knowing of whom you have learned them; And that from a child you have known the holy scriptures, which are able to make you wise to salvation through faith which is in Christ Jesus.”
--2 Timothy 3:14-15, American King James version
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Can't Taste My Food
I feel good. Taste buds dull, but can still taste a little bit. Keep asking Poms and Jack “Does this need salt?” at the dinner table.
Energy good. No nap.
Energy good. No nap.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Can't Sleep, Love Ice Cream
Can’t sleep. Thinking about eating a bowl of ice cream. Not the best idea, but…Just realized I can’t eat anything until an hour after I take my Synthroid, so I just threw my Synthroid to the back of my throat and had some water to clear the path for the possibility of breakfast as early as approximately 5:05 am. This cracks me up. Too tired to type anymore. Time to go back to sleep. Nighty-night.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
ThyCa Listserv Help
posted on thyca listserv
Hi, all.
Just wanted to post an update on my journey.
I had my second RAI treatment last Monday and my follow-up WBS today. Although I have requested it in the past, this is the first time the radiologist sat down with me after the scans and went over my pictures with me, for which I was so grateful that I was falling all over myself thanking him. There was one area of uptake in my neck, as expected, and nothing else of note. (YEA!) There was no reason to expect any other uptake, but still, a relief that there's just this little pesky remnant in my neck. The radiologist does not think it is a lymph node or nodes. It took up the iodine. All good.
I feel such a tremendous sense of relief! My gut is telling me there's a very good chance this is the last treatment I'll have to have for this cancer, and that's such a joyous feeling. Even though I don't have my NED badge yet (No Evidence of Disease), I feel strongly that it's coming my way. I have an appt. with my endo next week to discuss when she'll want to do follow-up stimulated Tg and/or WBS testing to see if the treatment knocked the 22 Tg down to undetectible, but for now, I feel like I can breathe easy. As I move away from hypodom (TSH well over 60), I feel my energy coming back more quickly than I ever could have hoped for.
To those of you on a LID right now:
You can do it! Hang in there!
To those of you newly diagnosed:
You can handle this! Hang in there!
To those of you who are hypo as all hell right now:
The end is in sight! Hang in there!
To those of you who just had a RAI treatment:
You will make it through this! Hang in there!
To those of you dealing with recurrences:
You can overcome this! Hang in there!
And to those of you who have helped me along the way (especially my dear Katie), THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. I couldn't have done it without the support of the compassionate people in this amazing group.
Lynn in Orange County, California
Biopsy on 3 suspicious nodules 1/9/08 inconclusive
2/21/08 TT (age 41)
Dx multifocal papillary carcinoma + 5/5 positive nodes
3/24/08 RAI 150 mCi
12/3/08 MRI clean
4/13/09 stimulated testing: TSH 60.27; Tg 22
4/16/09 WBS: “linear” uptake in neck
6/8/09 RAI 150 mCi
6/18/09 WBS: uptake in neck, not thought to be lymph node(s)
Hoping the second time’s the charm
Hi, all.
Just wanted to post an update on my journey.
I had my second RAI treatment last Monday and my follow-up WBS today. Although I have requested it in the past, this is the first time the radiologist sat down with me after the scans and went over my pictures with me, for which I was so grateful that I was falling all over myself thanking him. There was one area of uptake in my neck, as expected, and nothing else of note. (YEA!) There was no reason to expect any other uptake, but still, a relief that there's just this little pesky remnant in my neck. The radiologist does not think it is a lymph node or nodes. It took up the iodine. All good.
I feel such a tremendous sense of relief! My gut is telling me there's a very good chance this is the last treatment I'll have to have for this cancer, and that's such a joyous feeling. Even though I don't have my NED badge yet (No Evidence of Disease), I feel strongly that it's coming my way. I have an appt. with my endo next week to discuss when she'll want to do follow-up stimulated Tg and/or WBS testing to see if the treatment knocked the 22 Tg down to undetectible, but for now, I feel like I can breathe easy. As I move away from hypodom (TSH well over 60), I feel my energy coming back more quickly than I ever could have hoped for.
To those of you on a LID right now:
You can do it! Hang in there!
To those of you newly diagnosed:
You can handle this! Hang in there!
To those of you who are hypo as all hell right now:
The end is in sight! Hang in there!
To those of you who just had a RAI treatment:
You will make it through this! Hang in there!
To those of you dealing with recurrences:
You can overcome this! Hang in there!
And to those of you who have helped me along the way (especially my dear Katie), THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. I couldn't have done it without the support of the compassionate people in this amazing group.
Lynn in Orange County, California
Biopsy on 3 suspicious nodules 1/9/08 inconclusive
2/21/08 TT (age 41)
Dx multifocal papillary carcinoma + 5/5 positive nodes
3/24/08 RAI 150 mCi
12/3/08 MRI clean
4/13/09 stimulated testing: TSH 60.27; Tg 22
4/16/09 WBS: “linear” uptake in neck
6/8/09 RAI 150 mCi
6/18/09 WBS: uptake in neck, not thought to be lymph node(s)
Hoping the second time’s the charm
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Why Would Anyone Eat a Whole Lemon?
I’m on my way to Hoag Hospital to get my whole body scan after my radioactive iodine treatment #2 last Monday, June 8, and I just ate an entire lemon. Something I thought I would never do, and something—to be quite honest, once I took the first bite—I didn’t think I could do. But as I was eating it, and as my salivary glands were getting used to the sourness, all I could think was “People with other cancers endure far worse for their treatments. Far worse. FAR WORSE! I started picturing women--with no hair, bad women, women with wigs, women with bandanas or scarves over their heads--and I instantly got humbled. Nd I ate the rest of the lemon, and by the end of it, it wasn’t that bad.
The whole idea behind eating a whole lemon an hour before your scan is to stimulate your salivary glands and rinse your mouth out with waster every 10 minutes after the lemon to rid your esophagus of a coating of radioactive saliva so there won’t be any sites of uptake on the scan that appear to be thyroid cancer cells but are actually just radioactive saliva pooled in your esophagus. Anyway, it’s a tip from one of the thyroid cancer expert who I’ve located online, and I hope it works.
My prayer right now is “Dear Lord, give me the peace and the ability to breathe in and out, in and out, to get through the scan without getting all worked up and worried, to keep my headache away—because I’ve had a terrible headache sort of a neck ache/headache combo on the right side sort of coming from behind the right side of my neck, up the right side of my neck into the right side of my head. Lord, just let me keep that headache away, and remind me to breathe in and out. Lord, I pray that this scan will be definitive one way or the other—whatever the outcome, I pray that it would be definitive, that there wouldn’t be questions. Lord, I thank you, also, for your faithfulness through this entire thing, for being there for me in the way that only You can be, for basically being m,y everything and being the one thing I know I can lean on and trust and depend on and get comfort from. Thank you, Lord, for everything you do for me. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
For some reason, as I’m getting closer to Hoag, I’m thinking about the fact that I am trying new things now more impulsively. For instance—and this may be a bizarre example, but it is what it is—I opened up one of my recipe books on Sunday night (something I don’t do very frequently), and I picked out a recipe that calls for white wine, and in the past I would have instantly ruled that out (“I’m not making a recipe with white wine”). I’m not sure exactly why—just a knee-jerk reaction saying I don’;t want to have a bottle of wine around the house. But I know plenty of people who don’t drink and have a bottle of wine around the house for cooking , and it’s not a problem. In the past, I would have said no, I’m not making this recipe., or I would have made it without the white wine. Yesterday I was in the grocery store, and I wound up buying a bottle, and I feel like I;’m stashing some kind of illegal contraband in my house. I put it on a shelf that’s kind of out of reach, laid the bottle down on its side. But anyway, I have this bottle of white wine in my house and I’m planning on making this Rachel Ray pasta carbonara recipe using the wine, but I feel very weird about having it in the house. At the same time, I’m proud of myself for trying something new, going out on a limb, “investing” in a bottle of white wine which was only $8—the cheapest bottle of white wine I could find.
This is a long, drawn-out story to illustrate the point of me doing more stuff, maybe taking more risks, as if buying a bottle of white wine is a risk…I was standing in the store appreciating the cute label, I felt kind of guilty and weird about it and wondered if I was going to get it home and drink it. Not the whole thing, mind you, but I just wondered if I was going to have a glass of wine, and I didn’t want to , but I thought, “Am I going to be able to handle having this around?” Well certainly I am.
After the scan(s):
Cute things happen all the time, and we just forget to think about them. I’m on the 55 Freeway after my scan at Hoag, and a chartreuse Volkswagen Bug just drove by in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and in the passenger seat was a cute little Asian gal wearing white-rimmed sunglasses who had two teeny tiny chihuahuas on her lap, and when I drove by her and I looked out my window and smiled and mouthed the words, “How cute,” she made one of the chihuahuas wave at me with its tiny, delicate left paw. How cute is that? It’s stuff like that that makes life worth living.
The results of my scan was that there was uptake in my neck exactly where we thought there would be, no uptake anywhere else, which is a relief, because I had been in a very paranoid fashion thinking I had felt something in my right lung.
The radiologist sat down with me and looked over the scans with me, and basically gave me the results, and if that’s not God, I don’t know what is. They’ve told me in the past at Hoag that they don’;t do that, so I prayed for that, and it happened, and I am so glad. Now I don’t have to wait a week to find out where there was uptake, and was it normal,. Blah blah blah. Anyway, I’m very relieved and super happy that Dr. Wong took the time to go over my results with me. Another piece of evidence that God is awesome.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009, 9:41 pm
Hi, all.
Just wanted to send an update on my journey.
I had my second radioactive iodine treatment last Monday and my follow-up whole-body scans today, which shows where the iodine was "taken up" and where it is presumably killing thyroid cancer cells. (You go, radioactive iodine!) The radiologist, who is a nuclear medicine doctor, sat down with me after the scans and went over my pictures with me--basically giving me the results of the scans right away. There was one area of uptake in my neck, as expected, and nothing else of note. Good news. It means the radioactive iodine is working on killing the thyroid cells that are left over from the surgery and the first treatment. Kind of like mopping up the floor after sweeping.
