It’s all relative.

I had a moment of clarity the other day: hell truly is a relative term. My personal hell is another person’s walk in the park. I realize this, and I try to constantly remind myself that this situation could be much worse. I have a great prognosis, and if all goes as planned, I should be down for a brief period and then right back at it.

But still I find myself tossing around the “what ifs” constantly; what if I’d found it sooner, what if I hadn’t found it at all, what if the cancer comes back, what if it’s more aggressive than we think, what if, what if, what if…

A co-worker, four years into his battle with colon cancer, gave me some great advice the other day. He said, “Make sure you don’t borrow grief, Amanda.” Well said. I’ve got to remember to take it one step and one day at a time and not to fret over tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” -Jeremiah 29:11

My hope is that once I kick the cancer to the curb, Keith and I can move on, be happy and live our lives fully. I love that man more and more every day. He has been amazing throughout this process, and I can’t even express how fortunate and blessed I feel to have him by my side.

I had the most wonderful weekend with friends and family. It was very full, very enjoyable and rejuvenating. Tomorrow, Keith and I meet the surgeon, whom I’ve heard only great things about. I’m certainly not excited about it, but I’m not apprehensive either. I’m ready. C’mon week, bring it!

 

The dreaded c-word

Hello dear blog readers:

Actually, most of you have probably fallen off since I so rarely blog anymore. Oh, well. To be honest, if this blog post isn’t read by a single soul, that would be ok. It’s more for me than for you.

So here goes: I have cancer. Yes, one of the worst things imaginable for many of us is growing in my body. Well, I hope it’s not really growing; I hope that it’s small and confined and very slow growing, like a tiny pearl of cancer.

I felt a small lump in my neck near my thyroid. I originally panicked, then chilled out and took it to be a swollen gland. I was feeling a bit under the weather, so surely I could just be coming down with a cold. I medicated, I felt better, the lump was still there. I asked my lady doctor about it when I went in for my annual appointment. She said it should be checked out by my general doc. The next day I made an appointment.

Tests came and went. Dye in the veins, trips through the easy bake ct scan machine, ultrasounds, and finally, biopsy. I got the results on Thursday that I have papillary carcinoma (thyroid cancer).

My doctor says it’s very treatable, and although thyroid cancer isn’t common, it’s the most common type of them all. The survival rate even at 20 years is near 100 percent. We’ll just take that lobe of the thyroid right out, and I’ll be on thyroid medication to replace the hormones for the rest of my life.

Right now, I don’t want to know what the implications of not having a thyroid are. I’ve heard lots of things. I’ve heard that it takes a while to get the meds just right. Right now, I just have to be positive and take it one step and one day at a time.

I wake up and the first thing I think of is cancer. The word knocks around in my head like an uninvited guest. I think of it in the morning, at lunch, at work, in the car, in the shower, on the couch, walking the dogs, making dinner and then at night when I try to go to sleep. Should I wake up in the middle of the night, it won’t let me go back to sleep. But when I do fall back to sleep, I dream of flowers coming up, and of spring. I’m so beyond nightmares.

Physically, I feel great. I haven’t for a moment felt bad. That’s the tricky part. If I hadn’t felt the lump, I never would have known. I look in the mirror and think, “How can I be sick? I look normal. I don’t look sick, do I?” No, I don’t. And I don’t feel sick. I just am.

The hardest thing for me is telling my friends and family. I will forever remember the moment I had to tell my husband…him waiting on the line as I stumbled out the words we’d so hoped not to hear. My mother as I listened to her try to keep her tears held until we got off the phone. Friends that just can’t believe this is happening to someone so close to them. I feel bad for these people more than for myself. I can only imagine what it’s like to be told someone you love dearly has cancer. I’ve never been in that boat, only in this one.

I am strong though, and this is not a threatening form of cancer. I will kick it, and I will move on. And I will live every single day for all it’s worth. That is a promise.