An Adventure I Could Do Without

I remember the first time I had to fill out a form for Hayden after his accident.  There was a box to tick.  Does this person have a disability - Yes/No.  It was the first moment that I had thought of that word to describe our son.  I felt my gut wrench as I ticked the Yes box.  I had just given my son a label.

In the last week, I have had to deliver some news that has felt like that moment.  But let me start from the beginning and you’ll see what I mean.

In 2017, I had some annual blood tests come back with some irregular thyroid activity.  As a result, I was sent for an ultrasound, which uncovered some nodules on my thyroid.  Nothing unusual, lots of women have them, but to be cautious, my GP sent me to have biopsies of the nodes done, to determine if there was anything to be concerned about.  The results showed that they were, thankfully, benign, and every year after I’ve had follow up ultrasounds and blood tests to monitor their growth and any changes that may appear in my blood work. This monitoring was initially through the public hospital system, where I saw an endocrinologist who advised that while surgery would ideally rid me of the problem, there was nothing of concern that indicated it was needed, so I opted not to have surgery and was sent back to the GP for ongoing maintenance.

Last year, I neglected to get my annual ultrasound and blood tests in June, so when I went to my GP in April this year, she sent me for my usual checks.  My ultrasound came back indicating that one of the nodules had grown almost a quarter in size, I had five new nodules (bringing the total to nine) and my bloods had some indication of an increase in my white cell count, so off I went again for a biopsy of the largest nodule.  Getting an appointment was difficult, but I was lucky enough to snag one across town the next day, got the procedure done and awaited my results.

My doctor told me she would text me if there were no issues with the results.  So when I got a call from the clinic last Friday asking me to make an appointment later that afternoon, I knew it wasn’t going to be nothing.  When I tried to make it Telehealth instead of in person, the nurse gently said no, and that the doctor needed me to see her in person.  It was at that moment, that I knew this was definitely not going to be nothing.

After an anxious few hours at work trying to distract myself from my upcoming appointment, I made my way to the surgery.  The doctor called me in and when I was sitting down, told me she had my results back and that it was cancer.  No beating around the bush, no sugar-coating it.  The pathology results had shown a suspicious legion that suggests I have a oncocytic follicular neoplasm (ok, so when I hear that, my first thoughts were that it sounds like something out of Ghostbusters!).  A surgical review was recommended, so I’m being referred back to the public system as a Category 1 priority to have my thyroid removed and subsequent radiation treatment if required.

Which brings me back to the beginning of today’s post.  Initially, everything happens in something of a fugue state.  It’s happening, but it’s not really happening to you.  It’s like I’m standing back and watching it happen to someone else, someone who looks like me, but it hasn’t sunk in that it is me.

And then my phone pings.  It’s Brendon.  He wants to know if I have any news yet.  It would be easier to type a text back to let him know, but I want to hear his voice, hear the voice of someone who knows me and loves me and grounds me.  So I call him.  I tell him it’s thyroid cancer and give him to details, before letting him know I’m on my way home and I’ll see him soon.  I haven’t uttered the sentence that I will find so confronting yet.  I’ve just used the term “it’s thyroid cancer”.

It’s not until I get home that I have to start thinking about how to tell people about this.   I text my sister.  The phrase is there, but it’s a text, and not spoken aloud, so still not out there.  I go down to see my parents to ask my mum, cos I’m sure she has had hers removed for the same reason, so when she confirms, I say “I have it too”, so I still haven’t said it.

I call my best friend.  And she copped it with not a single word of warning.  “I have cancer” I blurt out, before I can form some sort of lead-in.  Both barrels, fully loaded, “I have cancer”.  There’s the label.  I have cancer.

The hardest utterances of the phrase were of course to my two kids.  They both had plans that night, I didn’t want to spoil their evening, so waited until well after (my) bed-time to see if they could take a call (thank goodness the Lions put on a clinic that night too, so my mood was surprisingly buoyant) and when they both responded yes, I called them individually to share the news.  Hardest. Conversations. Ever.  But I underestimated the maturity of my twenty-something kids, and they asked intelligent questions and checked in on how I was - always thinking of others, those two.

So here I’m sat now, pondering what the next few months will bring, thinking about surgery and its risk, radiation treatment and its side effects, delayed travel plans until we know what lies ahead, reading, reading and more reading on this type of cancer, what to expect and what life will look like being medicated for the rest of my life.  It’s an adventure all right, of a different kind, and not one I particularly would have invited into my life willingly.  Funny, I’ve been here before with melanoma, but this one hits different.  It’s not as simple as surgery and clear margins.  It’s internalised and it’s scarier somehow.

But it is what it is, it’s here, and as with every challenge, we will face it head-on.  There may be a blog, there may not - let’s just see how it all progresses, shall we?

On a plus note, the thyroid cancer awareness ribbon is pink, purple and teal, so there’s a nice colour palette to work with.