I feel a tremendous sense of relief! My gut is telling me there's a very good chance this is the last treatment I'll have to have for this cancer, and that's such a joyous feeling. Even though I don't have my NED badge yet (No Evidence of Disease), I feel strongly that it's coming my way someday soon. There's no "cure" for thyroid cancer, but we thyroid cancer patients hope to hear we're "NED" one day--and then we hope to hang onto the NED label for the rest of our long, wonderful, blessed lives.
I will have some follow-up testing in 4-6 months to see how successful the treatment was. I'll let you know what happens then.
Thank you all for your support and prayers and help and offers of help and for caring.
God is good!
Love,
Lynn
The whole idea behind eating a whole lemon an hour before your scan is to stimulate your salivary glands and rinse your mouth out with waster every 10 minutes after the lemon to rid your esophagus of a coating of radioactive saliva so there won’t be any sites of uptake on the scan that appear to be thyroid cancer cells but are actually just radioactive saliva pooled in your esophagus. Anyway, it’s a tip from one of the thyroid cancer expert who I’ve located online, and I hope it works.
My prayer right now is “Dear Lord, give me the peace and the ability to breathe in and out, in and out, to get through the scan without getting all worked up and worried, to keep my headache away—because I’ve had a terrible headache sort of a neck ache/headache combo on the right side sort of coming from behind the right side of my neck, up the right side of my neck into the right side of my head. Lord, just let me keep that headache away, and remind me to breathe in and out. Lord, I pray that this scan will be definitive one way or the other—whatever the outcome, I pray that it would be definitive, that there wouldn’t be questions. Lord, I thank you, also, for your faithfulness through this entire thing, for being there for me in the way that only You can be, for basically being m,y everything and being the one thing I know I can lean on and trust and depend on and get comfort from. Thank you, Lord, for everything you do for me. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
For some reason, as I’m getting closer to Hoag, I’m thinking about the fact that I am trying new things now more impulsively. For instance—and this may be a bizarre example, but it is what it is—I opened up one of my recipe books on Sunday night (something I don’t do very frequently), and I picked out a recipe that calls for white wine, and in the past I would have instantly ruled that out (“I’m not making a recipe with white wine”). I’m not sure exactly why—just a knee-jerk reaction saying I don’;t want to have a bottle of wine around the house. But I know plenty of people who don’t drink and have a bottle of wine around the house for cooking , and it’s not a problem. In the past, I would have said no, I’m not making this recipe., or I would have made it without the white wine. Yesterday I was in the grocery store, and I wound up buying a bottle, and I feel like I;’m stashing some kind of illegal contraband in my house. I put it on a shelf that’s kind of out of reach, laid the bottle down on its side. But anyway, I have this bottle of white wine in my house and I’m planning on making this Rachel Ray pasta carbonara recipe using the wine, but I feel very weird about having it in the house. At the same time, I’m proud of myself for trying something new, going out on a limb, “investing” in a bottle of white wine which was only $8—the cheapest bottle of white wine I could find.
This is a long, drawn-out story to illustrate the point of me doing more stuff, maybe taking more risks, as if buying a bottle of white wine is a risk…I was standing in the store appreciating the cute label, I felt kind of guilty and weird about it and wondered if I was going to get it home and drink it. Not the whole thing, mind you, but I just wondered if I was going to have a glass of wine, and I didn’t want to , but I thought, “Am I going to be able to handle having this around?” Well certainly I am.
After the scan(s):
Cute things happen all the time, and we just forget to think about them. I’m on the 55 Freeway after my scan at Hoag, and a chartreuse Volkswagen Bug just drove by in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and in the passenger seat was a cute little Asian gal wearing white-rimmed sunglasses who had two teeny tiny chihuahuas on her lap, and when I drove by her and I looked out my window and smiled and mouthed the words, “How cute,” she made one of the chihuahuas wave at me with its tiny, delicate left paw. How cute is that? It’s stuff like that that makes life worth living.
The results of my scan was that there was uptake in my neck exactly where we thought there would be, no uptake anywhere else, which is a relief, because I had been in a very paranoid fashion thinking I had felt something in my right lung.
The radiologist sat down with me and looked over the scans with me, and basically gave me the results, and if that’s not God, I don’t know what is. They’ve told me in the past at Hoag that they don’;t do that, so I prayed for that, and it happened, and I am so glad. Now I don’t have to wait a week to find out where there was uptake, and was it normal,. Blah blah blah. Anyway, I’m very relieved and super happy that Dr. Wong took the time to go over my results with me. Another piece of evidence that God is awesome.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009, 9:41 pm
Hi, all.
Just wanted to send an update on my journey.
I had my second radioactive iodine treatment last Monday and my follow-up whole-body scans today, which shows where the iodine was "taken up" and where it is presumably killing thyroid cancer cells. (You go, radioactive iodine!) The radiologist, who is a nuclear medicine doctor, sat down with me after the scans and went over my pictures with me--basically giving me the results of the scans right away. There was one area of uptake in my neck, as expected, and nothing else of note. Good news. It means the radioactive iodine is working on killing the thyroid cells that are left over from the surgery and the first treatment. Kind of like mopping up the floor after sweeping.
I feel a tremendous sense of relief! My gut is telling me there's a very good chance this is the last treatment I'll have to have for this cancer, and that's such a joyous feeling. Even though I don't have my NED badge yet (No Evidence of Disease), I feel strongly that it's coming my way someday soon. There's no "cure" for thyroid cancer, but we thyroid cancer patients hope to hear we're "NED" one day--and then we hope to hang onto the NED label for the rest of our long, wonderful, blessed lives.
I will have some follow-up testing in 4-6 months to see how successful the treatment was. I'll let you know what happens then.
Thank you all for your support and prayers and help and offers of help and for caring.
God is good!
Love,
Lynn
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Still Radioactive But OK to Drive Thru McDonald's
Today I'm OK to:
1. go through a drive-through as long as I don't spit or pee on the order taker/food hander-over-er or spit or pee on my hand before I give them the money and grab their hands and arms as they reach out to me and then force them to put their tainted hands and arms in their own mouths... see where I'm going with this?
2. walk by someone as long as I don't linger or sit 3 feet away from them for 3 hours...
3. sit on a couch 6 feet away from someone for a while, etc.
So I'm not sure what I'll/we'll wind up doing tomorrow. Saturday and Sunday should be interesting. We can spend time together as a family, but not completely. It’s a weird situation. Thanks for nothin’, thyroid cancer!
I could theoretically hug Jack loosely for a second on Sunday but can't give him a bear hug (with my neck close to his neck) for another few days. I'm having my scan on Wednesday (sorry if I already said this; I'm probably repeating myself), and after that, they'll see what lights up. I can't wait to find out because I have a theory that the "linear uptake" on the WBS I had in April was radioactive saliva coating my esophagus (I think I was so nervous and afraid to move and ruin the scan that I wasn't swallowing), and didn't truly represent thyca cells, which jibes with the lack of ultrasound findings of any tumor, mass, lesion, etc., when they tried to biopsy something. In other words, it won't surprise me if:
1. there's no uptake in my neck but maybe somewhere else; I'll sound paranoid and like a big fat hypochondriac when I commit this to paper, but on Monday I woke up in the middle of the night, and I swore I felt something happening in my right lung, the upper center of my chest and under my right ear. I had to take Advil for some weird pains.
2. there is uptake in my neck or neck region but it shows up somewhere other than the location of the previous uptake
3. there appears to be no uptake at all. It happens.
It's science, but it's not foolproof. This I've learned from spending hours and hours and hours reading about scans and Tg bloodwork and other thyca patients' experiences with these diagnostic tools.
Speaking of diagnostic tools, I AM ONE! And you can quote me on that. I've become the world's biggest thyroid cancer nerd.
Back to being sprung: It's a process of being sprung. After 14 days, I’m OK to do everything. That’s when life can return to normal.
I’ll write tomorrow to document how this family deals with the fact that I am partially poisonous.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Well, when you’re partially poisonous, it pays to think of the glass as being half full—of poison, that is.
I just don’t feel right when I leave the bedroom. When Pommy and Jack are gone at school and work or somewhere else, I feel OK about being “OUT,” but otherwise, I feel weird and wrong about being in the other parts of the house. So I spent most of the day in the bedroom again today.
They did go to Boomer’s and Living Spaces for a while, and when they were out I did some laundry and spent a few minutes in the kitchen putting their dishes in the dishwasher, but other than that, I feel a sense of calm when I return to the radioactive area.
Mentally and emotionally, I sort of hit a wall today. By the time they returned from Boomer’s and Living Spaces, I was just so sick of being in this room and being near them but not being able to touch them that I was feeling very frustrated and well, man, like I was going crazy. It got a little “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” in my mind tonight.
I went outside where they were playing basketball and I decided that if I took Taco for a walk and she stayed at the end of a 6-foot leash, that was safe, so I got Taco ready to go and then Jack said he wanted to come with us on his bike, so that was a nice little addition. We walked for a while; I tried to go a route that wouldn’t take us near any neighbors we know well enough to say more than “Hi” to. It was a nice walk except for the fact that Jack went through a puddle and fell off his bike and into the puddle and I couldn’t hug him.
I hated that.
When we got home, I returned to the bedroom and cried. But not for long, because the second I started crying, I realized that radioactive tears are just as much of a contaminant as radioactive saliva, mucous, pee and perspiration. Bodily fluids, one and all. So I dried my face and kept the tears confined to several pieces of toilet paper, which I flushed down the toilet. Then I washed my hands. Even crying needs to be carefully controlled when you’re radioactive.
I was also getting pretty nauseous by the time we returned from the short walk, and I felt wiped out in a way that I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. My body just feels so thoroughly weak. I felt out of breath and out of energy. I know I need to hang in there.
My prayer tonight is this: Dear Lord, give me the endurance and the strength to remain positive and upbeat until this is over and I can hug and kiss my family again and have Taco on my lap for hours on end and pet Brandy’s big, beautiful, honey-colored head. Give me the patience to know and accept the fact that it’s going to take time to regain my strength. That it just doesn’t happen overnight. Amen.
1. go through a drive-through as long as I don't spit or pee on the order taker/food hander-over-er or spit or pee on my hand before I give them the money and grab their hands and arms as they reach out to me and then force them to put their tainted hands and arms in their own mouths... see where I'm going with this?
