Advocate

I always assumed that given stressful circumstances, it was always more comforting to share such stress with others. That it makes the load lighter; that the sharing of information helps the very person who carries the burden.

But then, very recently, I found myself in a stressful situation, and I was unable to share with the people closest to me. In fact, for someone who considers herself a very terrible secret keeper (unless bound by attorney-client privilege), I did remarkable well. I learned something important: sometimes there are things that scare you so much that you can't talk about them. You can't write about them. You can't even think about them. They are just there, and somehow you just deal with them.

All that being said, I feel capable of writing now. I'll start here.

About eight weeks ago, I made an appointment for an ultrasound to follow-up on the strange mass on my neck. Back in November 2010, my primary care doctor determined that the mass was a swollen lymph node and not a concern, but she wanted a follow-up done in six months. Well, come July 2011, and I'm sitting in my doctor's office discussing the ultrasound results.

Dr: The ultrasound looks great. The mass is just a swollen lymph node.
Me: Why is my lymph node swollen?
Dr: It could be swollen for lots of reasons. You could be fighting an infection, your body could be reacting to something foreign. Lymph nodes swell all the time.
Me: I haven't had a cold since September. I feel great. It doesn't make sense that I have a lymph node that has been swollen for six months.
Dr: Lymph nodes get bigger and smaller all the time.
Me: But mine hasn't gotten smaller.
Dr., sighing: Would you like me to refer you to an ENT? Would you sleep better at night, if I did?
Me: Yes and yes.

*Side note: Does my doctor not read those magazines in nail salons? BECAUSE I DO. Every month there is an article about some woman who didn't follow-up or ignored some strange medical ailment and then ended up with a diagnosis and died within three months. Morale of the story: ALWAYS ADVOCATE FOR YOURSELF. ALWAYS.

A week later, and I am sitting in a medical room, staring at a tray full of equipment that I am sure inspires horror movie directors. The ENT doctor enters. He looks at the ultrasound. He feels my neck. He tells me that lymph nodes get bigger and smaller all the time. That occasionally, a swollen lymph node doesn't get smaller.

This makes me feel better.

Then, he numbs my nose (using an Afrin-like spray) and proceeds to use a 8-inch long "throat telescope" that GOES THROUGH MY FREAKIN' NOSE. He causally mentions that our noses are more flexible than one thinks they are.

Soon I can feel something in the back of my throat. The telescope has reached its destination. Afterward, the doctor seems annoyed and tells me that he didn't see anything unusual. I leave, stopping at Peet's on my way home for a drink, annoyed in my inability to taste the specialty ice tea that I ordered.

Two weeks later, I see my endocrinologist. It's a warm July afternoon. She walks in, and I fully expect her to dismiss me, just as the previous two doctors had. Instead, she looks at my chart and then looks at me.

"I'm concerned."

She tells me that there is a mass on my thyroid. This mass (something that was discovered in November when we were investigating the rogue lymph node) had more than quadrupled in size in the past six months. The unknown rapidly growing mass, combined with the strange relentlessly swollen lymph node, worried her. She told me that a biopsy was necessary.

Then, she started talking about thyroid cancer.

I'm not going to lie. The minute she dropped the "c" word, I mentally checked out. I remember her saying something about how treatments were really good, and how if it were malignant it should be in the early stages. Yada, yada, yada.

I couldn't hear her. My thoughts went immediately to Josh. To Lola. Fear gripped me. I couldn't move. She gave me a pamphlet. I shoved it in my purse. I walked out of the office. I sat in my car and eventually drove myself home. Two days later, I scheduled the biopsy appointment.

Then, I was mum. I couldn't talk about it. While the biopsy itself didn't scare me, (I mean, what's a needle in the neck when you've already had eight inches of tube shoved in your nose?) the potential results terrified me. I couldn't talk about the upcoming appointment. I couldn't even think about it. So instead, we went camping. We spent a week at the beach and I soaked in all the love my niece and nephews and Lola allowed me. It was glorious.

A week later, I found myself in another medical office, this time accompanied by a doctor with an accent like Antonio Banderas and office furniture that resembled a cruise ship.

Antonio: Hoooold still, while I toooouch your neck.

Twenty minutes later, I left the cruise and sat in my car. I held back tears. I refused to allow myself to cry. I felt silly for being upset. On my drive home, I reminded myself of how crazy it would be for me to have cancer. How unlikely. How I didn't have any other symptoms.

The next day, I went to work. I sat in my office. I waited for the phone call from my doctor. She didn't call. At 1:32 PM, I called her. Her nurse took my call.

Nurse: It's benign.
Me, silent.
Nurse: That means, it's non-cancerous.

I thanked her. I hung up the phone. I called Josh. Weight rolled off my shoulders.

The mass is to be monitored by my endocrinologist. And, I am (now) well-versed in the symptoms of thyroid malfunction. A part of me feels lucky. Relieved, thankful, grateful, and very lucky.