Listen to your body

At times, I can be a bit hyperbolic. A touch dramatic. Even a smidge excessive. Typically, this is expressed via very big emotions. I am not subtle in my feelings. I don’t know how to be. I feel things deeply and most emotions make me cry. Happy. Sad. Scared. Mad. It’s unfortunate. All that amounts to an innate self judgement of my feelings. At onset, I always assume they are too big. Too Much. This is especially true for anything medical.

I have written about the efforts over the las two years to get answers- to feel better. It has been a miasma of questions with few solid answers. Second opinions. Feeling like a hypochondriac. Self judgement radiating at every next step. Constantly having to push through the self induced resistance to make another appointment. Ask for different tests. Keep moving forward.

Nine years ago, during a routine physical exam my thyroid was noted as being enlarged. The first of my ultrasounds was ordered. Though a nodule was discovered, I was told it was too small to biopsy and we would watch it. This was the first time in my adult life I advocated for myself and pushed to see a specialist. I finally had proof that something wasn’t right and I wasn’t going to let it go dormant. I couldn’t allow the opportunity for answers to slip through my fingers. That specialist is the one that confirmed I wasn’t imagining it, something was wrong and there was a name for it- Hashimoto’s. I cried with relief in her office. It had taken me nine years to have someone believe me. Run the right tests. Give me an answer.

Between that fateful first ultrasound and now, I have had seven more. Throughout the years, my thyroid has inflated and deflated like a sad birthday balloon. My levels have fluctuated, my symptoms following suit. Specifically, in the last three years my symptoms have increased, making daily life a tad difficult. Through the last three ultrasounds (over the same number of years) we have been able to track my thyroid collecting nodules like a greedy clam, enlarging with each new guest. Yet, the prognosis remained the same- they were all too small to biopsy, we would just keep an eye on them. The symptoms were a fact of life, there was nothing to be done. Keep taking my meds, come back in a year to do it all again.

Something shifted in me over the last several months. I blame my exasperation on vanity, as focusing on feeling like garbage didn’t get me anywhere. I walked into my endocrinologists office with a dash of indignance and requiring, at minimum, a path to potential solutions. My annual blood tests and ultrasound was ordered with the asterisk of a surgeon referral if the nodules were still present. Not only had the previous three grown, mama added a new one to the crew! The addition of an invader was no real surprise, based on previous history. My new found anxiety was.

The consistency of some of the nodules had changed. My lymph nodes were looking a bit effected. I couldn’t shake the haunting notion of cancer. As the days mounted (ten to be exact) without the aforementioned referral to a surgeon, my anxiety grew to irritation. Exasperation. And increased annoyance with myself for such thoughts of hypochondria.

I did, finally, receive the information needed and an appointment was made. I walked into the office with the unease of expected disbelief, I walked out with the reassurance of feeling heard. The consultation consisted of many questions, exploration of my past scans and records, relief at no cancer worries, and a surgery date.

Nine days ago, a very hungry version of me walked into the hospital at my appointed time to have my thyroid removed. I wasn’t nervous, I was ready. After years of being told that my labs were fine and the symptoms I was experiencing did not warrant attention, walking into that hospital with a real solution was almost invigorating. Almost. I was starving.

E got to stay with me nearly until I was wheeled back to the operating room. He sat patiently with me in the waiting room then accompanied me back to the preparation area, joking with nurses and anesthesiologists alike. He got to meet my surgeon as he doodled up upon my neck and reviewed the process with me once more. My hand was held literally through the entire pre-surgery process. Eventually, I was wheeled to the operating room, strapped to a table, and covered with warm blankets. After several deep breaths of pure oxygen to fill my lungs, I remember nothing.

I was told later that my surgeon spoke with E on the phone twice. The nurses several more times. My experience consisted of going to sleep in one room, awakening in another with considerable pain.

My surgeon warned me that the first several days post op would be the worst. That there would be pain and swelling. I for some reason, did not fully register what all that would mean in practice. I mentally prepared myself to be a bit sore and sleepy for a few days and then have the ability to gradually move back into the world. I was wrong. The totality of my arrogance solidified in the moments of waking up in recovery. Everything hurt. Inside my throat. Outside my throat. My back. Where the IV’s penetrated my skin. Everything hurt. Additionally, I had no voice to communicate that fact. Through stilted, whispered sentences I was able to get pain medication and ice packs. Eventually, I met the milestones required to be discharged. My body felt no better, but I was glad to be home.

The days the following my return are a bit of a blur. Pain medication kept me sleeping. The cat’s steady presence on my lap assisted with that condition. Walking was unsteady, resulting in E escorting me to and from the bathroom, chastising me if I tried to make the journey on my own. Once Moose returned home (my mother graciously kept him overnight and chauffeured him to and from camp) he became a backup escort, holding my hand anytime I shuffled my way anywhere. He did make it clear that looking at my neck was not on his agenda, as it was “disgusting”. My bruising and joker-esque incision not being his preferred aesthetic. I get it. Slowly, my mobility increased and my pain decreased. The swelling and incision are ever present, but getting better by the day. By all landmarks, my healing is going according to schedule.

I was under the impression that all information to be had in this adventure was acquired. Yet again, I was wrong. We went into surgery knowing several key points, my thyroid was enlarged and causing discomfort (constriction internally on other vital parts on my neck), I had four nodules with no indication of the hoarding slowing, and the proof that medication was not mitigating either of these conditions. The organ was janky, to say the least. My surgeon told E post op that once he gained access to said defective structure, it was riddled with scar tissue. This further cemented the necessity for removal. As a matter of course, post surgery, it was sent to pathology. This is standard procedure, and frankly, I forgot about it. Until 18 hours before my post op appointment with my surgeon, when the report filled my patient portal. There, in black and white, resided the words microcarcinoma. Cancer.

This is where it is severely important to note, they got it all. I spoke with my surgeon, and apparently this happens about 8% of the time. After removing the thyroid for other reasons, cancer is found. He also said “though no one wants any form of cancer, if you had to choose, this is the kind you’d want”. It is incredibly slow growing. Additionally, since my lymph nodes had become effected by my ever growing thyroid, they were removed and sent to pathology as well, resulting in the unequivocal knowledge that it did not spread and a complete excision was done. I had cancer, now I don’t. Period. I do not require additional treatment or scans.

It’s surreal, intuition. I judged myself for nearly two weeks for an unshakable feeling, deeming it melodramatic. Absurd. Even being wheeled into surgery, I feared I was putting my body through an unnecessary procedure. Concerned that I would feel no better post excision. Now, here I sit, more easily fatigued than normal, my neck filled with a new discomfort, knowing it was the right decision. Confirmed by my surgeons notations and consultations, that I will feel far better then ever before once the healing is complete.

I’m still not entirely sure what to do with the information, emotionally or intellectually. I battled myself mentally every step of this process. Scrutinized every decision. Thank God I didn’t allow those thoughts to halt the process. I wasn’t dramatic. I wasn’t wrong. The medication wasn’t working. I had the scar tissue to prove it. I also had an invader beginning to take root-one we didn’t know needed to be evicted. I am so glad to be on the other side. To be healing. Mostly, I am beyond grateful for my people encouraging me along the way. The ones that told me not to stop. The ones that propped me up when I second guessed the necessity. The ones that love me enough to tell me when I am being an idiot.

Listen to your body. Trust your intuition. Turns out, it is a lot more powerful than is often given credit.