2. walk by someone as long as I don't linger or sit 3 feet away from them for 3 hours...
3. sit on a couch 6 feet away from someone for a while, etc.
So I'm not sure what I'll/we'll wind up doing tomorrow. Saturday and Sunday should be interesting. We can spend time together as a family, but not completely. It’s a weird situation. Thanks for nothin’, thyroid cancer!
I could theoretically hug Jack loosely for a second on Sunday but can't give him a bear hug (with my neck close to his neck) for another few days. I'm having my scan on Wednesday (sorry if I already said this; I'm probably repeating myself), and after that, they'll see what lights up. I can't wait to find out because I have a theory that the "linear uptake" on the WBS I had in April was radioactive saliva coating my esophagus (I think I was so nervous and afraid to move and ruin the scan that I wasn't swallowing), and didn't truly represent thyca cells, which jibes with the lack of ultrasound findings of any tumor, mass, lesion, etc., when they tried to biopsy something. In other words, it won't surprise me if:
1. there's no uptake in my neck but maybe somewhere else; I'll sound paranoid and like a big fat hypochondriac when I commit this to paper, but on Monday I woke up in the middle of the night, and I swore I felt something happening in my right lung, the upper center of my chest and under my right ear. I had to take Advil for some weird pains.
2. there is uptake in my neck or neck region but it shows up somewhere other than the location of the previous uptake
3. there appears to be no uptake at all. It happens.
It's science, but it's not foolproof. This I've learned from spending hours and hours and hours reading about scans and Tg bloodwork and other thyca patients' experiences with these diagnostic tools.
Speaking of diagnostic tools, I AM ONE! And you can quote me on that. I've become the world's biggest thyroid cancer nerd.
Back to being sprung: It's a process of being sprung. After 14 days, I’m OK to do everything. That’s when life can return to normal.
I’ll write tomorrow to document how this family deals with the fact that I am partially poisonous.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Well, when you’re partially poisonous, it pays to think of the glass as being half full—of poison, that is.
I just don’t feel right when I leave the bedroom. When Pommy and Jack are gone at school and work or somewhere else, I feel OK about being “OUT,” but otherwise, I feel weird and wrong about being in the other parts of the house. So I spent most of the day in the bedroom again today.
They did go to Boomer’s and Living Spaces for a while, and when they were out I did some laundry and spent a few minutes in the kitchen putting their dishes in the dishwasher, but other than that, I feel a sense of calm when I return to the radioactive area.
Mentally and emotionally, I sort of hit a wall today. By the time they returned from Boomer’s and Living Spaces, I was just so sick of being in this room and being near them but not being able to touch them that I was feeling very frustrated and well, man, like I was going crazy. It got a little “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” in my mind tonight.
I went outside where they were playing basketball and I decided that if I took Taco for a walk and she stayed at the end of a 6-foot leash, that was safe, so I got Taco ready to go and then Jack said he wanted to come with us on his bike, so that was a nice little addition. We walked for a while; I tried to go a route that wouldn’t take us near any neighbors we know well enough to say more than “Hi” to. It was a nice walk except for the fact that Jack went through a puddle and fell off his bike and into the puddle and I couldn’t hug him.
I hated that.
When we got home, I returned to the bedroom and cried. But not for long, because the second I started crying, I realized that radioactive tears are just as much of a contaminant as radioactive saliva, mucous, pee and perspiration. Bodily fluids, one and all. So I dried my face and kept the tears confined to several pieces of toilet paper, which I flushed down the toilet. Then I washed my hands. Even crying needs to be carefully controlled when you’re radioactive.
I was also getting pretty nauseous by the time we returned from the short walk, and I felt wiped out in a way that I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. My body just feels so thoroughly weak. I felt out of breath and out of energy. I know I need to hang in there.
My prayer tonight is this: Dear Lord, give me the endurance and the strength to remain positive and upbeat until this is over and I can hug and kiss my family again and have Taco on my lap for hours on end and pet Brandy’s big, beautiful, honey-colored head. Give me the patience to know and accept the fact that it’s going to take time to regain my strength. That it just doesn’t happen overnight. Amen.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Buzzing From The Radioactive Iodine
It’s 12:46 am. I woke up at 12:15 am with this low electrical humming or buzzing sound in my ears, a headache, and the same type of buzzing feeling that was radiating (no pun intended) up the back of my neck slightly more on the right side and into the base of my skull, and the pain radiating down through the right side of my neck and up through the area directly behind my right ear. Also, something under my left collarbone hurts. I just took two Advil.
I wonder if the radioactive iodine is working on killing something. I’ve been watching too much “House” this week. Cameron, one of the characters, lost her first husband to thyroid cancer that had metastasized to his brain. So of course this is popping into my head now, along with the weird buzzing feeling and the pain.
Still, some of my first waking thoughts were, “I’m so glad I didn’t lose my sense of taste” and “Thank you, God, for letting me taste the double fudge brownie ice cream and the delicious and very flavorful Subway Italian sandwich I ate last night.”
I think I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again. It’s the little things.
I wonder if the radioactive iodine is working on killing something. I’ve been watching too much “House” this week. Cameron, one of the characters, lost her first husband to thyroid cancer that had metastasized to his brain. So of course this is popping into my head now, along with the weird buzzing feeling and the pain.
Still, some of my first waking thoughts were, “I’m so glad I didn’t lose my sense of taste” and “Thank you, God, for letting me taste the double fudge brownie ice cream and the delicious and very flavorful Subway Italian sandwich I ate last night.”
I think I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again. It’s the little things.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
An Odd Shopping List
A list of things I asked Pommy to bring home for me today:
• angel hair pasta
• Diet 7-Up
• bagels
• English muffins
• crowbar for getting out of prison
• carton of cigarettes to trade for shank while I'm in here
• weightlifting gloves and bigger wife beater T-shirts. I'm really bulking up.
• a cake with a file baked inside
I felt very nauseous and extremely tired yesterday and a little less nauseous this morning and a little less tired after a 2-hour nap this afternoon. On Monday and Tuesday I felt so fantastic, it was hard to imagine that I would go from feeling so good to so bad so quickly. But I guess being off my Synthroid for so long (25 days) finally caught up with me, and as for the nausea, I had to remind myself that I felt exactly the same way last time I had this treatment. I re-started my Synthroid this morning. So begins my journey back from hypothyroidism. (At first I typed hypoothyroidism. Some typos are awesome.)
There is good news, though. I still have my sense of taste! As of last night at about 8 pm, I’m off the low-iodine diet, and I could taste the 2 hard-boiled eggs and bagel with cream cheese I ate last night, and I’ve been able to taste everything I’ve eaten today, which has been:
• 3 scrambled eggs
• half a blueberry bagel with butter
• fruit punch juice box (yes, I’m 7 years old)
• cheddar cheese with Club crackers
• an It’s-It, the best ice cream confection in the universe
• half of a Subway “Italian” sandwich and four nacho cheese Doritos
• bowl of double fudge brownie ice cream
Now here’s a total nonsequitir and gross change of subject after listing foods I ate, but…
Brendan dissected a pig in honors bio on Monday, right around the time I was going into the Dosing Room at Hoag. Here’s our exchange about it via e-mail and text messages:
Me:
Brendan!
I'm so sorry I forgot to ask about your dissection on Monday. I was so caught up in my radioactive state that it slipped my mind. How was it? I crave details--where did you cut him open? What organs or tissues or muscles did you see? As you know, I'm fascinated by this stuff. Can't wait to hear the story.
:--)
Love,
Mom
Brendan:
I saw a lot!
Stomach, liver, spleen, lungs, heart, and even the thyroid!
We have a test on it tomorrow where he's gonna lay out a bunch of dissected pigs and ask us what each part of the pig is.
Should be exciting!
Me:
AWESOME. You probably didn't know this, but there's an alternative medication to the Synthroid I take to replace my thyroid. It's called Armour, and it's made of dessicated pigs' thyroid. I kid you not.
So cool you saw Thor's thyroid on Monday. What time of day was it? (can't remember which period you have bio)
Don't get in trouble for texting during class. Answer when you have more time and won't risk getting in trouble.
Love,
Mom
Thor And His Thyroid
A Poem by Lynn Pomije
Thor, O Thor
What a beautiful beast
Not quite a pile of bacon
And certainly not a feast
We worship your beauty
Your liver and spleen
Your stomach so bloated
Yet your legs so lean
Your lungs are so purdy
Your heart stout and brave
Your thyroid is dazzling
[I know, I'm depraved]
Thor, O Thor
With a snout pink and cute
How did you get here?
Or is the point now quite moot?
Whether suffocation or gunshot
Or a mouthful of apple
We thank you for the lesson
Now hand me the scalpel!
Brendan:
That was so funny. I'm actually in honors bio right now.
You must be really bored if u have the time to type up that whole poem
Me: Yeah, it's pretty boring being in isolation. I'm watching “House” right now--one I've probably seen 3 times already, but you gotta do what you gotta do, right? Enjoy bio!!!!! I'm off the low-iodine diet. YES! But I'm nauseous. BOO!
Brendan:
Booooo!! I'm going out to dinner. Hope your feeling better (please excuse the mis-spelling of you're)
Me: I love you, Brendan.
• angel hair pasta
• Diet 7-Up
• bagels
• English muffins
• crowbar for getting out of prison
• carton of cigarettes to trade for shank while I'm in here
• weightlifting gloves and bigger wife beater T-shirts. I'm really bulking up.
• a cake with a file baked inside
I felt very nauseous and extremely tired yesterday and a little less nauseous this morning and a little less tired after a 2-hour nap this afternoon. On Monday and Tuesday I felt so fantastic, it was hard to imagine that I would go from feeling so good to so bad so quickly. But I guess being off my Synthroid for so long (25 days) finally caught up with me, and as for the nausea, I had to remind myself that I felt exactly the same way last time I had this treatment. I re-started my Synthroid this morning. So begins my journey back from hypothyroidism. (At first I typed hypoothyroidism. Some typos are awesome.)
