Backtrack 2- the final diagnosis(November 8th, 2012)

Like a good friend of mine said recently, “OK is a moving target.”  More on him later.

Progress happened.  The shitty Endoccrinologist did not sink me into self doubt and depression.  No, I have plenty of other things for that.

And that being said, at this time last year, I was told that it indeed was cancer.

But, in the running theme throughout the bullshit I went through, it took a while for it to be told to me.

My Otolaryngologist, my ear nose and throat guy, the guy who did the surgery, is quite an excellent surgeon.  I will give him that.  He just completely bungled the process of the biopsy and the final prognosis.

A week after my first surgery, I met with him to check in, and get the results of the biopsy.

Results:  Inconclusive.  They had the bit of me that was oddly lumpish, and still couldn’t tell if the oddly lumpish lump was something that, left unchecked, would ultimately destroy me and my body.

So they sent it to Boston to get a better opinion.

I didn’t do any research on how common this is, but even if I did, it’s a horrible thing to have someone tell me.  Especially when I’ve endured about six months worth of ‘inconclusive’ before this.  But, fuck, what could I do?  I left, knowing that he would contact me in a week.

That week was hard.  It was a time of going back and forth between wanting to know and having it finally over to getting angry at myself for going through this process.  How the hell could I trust someone who could cut clean and well, but couldn’t even tell if it was fucking cancer?

This one meeting, this one moment gave credence to the shadow of a doubt I still have that I actually have cancer or not.  Every moment after, there’s a feeling of “I’m putting myself through this when I didn’t really need to.”  This is hard to deal with.  Day to day.  I still get this heavy feeling in my stomach whenever it comes back up.

So, a week later.  The week that he said it was going to take to get information.  That day- I get a phone call.  I see who its from- his office.  I’ve been freaking out more and more, so I take a breath, stop what I’m doing, and answer the phone.

It turns out it’s the fucking receptionist, telling me that I need to make an appointment with the doctor to deal with the FUCKING NASAL POLYPS he found while also scheduling me for my hemithyroidectomy.

I was furious.  I still am furious.  Who the fuck cares about nasal polyps?  Sure, they are uncomfortable, and left unchecked, could result in a worsening medical condition.  BUT NOT FUCKING CANCER!!!

I should have told the woman “As soon as I am told whether or not I have cancer, I’ll make a fucking appointment.”

Wednesday dragged on.  Thursday.  Thursday, I couldn’t take it.  I finally called the office and left a message for him.

“You told me this was going to take a week.  And its been more than a week.  I need you to tell me as soon as you know.  AS SOON AS YOU KNOW!”

I get a call around eight that night.  Affirmative.  Papillary Thyroid cancer with a follicular variant.  Listening on the phone, I put up the oh-so-cheerful-and-reliable persona, and fell apart behind it.

Apparently I was agreeing with him, and being way too upbeat, because he asked me point blank if I was going to do this, because it sounds like this might be the last time he hears from me.  An odd admission from this guy.  Maybe he never had to call so late before.  And maybe I did sound so remote.  But fuck it.  I can’t guess what he was thinking.  He said it, and it tied me to the moment a bit more, tied me to him, to the next action, which was the second surgery, and the radiation ablation, to happen afterwards.

In all of this as well, there was a certain ironic sense of relief.  That something was concluded.  That it wasn’t any more testing about the unknown, even if I didn’t trust it, it was definite.

There was a few days before the fall out actually happened.  The first few days is about communicating, being as upbeat as possible, so I didn’t have to be receptive to the sadness, pity, compassion being thrown my way.  I could block it, and keep on going.

I worked through that weekend.

And that Monday was the day that I realized that there was a period now at the end of my sentence.  That death had become much more real, and, as I still joke, I probably am not going to last as long as I always imagined in the Zombie Apocalypse. 

And yet, and yet… feeling like I’m just being a fucking victim… I don’t have it so hard, shut the fuck up and keep on moving.  Give yourself the candy bits- the food, the cheerful positive affirmations, the distractions that will keep you form going too dark, too deep, too emotional.  Just keep going.