Thyroid cancer, part 1: Who, me? Impossible…
Before last fall, I’d never given much thought to the subject of thyroid cancer. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever heard of anyone who had thyroid cancer.
In September 2006, I saw my nurse practitioner for what I expected would be a routine physical. Why would I think otherwise? Why would I ever think “thyroid cancer”? I was a healthy, 35-year-old woman. I was used to being told by doctors, “You’re fine. Everything looks good.”
On this day, however, not everything looked so good. The nurse practitioner found a nodule, a lump, on the right side of my thyroid gland. “This sort of thing is very common,” she briskly reassured me. “But it’s still something you should have checked out.” She didn’t mention thyroid cancer, of course. It would have been irresponsible of her to spring to the worst conclusion.
Little did I know that for the next 4 months, I’d have about two medical appointments per week, on average. At first, no one uttered the words “thyroid cancer.” Thyroid nodules are common, I was told. 90 percent of these nodules are benign; only 10 percent fall into one of several categories of thyroid cancer.
I allowed myself to be placated by these statistics. I wouldn’t fall into that unlucky 10 percent. How could healthy me have thyroid cancer? Please. The term just wasn’t in my vocabulary.
Thyroid cancer, part 2: Diagnosis meets denial
As the tests got scarier, my denial became harder to sustain. I had an ultrasound, then a biopsy. The biopsy detected abnormal cells in the nodule. That didn’t necessarily mean I had thyroid cancer – and it didn’t mean that I didn’t have thyroid cancer.
The next thing I knew, I found myself in a surgeon’s office. He specialized in otolaryngology (ear, nose, and throat conditions). A smiling, kindly, gray-haired man, he did talk about thyroid cancer. He had to say the words; that was his job. But again, I was told not to worry. The surgeon quoted the 90-percent-benign figure. The catch was that the only way to tell for certain whether the nodule was thyroid cancer or not was to remove and examine it. In fact, the entire right half of my thyroid would need to be removed.
Fine, I said, signing a consent form for the surgery. Fine, I said to the four-inch-wide scar I’d be wearing near the base of my throat for the rest of my life. Fine – so long as I didn’t have thyroid cancer. It was the kind of irrational bargain we make during moments like this. Okay, doctor, you can do the surgery. In return, you’ll tell me afterward that I never had thyroid cancer.
The surgery went smoothly. I was released from the hospital the next day. I had very little pain afterwards, mainly just soreness around the incision. How lucky I was, I kept telling myself. Surely this wasn’t thyroid cancer. This was too easy to be thyroid cancer.
A week later, I saw my surgeon to have the suture removed. The moment he entered the exam room, I saw that his usual cheerful grin was gone, and I knew. “It was a papillary carcinoma,” he said. “This means we have to go back in and take out the other half of your thyroid gland.”
I stared at him. “So, I had thyroid cancer? I might still have thyroid cancer?” “Yes,” he answered.
Thyroid cancer, part 3: The impact
About three weeks after the first surgery, I had the left thyroid lobe removed. Same relatively painless procedure, same outcome: thyroid cancer in microscopic form, too tiny for any test to detect, was found in the left lobe. Next came a hefty dose of radioiodine therapy, a single capsule whose contents would destroy any remaining thyroid tissue, but would not make me feel sick. Finally, I began taking a synthetic thyroid hormone replacement, Synthroid. I’ll have to take it daily for the rest of my life.
Being diagnosed with and treated for thyroid cancer has been the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced. I’ve felt profound gratitude for the fact that the papillary carcinoma variant of thyroid cancer is highly treatable; the success rate is 98 to 99 percent. I’ve also been overcome at times with anger, sadness, and confusion. Four months of tests, doctor visits, and hospital stays left me feeling that thyroid cancer had taken over my life. I struggled to balance work with medical appointments. I became tired, anxious, and irritable. These feelings could be attributed in part to changes in my thyroid hormone levels; but I suspected that stress was the real culprit.
Despite the obvious impact, I felt that I had no right to complain about having thyroid cancer. Other people suffered through far worse conditions than mine, I continually reminded myself. I tried to keep up a brave front for my partner and my siblings. It sounds ridiculous to me now, but I didn’t even use the term “thyroid cancer” until after the second surgery. I thought it sounded too alarming, too melodramatic. Plus, I didn’t want to face those words any more than necessary. I almost had myself convinced that thyroid cancer wasn’t really cancer. In my mind, cancer meant radiation, chemotherapy, hair loss, and long hospitalizations.
Of course, minimizing my condition only increased the stress I felt over having thyroid cancer. I had to learn to be honest with my loved ones and with myself about my real feelings. Thyroid cancer isn’t the worst disease one could have, but it’s still cancer. I quickly went from being a healthy young woman to being a cancer patient. Then, just as quickly, I returned to being healthy again, as far as anyone can tell. Should my thyroid cancer ever return, I’ll be treated again with radioiodine therapy. For now, I’m trying to relax again, to get back into normal life.
Thyroid cancer has taught me this: never take good health for granted.
Reference:
- A doctor who really understands: www.mythyroid.com