There is good news, though. I still have my sense of taste! As of last night at about 8 pm, I’m off the low-iodine diet, and I could taste the 2 hard-boiled eggs and bagel with cream cheese I ate last night, and I’ve been able to taste everything I’ve eaten today, which has been:
• 3 scrambled eggs
• half a blueberry bagel with butter
• fruit punch juice box (yes, I’m 7 years old)
• cheddar cheese with Club crackers
• an It’s-It, the best ice cream confection in the universe
• half of a Subway “Italian” sandwich and four nacho cheese Doritos
• bowl of double fudge brownie ice cream
Now here’s a total nonsequitir and gross change of subject after listing foods I ate, but…
Brendan dissected a pig in honors bio on Monday, right around the time I was going into the Dosing Room at Hoag. Here’s our exchange about it via e-mail and text messages:
Me:
Brendan!
I'm so sorry I forgot to ask about your dissection on Monday. I was so caught up in my radioactive state that it slipped my mind. How was it? I crave details--where did you cut him open? What organs or tissues or muscles did you see? As you know, I'm fascinated by this stuff. Can't wait to hear the story.
:--)
Love,
Mom
Brendan:
I saw a lot!
Stomach, liver, spleen, lungs, heart, and even the thyroid!
We have a test on it tomorrow where he's gonna lay out a bunch of dissected pigs and ask us what each part of the pig is.
Should be exciting!
Me:
AWESOME. You probably didn't know this, but there's an alternative medication to the Synthroid I take to replace my thyroid. It's called Armour, and it's made of dessicated pigs' thyroid. I kid you not.
So cool you saw Thor's thyroid on Monday. What time of day was it? (can't remember which period you have bio)
Don't get in trouble for texting during class. Answer when you have more time and won't risk getting in trouble.
Love,
Mom
Thor And His Thyroid
A Poem by Lynn Pomije
Thor, O Thor
What a beautiful beast
Not quite a pile of bacon
And certainly not a feast
We worship your beauty
Your liver and spleen
Your stomach so bloated
Yet your legs so lean
Your lungs are so purdy
Your heart stout and brave
Your thyroid is dazzling
[I know, I'm depraved]
Thor, O Thor
With a snout pink and cute
How did you get here?
Or is the point now quite moot?
Whether suffocation or gunshot
Or a mouthful of apple
We thank you for the lesson
Now hand me the scalpel!
Brendan:
That was so funny. I'm actually in honors bio right now.
You must be really bored if u have the time to type up that whole poem
Me: Yeah, it's pretty boring being in isolation. I'm watching “House” right now--one I've probably seen 3 times already, but you gotta do what you gotta do, right? Enjoy bio!!!!! I'm off the low-iodine diet. YES! But I'm nauseous. BOO!
Brendan:
Booooo!! I'm going out to dinner. Hope your feeling better (please excuse the mis-spelling of you're)
Me: I love you, Brendan.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Aunt Judy's Support
From: Judy
Subject: You are...
To: "Pomije Lynn"
Date: Wednesday, June 10, 2009, 3:47 PM
I tried emailing you at the beginning of the week but my address book wouldn't open.
So, how are you doing? Is it similar to the last procedure? Easier or harder to live with?
How is the rest of the family coping? Are you keeping busy?...can you use the computer?
When will your life be back to what it was?
I've been thinking about you and hope you are getting by, looking forward to a better life with less worry about your health and future.
xxoo
baj
From: Lynn Pomije
Sent: Jun 10, 2009 4:51 PM
To: Judy
Subject: Re: You are...
Hi, Judy.
First of all, what is baj? I'm used to paj and am not sure who baj is...perhaps beautiful aunt judy? brilliant aunt judy? boxing aficionado judy?
The treatment is much like the last one, with the notable exception that I got to come straight home after taking the dose instead of being admitted to prison...eh, the hospital... afterwards. It's SOOOOO much better to be home and in isolation than it was in the hospital. Since I'd never done it before, last time I was glad to be in the hospital at my most radioactive (even though by the time they discharged me I was going nuts, pacing the hospital room and probably muttering to myself), but now that I know how much more comfortable I am at home, if I ever have to do this again (God willing, I won't), I would want to do it outpatient.
Yes, I can use the computer. Pommy has set me up with a laptop borrowed from work that we can keep here for as long as we want.
Rest of the family seems to be doing fine. Brendan is with his dad all week and weekend and I won't even see him til I'm back to being nonradioactive, so it has no effect on him. Jack and Pommy seem to be doing fine. Friends and my mom and dad have made sure they're set for meals and my mom is picking Jack up 3/5 days this week and keeping him til dinnertime when Pommy picks him up, and a good friend of mine from Jack's school is picking him up the other 2 days and keeping him til dinnertime when Pommy picks him up.
As Pommy said today, this week is more "weird" than "hard." I have to agree. You know how sometimes life feels surreal, and it's uncomfortable because it's surreal, and you crave normalcy? That's how it is.
I felt fantastic all the way up to and including Monday. Plenty of energy and spirits high. Tuesday a little more tired (24 days off Synthroid catching up with me) and today really tired and a little nauseous in the morning, but a little less nauseous this afternoon after a 2.5-hour nap. Wow, I'm sure boring you with a lot of details. Hope you don't mind.
I'm safe to be back among the public next Monday, still taking precautions with my saliva (sounds weird, but that's what I have to do)--in other words, no sharing drinks or mouth kissing (eek! cooties!) and taking precautions with other bodily fluids (not peeing on anybody would be included in this, I suppose). After 14 days everything returns to normal. Yea! I get to go back to peeing on people like Taco does when she's excited to see them!
I realize I'm gross.
How are you doing, Judy? I know you are going on some gamble-a-thon with my mom and her pals next week. But how are you doing? I've also been meaning to ask you how Dale's nephew is doing with his diagnosis and what's been going on with that. Let me know.
Thanks for the e-mail, Judy.
Love you,
rnl
(radioactive niece lynn)
Re: You are...
Thursday, June 11, 2009 5:49 PM
From: "Judy"
To: "Lynn Pomije"
First of all, baj = best aunt judy.
So glad you weren't in the hospital -- bad things can happen there -- just ask Dale!
Weird is O.K., we've been there, done that. And it is only temporary. Hopefully the side affects will disapate and you will get more normal.
Mike's pathology report says no cancer in the lymph nodes and even though he is in pain, he's recovering with hope that removing the prostate will be enough.
I am trying hard and keeping reasonably busy but am frustrated that I do not feel any better. I have a hard time accepting the finality of losing Dale.
I am going gambling with your mom and we will have a good time -- she tries hard to make me feel better. Problem is, no one can bring Dale (my life) back.
I enjoy hearing the details of your situation and life.
Thanks for your response and feel free to feed me all aspects of your life!
Love you,
paj and baj
Subject: You are...
To: "Pomije Lynn"
Date: Wednesday, June 10, 2009, 3:47 PM
I tried emailing you at the beginning of the week but my address book wouldn't open.
So, how are you doing? Is it similar to the last procedure? Easier or harder to live with?
How is the rest of the family coping? Are you keeping busy?...can you use the computer?
When will your life be back to what it was?
I've been thinking about you and hope you are getting by, looking forward to a better life with less worry about your health and future.
xxoo
baj
From: Lynn Pomije
Sent: Jun 10, 2009 4:51 PM
To: Judy
Subject: Re: You are...
Hi, Judy.
First of all, what is baj? I'm used to paj and am not sure who baj is...perhaps beautiful aunt judy? brilliant aunt judy? boxing aficionado judy?
The treatment is much like the last one, with the notable exception that I got to come straight home after taking the dose instead of being admitted to prison...eh, the hospital... afterwards. It's SOOOOO much better to be home and in isolation than it was in the hospital. Since I'd never done it before, last time I was glad to be in the hospital at my most radioactive (even though by the time they discharged me I was going nuts, pacing the hospital room and probably muttering to myself), but now that I know how much more comfortable I am at home, if I ever have to do this again (God willing, I won't), I would want to do it outpatient.
Yes, I can use the computer. Pommy has set me up with a laptop borrowed from work that we can keep here for as long as we want.
Rest of the family seems to be doing fine. Brendan is with his dad all week and weekend and I won't even see him til I'm back to being nonradioactive, so it has no effect on him. Jack and Pommy seem to be doing fine. Friends and my mom and dad have made sure they're set for meals and my mom is picking Jack up 3/5 days this week and keeping him til dinnertime when Pommy picks him up, and a good friend of mine from Jack's school is picking him up the other 2 days and keeping him til dinnertime when Pommy picks him up.
As Pommy said today, this week is more "weird" than "hard." I have to agree. You know how sometimes life feels surreal, and it's uncomfortable because it's surreal, and you crave normalcy? That's how it is.
I felt fantastic all the way up to and including Monday. Plenty of energy and spirits high. Tuesday a little more tired (24 days off Synthroid catching up with me) and today really tired and a little nauseous in the morning, but a little less nauseous this afternoon after a 2.5-hour nap. Wow, I'm sure boring you with a lot of details. Hope you don't mind.
I'm safe to be back among the public next Monday, still taking precautions with my saliva (sounds weird, but that's what I have to do)--in other words, no sharing drinks or mouth kissing (eek! cooties!) and taking precautions with other bodily fluids (not peeing on anybody would be included in this, I suppose). After 14 days everything returns to normal. Yea! I get to go back to peeing on people like Taco does when she's excited to see them!
I realize I'm gross.
How are you doing, Judy? I know you are going on some gamble-a-thon with my mom and her pals next week. But how are you doing? I've also been meaning to ask you how Dale's nephew is doing with his diagnosis and what's been going on with that. Let me know.
Thanks for the e-mail, Judy.
Love you,
rnl
(radioactive niece lynn)
Re: You are...
Thursday, June 11, 2009 5:49 PM
From: "Judy"
To: "Lynn Pomije"
First of all, baj = best aunt judy.
So glad you weren't in the hospital -- bad things can happen there -- just ask Dale!
Weird is O.K., we've been there, done that. And it is only temporary. Hopefully the side affects will disapate and you will get more normal.
Mike's pathology report says no cancer in the lymph nodes and even though he is in pain, he's recovering with hope that removing the prostate will be enough.
I am trying hard and keeping reasonably busy but am frustrated that I do not feel any better. I have a hard time accepting the finality of losing Dale.
I am going gambling with your mom and we will have a good time -- she tries hard to make me feel better. Problem is, no one can bring Dale (my life) back.
I enjoy hearing the details of your situation and life.
Thanks for your response and feel free to feed me all aspects of your life!
Love you,
paj and baj
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
What I Want My Children To Learn From Me
My mother-in-law said in an e-mail to me this morning, “You’re one courageous lady!” That’s sweet, and I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m no hero. It’s easy to keep your sense of humor when you feel perfectly fine, as I do.
I think every day about people with other cancers who have had to go through radiation and chemotherapy and how sick those treatments can make you (do make you—I don’t think it’s a matter of “if”; I think it’s a matter of how sick they make you), and I think every day about the parents whose children are fighting battles with leukemia and other awful diseases (and sometimes losing those battles), and I thank God every day for giving me this cancer, for giving it to me instead of my children, for entrusting me with this challenge. I believe that when God gave me this challenge, He was telling me that He believes in me. He has armed me with the gift of faith (which is available to me whether I choose to accept and embrace it or not), surrounded me with loving, supportive family and equally loving and supportive friends, but most importantly, He has shown me that the nearer I draw to Him, the nearer He draws to me. It’s a win-win in so many ways.
On the thyroid cancer support group listserv on which I frequently read and post, there has been much discussion (and a good bit of outrage) about the unfortunate phrase “the good cancer,” which is so often applied to thyroid cancer by (usually) well-meaning surgeons, endocrinologists and ENTs when delivering the diagnosis to their patients. (As you may recall, my ENT, before there even was a diagnosis in my case, said that if God called him up [he held up a fake phone] and told him He was going to give his mother cancer, and God gave the ENT the chance to choose which one God gave her, he would pick thyroid cancer. I’ve gone back and forth between feeling reassured by this to being mad he said it back around to being reassured by it. I have ended on being reassured, because after my year and a half with this disease, I would pick thyroid cancer over any other cancer if God forced me to choose which one He would give my mother. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh to some, but luckily, our merciful God would never put us in that position. He makes the choices for us on those matters. Why? Because we are ill-equipped to make those choices ourselves.)
There is no such thing as a good cancer.
But I have decided that there may be such a thing as a good cancer treatment. I can’t ignore the fact that the treatment for the type of thyroid cancer I have, with its radioactive magic bullet that knows just where to go once you’ve swallowed the capsule—knows exactly which cells to seek out and destroy once it’s ingested and, in fact, isn’t interested in any other cells—is pretty easy compared to what I’ve heard about people’s miserable experiences with radiation, chemotherapy and other treatments for other diseases that I’m not even addressing here out of my own ignorance, lack of understanding, and lack of life experience.
So I thank God for giving me thyroid cancer, and I praise His name because He is good, He is Holy, He is worthy, He is Wonderful Counselor, King of Kings, Prince of Peace, and He loves me. Little old me!
Thinking of adversity as a gift is not an original thought on my part. I was tangibly introduced to the idea in the book of Philippians, which I read and studied in a women’s bible study at Calvary Chapel, Costa Mesa, in 2003 and 2004, shortly after renewing my faith in God and becoming a practicing Christian. Philippians is also known as the epistle of joy. Jesus’ disciple Peter wrote the praise-filled, grateful letter to the residents of Philippi while he was in prison. When I read Philippians for the first time (it’s short), I was impressed by Paul because he had this awesome knack for seeing (and choosing to focus on) the opportunity his setbacks provided for sharing the gospel. The source of his joy was in being able to serve God during trials, and because of these trials. What a fresh approach to hardship!
This appealed to me because my default personality, or my nature when I’m at my worst, has been to focus on the negative and whine and complain through adversity, or, when I’m at my very best, to endure hardship with some stoicism. In Philippians, Paul does something so revolutionary, so courageous, and so opposite of what I’ve always thought is human nature (or at least my supremely flawed human nature), that I was fascinated and wanted to learn more. It seemed downright weird that Paul would be in prison praising God, who, if He allows all things, presumably was ultimately responsible for landing him there to begin with.
I know I quoted Philippians 1:29 before, but I think it bears repeating. I have lived most of my life being angry or hurt about the things I have suffered, but from this day forward, I want to look at challenges the way Paul did. Also, and profoundly more important to me, I want my kids to see the trials God gives them as opportunities and assurances that God knows they can handle them.
“For to you it has been granted on behalf of Christ, not only to believe in Him, but also to suffer for his sake, having the same conflict which you saw in me and now hear is in me.”
Philippians 1:29-30, New King James version
“But what things were gain to me, these I have counted loss for Christ. Yet indeed I also count all things loss for the excellence of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them as rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness, which is from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ, the righteousness which is from God by faith; that I may know Him, and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of his sufferings, being conformed to His death, if, by any means, I may attain to the resurrection from the dead.”
--Philippians 3:7-11, New King James version
idea of trials being an opportunity to get closer to god, show his love to others, grow yur testimony share the word—
My Dream
If I had a bucket list, writing a book would be on it. It was my dream when I dared to dream, which was not often. I never thought it would become a reality. I’ve always wanted to write a book, BUT…
1. I have never known what to write about.
2. I’m better at writing things in the first person rather than unbiased, objective third person, and with a few notable exceptions (Catcher in the Rye being one), first-person literature doesn’t bowl them over.
3. I’ve always been stuck inside my own head with my own thoughts, loving to release them on paper but not feeling like I had anything of value to say that anyone would get any benefit from.
never been much of an evangelist, and He wants us to share his word.
Quote a verse saying “Go out and share mt word with the nations”
Even me, God? Yes, even you. Even though I’m uncomfortable doing it? Yes, because you’re uncomfortable doing it.
Sunday inchurch reading about Bible verse Gifts use them use what God gave you we all have something that is uniquelyt our own and we need to use it
So when this whole thyroid cancer thing hit me, it occurred to me that maybe God wanted me to write about Him and my cancer. If this is the case, and I’ve gotten it right, my thyroid cancer is His ultimate gift to me—a subject matter for me to explore and embrace in a format and voice I can write in, a realization of a lifelong dream, and an attempt at spreading His Word. Win-win-win-win.
I have learned a lot.
What I want you to know: Know that God is good. Know that God loves you and doesn’t want you to suffer anymore. Know that He can release you from your shackles, personality defects, old hurts, anger, bitterness, past, weaknesses, demons, dependence on the world for gratification, worship of money, power, or so-called prestige.
Know that he loves endlessly, listens faithfully and lives eternally.
Amen.
I think every day about people with other cancers who have had to go through radiation and chemotherapy and how sick those treatments can make you (do make you—I don’t think it’s a matter of “if”; I think it’s a matter of how sick they make you), and I think every day about the parents whose children are fighting battles with leukemia and other awful diseases (and sometimes losing those battles), and I thank God every day for giving me this cancer, for giving it to me instead of my children, for entrusting me with this challenge. I believe that when God gave me this challenge, He was telling me that He believes in me. He has armed me with the gift of faith (which is available to me whether I choose to accept and embrace it or not), surrounded me with loving, supportive family and equally loving and supportive friends, but most importantly, He has shown me that the nearer I draw to Him, the nearer He draws to me. It’s a win-win in so many ways.
On the thyroid cancer support group listserv on which I frequently read and post, there has been much discussion (and a good bit of outrage) about the unfortunate phrase “the good cancer,” which is so often applied to thyroid cancer by (usually) well-meaning surgeons, endocrinologists and ENTs when delivering the diagnosis to their patients. (As you may recall, my ENT, before there even was a diagnosis in my case, said that if God called him up [he held up a fake phone] and told him He was going to give his mother cancer, and God gave the ENT the chance to choose which one God gave her, he would pick thyroid cancer. I’ve gone back and forth between feeling reassured by this to being mad he said it back around to being reassured by it. I have ended on being reassured, because after my year and a half with this disease, I would pick thyroid cancer over any other cancer if God forced me to choose which one He would give my mother. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh to some, but luckily, our merciful God would never put us in that position. He makes the choices for us on those matters. Why? Because we are ill-equipped to make those choices ourselves.)
There is no such thing as a good cancer.
But I have decided that there may be such a thing as a good cancer treatment. I can’t ignore the fact that the treatment for the type of thyroid cancer I have, with its radioactive magic bullet that knows just where to go once you’ve swallowed the capsule—knows exactly which cells to seek out and destroy once it’s ingested and, in fact, isn’t interested in any other cells—is pretty easy compared to what I’ve heard about people’s miserable experiences with radiation, chemotherapy and other treatments for other diseases that I’m not even addressing here out of my own ignorance, lack of understanding, and lack of life experience.
So I thank God for giving me thyroid cancer, and I praise His name because He is good, He is Holy, He is worthy, He is Wonderful Counselor, King of Kings, Prince of Peace, and He loves me. Little old me!
Thinking of adversity as a gift is not an original thought on my part. I was tangibly introduced to the idea in the book of Philippians, which I read and studied in a women’s bible study at Calvary Chapel, Costa Mesa, in 2003 and 2004, shortly after renewing my faith in God and becoming a practicing Christian. Philippians is also known as the epistle of joy. Jesus’ disciple Peter wrote the praise-filled, grateful letter to the residents of Philippi while he was in prison. When I read Philippians for the first time (it’s short), I was impressed by Paul because he had this awesome knack for seeing (and choosing to focus on) the opportunity his setbacks provided for sharing the gospel. The source of his joy was in being able to serve God during trials, and because of these trials. What a fresh approach to hardship!
This appealed to me because my default personality, or my nature when I’m at my worst, has been to focus on the negative and whine and complain through adversity, or, when I’m at my very best, to endure hardship with some stoicism. In Philippians, Paul does something so revolutionary, so courageous, and so opposite of what I’ve always thought is human nature (or at least my supremely flawed human nature), that I was fascinated and wanted to learn more. It seemed downright weird that Paul would be in prison praising God, who, if He allows all things, presumably was ultimately responsible for landing him there to begin with.
I know I quoted Philippians 1:29 before, but I think it bears repeating. I have lived most of my life being angry or hurt about the things I have suffered, but from this day forward, I want to look at challenges the way Paul did. Also, and profoundly more important to me, I want my kids to see the trials God gives them as opportunities and assurances that God knows they can handle them.
“For to you it has been granted on behalf of Christ, not only to believe in Him, but also to suffer for his sake, having the same conflict which you saw in me and now hear is in me.”
Philippians 1:29-30, New King James version
“But what things were gain to me, these I have counted loss for Christ. Yet indeed I also count all things loss for the excellence of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them as rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness, which is from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ, the righteousness which is from God by faith; that I may know Him, and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of his sufferings, being conformed to His death, if, by any means, I may attain to the resurrection from the dead.”
--Philippians 3:7-11, New King James version
idea of trials being an opportunity to get closer to god, show his love to others, grow yur testimony share the word—
My Dream
If I had a bucket list, writing a book would be on it. It was my dream when I dared to dream, which was not often. I never thought it would become a reality. I’ve always wanted to write a book, BUT…
1. I have never known what to write about.
2. I’m better at writing things in the first person rather than unbiased, objective third person, and with a few notable exceptions (Catcher in the Rye being one), first-person literature doesn’t bowl them over.
3. I’ve always been stuck inside my own head with my own thoughts, loving to release them on paper but not feeling like I had anything of value to say that anyone would get any benefit from.
never been much of an evangelist, and He wants us to share his word.
Quote a verse saying “Go out and share mt word with the nations”
Even me, God? Yes, even you. Even though I’m uncomfortable doing it? Yes, because you’re uncomfortable doing it.
Sunday inchurch reading about Bible verse Gifts use them use what God gave you we all have something that is uniquelyt our own and we need to use it
So when this whole thyroid cancer thing hit me, it occurred to me that maybe God wanted me to write about Him and my cancer. If this is the case, and I’ve gotten it right, my thyroid cancer is His ultimate gift to me—a subject matter for me to explore and embrace in a format and voice I can write in, a realization of a lifelong dream, and an attempt at spreading His Word. Win-win-win-win.
I have learned a lot.
What I want you to know: Know that God is good. Know that God loves you and doesn’t want you to suffer anymore. Know that He can release you from your shackles, personality defects, old hurts, anger, bitterness, past, weaknesses, demons, dependence on the world for gratification, worship of money, power, or so-called prestige.
Know that he loves endlessly, listens faithfully and lives eternally.
Amen.
Monday, June 8, 2009
I'm Radioactive Today
Just had my first post-dose meal--some leftover low-iodine-prepared steak and a baked potato* with Fleischmann's salt-free "margarine." Yum, believe it or not! I'm hoping not to lose my sense of taste this time like I did last time. I think it set in about two days after the dose last time, so stay tuned.
*When I first typed potato, I typed "pootato," which made me smile before I edited it. Perhaps I should not have changed it. It might have brought a smile to your face, as well. I am very bad at typing on this laptop because I rarely use it. I bet by the end of the week, I'll be ready for the secretarial pool, though.
I will try as best I can to describe the RAI dose-taking adventure. I have all the time in the world right now, and the rest of society is not in the same boat. All this blathering I'm about to do is to satisfy my own narcissistic desire to remember the details of this odd and fascinating experience and to read about it later...after old age and senility completely set in.
First of all, I love that I was on my bluetooth talking to my friend Diane on my cell phone right before entering Hoag's electrical doors, because I got to be so "current" and so "now" and appear (as if anyone had the time or the inclination to notice little old me outside Hoag) so "mover-and-shaker" or at least "busy" or at the very least "on the phone." After we hung up, I went in, registered, and went to the nuclear medicine department. Those in the know informally call it Nuc Med (pronounced like Nuke Med, of course), and for some reason, I really like it when people use that verbal abbreviation in a medical setting.
So I got to Nuc Med, checked in there, waited a little while til they called me (sat in the waiting room with my head resting against the wall and my eyes closed, concentrating on breathing in and out and praying that everything would go smoothly...and just drinking in the experience and trying to rid myself of any nervous energy, which worked). A gal came in, called out "Laura" and something that sounded like "Bomshay," and when nobody responded, she turned around to leave, and right when the door was about to shut after her, I squeaked out, "The last name you said sounded a little bit like mine, but my first name is Lynn. Are you looking for Lynn Pomije?" and she got all embarrassed and apologized a few times, saying she'd forgotten the name as she came down the hall to get me. She took me back to one of their "Dosing Rooms," which is the first cool thing about Nuc Med.
The room has a bright yellow biohazard sign on the outside of the door (first cool thing about dosing rooms), and you can't just waltz in there. There's a keypad outside the door where they have to enter some secret, nuclear code to enter (second cool thing about dosing rooms). The keypad-entry system is cool from the inside because when they leave you alone (and they invariably leave you alone in the dosing room for one reason or another), they have to punch in the code to get back in, and you can hear this from the inside, so when you’re doing something like picking your nose, or taking a picture with your cell phone of the RAI dose in its tungsten cylinder, the delay gives you just enough time to stop picking your nose or slap shut your cell phone and look nonchalant when they reenter (third cool thing about dosing rooms). [T-shirt idea: I (HEART) DOSING ROOMS]. FYI, I did not pick my nose (this time, wink wink), but I did take a photo of the tungsten cylinder and its cute little burgundy harness/purse/carrying thingy.
The gal entered a code, took me into the room, gave me a few forms to fill out* (see Nuc Med footnote below) and left to go find the Nuclear Physicist (the second cool thing about Nuc Med), who for reasons of protocol needed to give me a consultation before “dosing me.” There’s a lot of protocol involved in nuclear medicine, and I’ve learned to appreciate and respect it and not get impatient. The Nuclear Physicist arrived, punched in the code and entered, and although the gal had called him “KJ” when she went to locate him, he looked more like a nuclear physicist and less like a basketball buddy than his name seemed to imply. He was an intelligent, thoughtful light-skinned Middle Eastern man with professorial glasses. He gave me the run-down on precautions (sleep in a separate bed for at least 5 days, yada yada yada) and then he left to go find the Nuclear Medicine Physician, Dr. Taketa, who would administer the dose.
Dr. Taketa came in, gave me a few last-minute precautionary suggestions, and then, when another young man, a nuclear medicine technician, had entered the secret code and joined us, the tech unscrewed the tungsten cylinder, opened the pill bottle inside, and handed it to me with a cup of water, and boom—I tossed it into the back of my throat and took a couple drinks of water—and it was gone.
The third cool thing about Nuc Med is when they bring in the meter stick (I thought it was charming that they called it a meter stick—I woulda called it a yardstick) and the Geiger counter and measure the millirems per hour of radioactivity that are emitting from your throat/neck area after you swallow the dose. My measurement was 33 mrem/hr at 1 meter, which they said was exactly what they expected it to be. Then they booted me and told me not to linger too long in the lobby.
I drove home, tried to take a nap, felt convinced I felt the RAI absorbing into my left maxillary sinus, which has been MRI-proven to have mucoperiosteal thickening, and where I suffer all my sinus infections, but other than that, I feel delightfully, painfully, absurdly the same.
I watched a TiVO’ed episode of “House” and dozed off, but just for a few minutes, tried to watch “Oprah” but got bored, and now I’m writing this, which is far more exciting than any activity I can think of doing.
Oh wait—excitement beckons: A couple hooligans just came to the front door, heard me trip over the doggie gate inside the house and yell at Taco to stop barking, and then, when I didn’t answer the door, went right by my open master bedroom window commenting loudly about how rude people are not to answer their doors. I thought briefly about telling them I was radioactive, but I didn’t want to get into a tangle with them, so I let it slide, Clyde.
Then an old Santa-looking man (except with a very mean face and all the other normal Santa stuff—white beard, fat) drove V-E-R-Y S-L-O-W-L-Y by our house in a long red truck (sleigh?) with a shell, parked in front of our house, walked over to our driveway and up it a few steps, appeared to be looking at our gate, behind which Taco was insanely barking, and then took his keys out of his pocket, turned around and walked S-L-O-W-L-Y back to his truck/sleigh and drove away. Weird and creepy. He was creeping me out so much that I thought about asking “Can I help you?” through the open window, but I knew it would come out of my mouth confrontational-sounding because I was so annoyed at his suspicious behavior, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. No tangles today. Not while I’m at the peak of my radioactivity. Maybe tomorrow.
+++
*NUC MED FOOTNOTE: Here are a few choice phrases from some of the paperwork they made me sign before getting my dose. On the hilariously titled Consent to Use Radioisotopes: “The uncertainties and nature of this treatment and the risks of injury despite precautions have been explained to me. I voluntarily accept the risks involved and agree that the above named physician, his assistants, Hoag Hospital, and its personnel shall assume no responsibility for the results of this treatment or its interpretation.” How awesome is that?
*When I first typed potato, I typed "pootato," which made me smile before I edited it. Perhaps I should not have changed it. It might have brought a smile to your face, as well. I am very bad at typing on this laptop because I rarely use it. I bet by the end of the week, I'll be ready for the secretarial pool, though.
I will try as best I can to describe the RAI dose-taking adventure. I have all the time in the world right now, and the rest of society is not in the same boat. All this blathering I'm about to do is to satisfy my own narcissistic desire to remember the details of this odd and fascinating experience and to read about it later...after old age and senility completely set in.
First of all, I love that I was on my bluetooth talking to my friend Diane on my cell phone right before entering Hoag's electrical doors, because I got to be so "current" and so "now" and appear (as if anyone had the time or the inclination to notice little old me outside Hoag) so "mover-and-shaker" or at least "busy" or at the very least "on the phone." After we hung up, I went in, registered, and went to the nuclear medicine department. Those in the know informally call it Nuc Med (pronounced like Nuke Med, of course), and for some reason, I really like it when people use that verbal abbreviation in a medical setting.
So I got to Nuc Med, checked in there, waited a little while til they called me (sat in the waiting room with my head resting against the wall and my eyes closed, concentrating on breathing in and out and praying that everything would go smoothly...and just drinking in the experience and trying to rid myself of any nervous energy, which worked). A gal came in, called out "Laura" and something that sounded like "Bomshay," and when nobody responded, she turned around to leave, and right when the door was about to shut after her, I squeaked out, "The last name you said sounded a little bit like mine, but my first name is Lynn. Are you looking for Lynn Pomije?" and she got all embarrassed and apologized a few times, saying she'd forgotten the name as she came down the hall to get me. She took me back to one of their "Dosing Rooms," which is the first cool thing about Nuc Med.
The room has a bright yellow biohazard sign on the outside of the door (first cool thing about dosing rooms), and you can't just waltz in there. There's a keypad outside the door where they have to enter some secret, nuclear code to enter (second cool thing about dosing rooms). The keypad-entry system is cool from the inside because when they leave you alone (and they invariably leave you alone in the dosing room for one reason or another), they have to punch in the code to get back in, and you can hear this from the inside, so when you’re doing something like picking your nose, or taking a picture with your cell phone of the RAI dose in its tungsten cylinder, the delay gives you just enough time to stop picking your nose or slap shut your cell phone and look nonchalant when they reenter (third cool thing about dosing rooms). [T-shirt idea: I (HEART) DOSING ROOMS]. FYI, I did not pick my nose (this time, wink wink), but I did take a photo of the tungsten cylinder and its cute little burgundy harness/purse/carrying thingy.
The gal entered a code, took me into the room, gave me a few forms to fill out* (see Nuc Med footnote below) and left to go find the Nuclear Physicist (the second cool thing about Nuc Med), who for reasons of protocol needed to give me a consultation before “dosing me.” There’s a lot of protocol involved in nuclear medicine, and I’ve learned to appreciate and respect it and not get impatient. The Nuclear Physicist arrived, punched in the code and entered, and although the gal had called him “KJ” when she went to locate him, he looked more like a nuclear physicist and less like a basketball buddy than his name seemed to imply. He was an intelligent, thoughtful light-skinned Middle Eastern man with professorial glasses. He gave me the run-down on precautions (sleep in a separate bed for at least 5 days, yada yada yada) and then he left to go find the Nuclear Medicine Physician, Dr. Taketa, who would administer the dose.
Dr. Taketa came in, gave me a few last-minute precautionary suggestions, and then, when another young man, a nuclear medicine technician, had entered the secret code and joined us, the tech unscrewed the tungsten cylinder, opened the pill bottle inside, and handed it to me with a cup of water, and boom—I tossed it into the back of my throat and took a couple drinks of water—and it was gone.
The third cool thing about Nuc Med is when they bring in the meter stick (I thought it was charming that they called it a meter stick—I woulda called it a yardstick) and the Geiger counter and measure the millirems per hour of radioactivity that are emitting from your throat/neck area after you swallow the dose. My measurement was 33 mrem/hr at 1 meter, which they said was exactly what they expected it to be. Then they booted me and told me not to linger too long in the lobby.
I drove home, tried to take a nap, felt convinced I felt the RAI absorbing into my left maxillary sinus, which has been MRI-proven to have mucoperiosteal thickening, and where I suffer all my sinus infections, but other than that, I feel delightfully, painfully, absurdly the same.
I watched a TiVO’ed episode of “House” and dozed off, but just for a few minutes, tried to watch “Oprah” but got bored, and now I’m writing this, which is far more exciting than any activity I can think of doing.
Oh wait—excitement beckons: A couple hooligans just came to the front door, heard me trip over the doggie gate inside the house and yell at Taco to stop barking, and then, when I didn’t answer the door, went right by my open master bedroom window commenting loudly about how rude people are not to answer their doors. I thought briefly about telling them I was radioactive, but I didn’t want to get into a tangle with them, so I let it slide, Clyde.
Then an old Santa-looking man (except with a very mean face and all the other normal Santa stuff—white beard, fat) drove V-E-R-Y S-L-O-W-L-Y by our house in a long red truck (sleigh?) with a shell, parked in front of our house, walked over to our driveway and up it a few steps, appeared to be looking at our gate, behind which Taco was insanely barking, and then took his keys out of his pocket, turned around and walked S-L-O-W-L-Y back to his truck/sleigh and drove away. Weird and creepy. He was creeping me out so much that I thought about asking “Can I help you?” through the open window, but I knew it would come out of my mouth confrontational-sounding because I was so annoyed at his suspicious behavior, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. No tangles today. Not while I’m at the peak of my radioactivity. Maybe tomorrow.
+++
*NUC MED FOOTNOTE: Here are a few choice phrases from some of the paperwork they made me sign before getting my dose. On the hilariously titled Consent to Use Radioisotopes: “The uncertainties and nature of this treatment and the risks of injury despite precautions have been explained to me. I voluntarily accept the risks involved and agree that the above named physician, his assistants, Hoag Hospital, and its personnel shall assume no responsibility for the results of this treatment or its interpretation.” How awesome is that?
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Praising the Lord in a Port-A-Potty
I praised the Lord in a porta-potty this morning. After watching an hour of Brendan’s hour and a half quarterback lesson in the increasing cold (and then itstarted to drizzle), I had to pee and found a porta-potty just in the nick of time. “Praise the Lord,” I said out loud several times while I was in there. (It’s the little things in life that I am most grateful for.) I wondered if God minds receiving praise from locales as unsavory as porta-potties. Probably not. And that’s one more thing that makes Him such a cool God.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Hypo Hell? Not This Time
I woke up in a really good mood today. I can’t believe the amount of energy I’ve had, despite going off my Synthroid almost three weeks ago. It’ll be three weeks on Sunday. Today is Day 19, and my TSH should be somewhere between 28 and 38. How do I know this? Well, I don’t, but I can make a fairly educated guess because I just made a graph of my TSH levels showing both of the times I’ve gone hypo before this. The graphs look almost identical. For example, on Day 25 the first time, my TSH was 59.78. On Day 25 the second time, my TSH was 60.27. [Note added later: My TSH was 40 that day. My graph was pretty close.]
Anyway, the subject was supposed to be my good mood and how fantastic I have felt during this hypo. I’ve been so lucky. My only side effects this time have been feeling a little hyper during the day, a little gassy, sometimes it feels like a big effort to hold my arms over my head for a few minutes (like when I wash my hair in the shower or comb it afterwards), I dream more and have weirder dreams, and I fall asleep on the couch at night earlier than I used to. Once in a while, I feel like I’m going to faint if I get up too quickly from sitting on the floor, but that happens to me whether I’m off Synthroid or not. Overall, it has been a piece of CAKE (low-iodine, of course).
I got my blood drawn this morning to check my TSH, and I should know the number tomorrow. (I’ll add it to the graph!) At the lab where I always have my blood drawn, the ladies who work there kind of know me by now since I’ve been going every 6 weeks or so for the last year. They are always really nice. The lady who drew my blood this morning said I was brave after she stuck the needle in my arm, which cracked me up. I’m a 42-year-old woman, for goodness sake! I should hope that by now I wouldn’t be a nervous wreck to have my blood drawn. Walking out of the lab, I felt so happy and upbeat, and I had all kinds of energy today all day. I didn’t even have the usual afternoon sleepiness I get in regular life, and I think it’s because I’ve been keeping myself really busy.
I’m continuing to nest. I’ve got the house almost “ready.” I still need to finish vacuuming and dusting the living room and family room, but other than that, it’s pretty much good to go. I’ve got Jack a shirt for his baptism on Sunday, and I have stocked both refrigerators with lots of good food for Pommy and Jack (and Brendan this weekend, when he’s here), and it’s been making me feel very good to get things all stocked up. I feel like I’m preparing for a storm or something—getting all the supplies we’ll need before the thunder starts. Speaking of thunder, it thundered and lightninged (not words, I’m sure) like crazy the other morning at 2 am. It woke me up from a weird dream I was having about a kindergarten teacher at Jack’s school.
But I feel like I’m getting things ready for armageddon or a birth or a transformation. I might be trying to distract myself from thoughts of how much I’m going to miss hugging my family every day for the first few days and how hard it’s going to be not to snuggle with Taco and Brady. Taco sits on my lap every night when I settle down to watch TV, and I’m not going to be able to do that for several days. I don’t know if it’s going to be harder on her or me. (We’re both big babies.)
I feel God’s presence in my life today. I feel peaceful, happy, content. I feel encouraged about the future.
Anyway, the subject was supposed to be my good mood and how fantastic I have felt during this hypo. I’ve been so lucky. My only side effects this time have been feeling a little hyper during the day, a little gassy, sometimes it feels like a big effort to hold my arms over my head for a few minutes (like when I wash my hair in the shower or comb it afterwards), I dream more and have weirder dreams, and I fall asleep on the couch at night earlier than I used to. Once in a while, I feel like I’m going to faint if I get up too quickly from sitting on the floor, but that happens to me whether I’m off Synthroid or not. Overall, it has been a piece of CAKE (low-iodine, of course).
I got my blood drawn this morning to check my TSH, and I should know the number tomorrow. (I’ll add it to the graph!) At the lab where I always have my blood drawn, the ladies who work there kind of know me by now since I’ve been going every 6 weeks or so for the last year. They are always really nice. The lady who drew my blood this morning said I was brave after she stuck the needle in my arm, which cracked me up. I’m a 42-year-old woman, for goodness sake! I should hope that by now I wouldn’t be a nervous wreck to have my blood drawn. Walking out of the lab, I felt so happy and upbeat, and I had all kinds of energy today all day. I didn’t even have the usual afternoon sleepiness I get in regular life, and I think it’s because I’ve been keeping myself really busy.
I’m continuing to nest. I’ve got the house almost “ready.” I still need to finish vacuuming and dusting the living room and family room, but other than that, it’s pretty much good to go. I’ve got Jack a shirt for his baptism on Sunday, and I have stocked both refrigerators with lots of good food for Pommy and Jack (and Brendan this weekend, when he’s here), and it’s been making me feel very good to get things all stocked up. I feel like I’m preparing for a storm or something—getting all the supplies we’ll need before the thunder starts. Speaking of thunder, it thundered and lightninged (not words, I’m sure) like crazy the other morning at 2 am. It woke me up from a weird dream I was having about a kindergarten teacher at Jack’s school.
But I feel like I’m getting things ready for armageddon or a birth or a transformation. I might be trying to distract myself from thoughts of how much I’m going to miss hugging my family every day for the first few days and how hard it’s going to be not to snuggle with Taco and Brady. Taco sits on my lap every night when I settle down to watch TV, and I’m not going to be able to do that for several days. I don’t know if it’s going to be harder on her or me. (We’re both big babies.)
I feel God’s presence in my life today. I feel peaceful, happy, content. I feel encouraged about the future.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
There's No Such Thing as a Good Cancer
--- In Thyca@yahoogroups.com, "cindylew117"
Hi
Had my first appointment with the surgeon today, my tt will be on June 8th. Now I understand that I have papillary, which I understand is the most curable. (I can't say good cancer there is no good cancer if you ask me, and I hate when people say that) Anyway, the doctor, who I know is very good, and I definitely do want to use him, said that he believes it has spread to my lymphnodes, and he has to remove the infected ones, and biopsy them. Now if this is not an aggresive type, how did it spread to my lymphnodes. This does make me nervous. But he also told me surgery and the RAI will cure me. I guess I was a bit surprised to hear that we went from a 2 hour surgery to a 4-5 hour surgery. Am I being rediculous?
Cindy
Hi, Cindy.
First of all,
:--)
Monday, June 8, the day you have your TT, is the day I have my second RAI treatment of 150 mCi. I'm a year and 4 months past my TT and a year and 3 months past my first ablation, which was also 150 mCi. I have gone down the well-traveled roads of research and prayer and have come from where you are (pre-surgery jitters) through a search for a good endo to where I am now--at peace with having a second RAI treatment. My docs don't consider my elevated Tg a recurrence--rather, persistent disease, which makes sense to me. The surgery and first ablation just didn't get it all the first time around. It happens.
I wanted to tell you a few things from first-hand experience to make you feel better and more hopeful about your journey:
1) My surgery was a breeze. Woke up the next morning full of energy, was driving 3 days later (could turn my head very well), and was back to normal in a very short time. Scar hardly noticeable at all.
2) RAI treatment, for me, wasn't all that eventful--even quite hypo (TSH >60), I only felt a little tired, and after the treatment, I lost my sense of taste for 4-5 weeks, but I hardly had any salivary gland issues at all (a few times I had soreness, which I massaged away). I considered these to be minor inconveniences.
3) You're not being ridiculous at all. This is the perfect place to ask questions and ask for support--no question is a dumb or ridiculous one.
4) I had lymph node spread, too, and having spread to lymph nodes doesn't negatively affect your prognosis.
5) Your surgeon *expecting* to find lymph node spread is actually a good thing--knowing that going into the surgery makes it more likely that your surgeon will be extra "definitive" about lymph node dissection (removal). My surgeon just took out the ones that looked suspicious, and all 5 he took out were malignant. I wish he'd removed more so we could have a better idea of the extent of lymph node spread, but that's not what happened. I've learned to accept this. You have the benefit of an experienced surgeon who is going into the surgery expecting to remove at least some lymph nodes. In my opinion, that's to your advantage.
Hope all this helps. Best of luck to you, Cindy! We're here if you need us!
Sincerely,
Lynn in Orange County, California
Hi
Had my first appointment with the surgeon today, my tt will be on June 8th. Now I understand that I have papillary, which I understand is the most curable. (I can't say good cancer there is no good cancer if you ask me, and I hate when people say that) Anyway, the doctor, who I know is very good, and I definitely do want to use him, said that he believes it has spread to my lymphnodes, and he has to remove the infected ones, and biopsy them. Now if this is not an aggresive type, how did it spread to my lymphnodes. This does make me nervous. But he also told me surgery and the RAI will cure me. I guess I was a bit surprised to hear that we went from a 2 hour surgery to a 4-5 hour surgery. Am I being rediculous?
Cindy
Hi, Cindy.
First of all,
:--)
Monday, June 8, the day you have your TT, is the day I have my second RAI treatment of 150 mCi. I'm a year and 4 months past my TT and a year and 3 months past my first ablation, which was also 150 mCi. I have gone down the well-traveled roads of research and prayer and have come from where you are (pre-surgery jitters) through a search for a good endo to where I am now--at peace with having a second RAI treatment. My docs don't consider my elevated Tg a recurrence--rather, persistent disease, which makes sense to me. The surgery and first ablation just didn't get it all the first time around. It happens.
I wanted to tell you a few things from first-hand experience to make you feel better and more hopeful about your journey:
1) My surgery was a breeze. Woke up the next morning full of energy, was driving 3 days later (could turn my head very well), and was back to normal in a very short time. Scar hardly noticeable at all.
2) RAI treatment, for me, wasn't all that eventful--even quite hypo (TSH >60), I only felt a little tired, and after the treatment, I lost my sense of taste for 4-5 weeks, but I hardly had any salivary gland issues at all (a few times I had soreness, which I massaged away). I considered these to be minor inconveniences.
3) You're not being ridiculous at all. This is the perfect place to ask questions and ask for support--no question is a dumb or ridiculous one.
4) I had lymph node spread, too, and having spread to lymph nodes doesn't negatively affect your prognosis.
5) Your surgeon *expecting* to find lymph node spread is actually a good thing--knowing that going into the surgery makes it more likely that your surgeon will be extra "definitive" about lymph node dissection (removal). My surgeon just took out the ones that looked suspicious, and all 5 he took out were malignant. I wish he'd removed more so we could have a better idea of the extent of lymph node spread, but that's not what happened. I've learned to accept this. You have the benefit of an experienced surgeon who is going into the surgery expecting to remove at least some lymph nodes. In my opinion, that's to your advantage.
Hope all this helps. Best of luck to you, Cindy! We're here if you need us!
Sincerely,
Lynn in Orange County, California
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Dr. Ain Weighs In
--- On Tue, 5/26/09, lpomije
After a second (empiric) dose of 150 mCi RAI to treat stimulated Tg of
22 (no TgAb) and WBS showing uptake in the neck but negative u/s and
negative MRI, when should the following be done:
-u/s
-suppressed Tg/TgAb
-stimulated Tg/TgAb
-WBS (not the post-treatment WBS, but well after that)
Thank you for your time. Sincerely, Lynn in Orange County, California
.......
4/13/09 TSH 60.27; Tg 22
4/16/09 WBS: "linear" uptake in neck
......
Dear TCH Members,
Often, "linear" uptake in the neck is not coming from thyroid cancer, but rather
from radioactive saliva that is coating the esophagus. I have my patients peel
and eat a large lemon (as if it is an orange) one hour before their scan, then
swish & swallow a mouthful of water every 10 minutes until the scan is started.
This has been effective in reducing the error of mistaking salivary
contamination from actual tumor.
Anytime that an empiric treatment of radioiodine is administered for elevated
thyroglobulin (using a hypothyroid preparation and a low iodine diet), it should
be followed (within 2 to 7 days) by a "post-therapy" whole body scan. If the
scan demonstrates uptake of the radioiodine in a tumor site, then it suggests
possibly effective treatment, if no uptake, it still might have been of benefit.
I restudy the patient with a stimulated thyroglobulin (hypothyroid or Thyrogen)
6 months later. If the thyroglobulin is NOT significantly reduced (accounting
for Thyrogen increasing the thyroglobulin to only one third of the level seen
with hypothyroidism), then it signals that the residual thyroid cancer is no
longer responsive to radioactive iodine.
**************PLEASE BE ADVISED*********************
THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN THIS COMMUNICATION IS INTENDED
FOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES ONLY. IT IS NOT INTENDED, NOR SHOULD
IT BE CONSTRUED, AS SPECIFIC MEDICAL ADVICE OR DIRECTIONS. ANY
PERSON VIEWING THIS INFORMATION IS ADVISED TO CONSULT THEIR OWN
PHYSICIAN(S) ABOUT ANY MATTER REGARDING THEIR MEDICAL CARE.
************************************************
Kenneth B. Ain, M.D.
Professor of Medicine & The Carmen L. Buck Chair of Oncology Research
Director, Thyroid Oncology Program
Division of Endocrinology & Molecular Medicine
Department of Internal Medicine, Room MN524
University of Kentucky Medical Center, 800 Rose Street, Lexington, KY
40536-0298
& Director, Thyroid Cancer Research Lab., Veterans Affairs Med. Cntr, Lexington, KY
After a second (empiric) dose of 150 mCi RAI to treat stimulated Tg of
22 (no TgAb) and WBS showing uptake in the neck but negative u/s and
negative MRI, when should the following be done:
-u/s
-suppressed Tg/TgAb
-stimulated Tg/TgAb
-WBS (not the post-treatment WBS, but well after that)
Thank you for your time. Sincerely, Lynn in Orange County, California
.......
4/13/09 TSH 60.27; Tg 22
4/16/09 WBS: "linear" uptake in neck
......
Dear TCH Members,
Often, "linear" uptake in the neck is not coming from thyroid cancer, but rather
from radioactive saliva that is coating the esophagus. I have my patients peel
and eat a large lemon (as if it is an orange) one hour before their scan, then
swish & swallow a mouthful of water every 10 minutes until the scan is started.
This has been effective in reducing the error of mistaking salivary
contamination from actual tumor.
Anytime that an empiric treatment of radioiodine is administered for elevated
thyroglobulin (using a hypothyroid preparation and a low iodine diet), it should
be followed (within 2 to 7 days) by a "post-therapy" whole body scan. If the
scan demonstrates uptake of the radioiodine in a tumor site, then it suggests
possibly effective treatment, if no uptake, it still might have been of benefit.
I restudy the patient with a stimulated thyroglobulin (hypothyroid or Thyrogen)
6 months later. If the thyroglobulin is NOT significantly reduced (accounting
for Thyrogen increasing the thyroglobulin to only one third of the level seen
with hypothyroidism), then it signals that the residual thyroid cancer is no
longer responsive to radioactive iodine.
**************PLEASE BE ADVISED*********************
THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN THIS COMMUNICATION IS INTENDED
FOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES ONLY. IT IS NOT INTENDED, NOR SHOULD
IT BE CONSTRUED, AS SPECIFIC MEDICAL ADVICE OR DIRECTIONS. ANY
PERSON VIEWING THIS INFORMATION IS ADVISED TO CONSULT THEIR OWN
PHYSICIAN(S) ABOUT ANY MATTER REGARDING THEIR MEDICAL CARE.
************************************************
Kenneth B. Ain, M.D.
Professor of Medicine & The Carmen L. Buck Chair of Oncology Research
Director, Thyroid Oncology Program
Division of Endocrinology & Molecular Medicine
Department of Internal Medicine, Room MN524
University of Kentucky Medical Center, 800 Rose Street, Lexington, KY
40536-0298
& Director, Thyroid Cancer Research Lab., Veterans Affairs Med. Cntr, Lexington, KY
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