You Are Not Alone (YANA), is a program slogan I’ve been thinking a lot of lately. The evidence is everywhere. A friend of mine with 42 years of sobriety is dying from his battle with cancer. Ultimately it’s an infection that is getting the best of him. After a year of chemotherapy and several surgeries, there is nothing left in him to fight it.

His family is not alone. A stream of AA friends visit and comfort him and his family while we wait for the inevitable. While we wait…

I am so grateful for the love I experience every day as a direct result of being a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. Whether it’s holding the hand of a grieving wife or comforting a friend on the phone who just can’t break out of isolation, the thread of love connects us.

The hardest part for me is learning to feel comfortable being loved. Accepting love from others.

But it’s there. It’s all around me. If I open my heart just a little, it’s there waiting.

None of us have to be alone.

November 22nd was a big day for my daughter and me. It was my ninth sober anniversary and her fourth clean anniversary. Not sure it’s necessary to delineate clean versus sober as we are both just plain addicts. November 22nd also just happened to be Thanksgiving. We decided to stay up north and not go to our beach house this holiday week for a few reasons.

1. My daughter and I wanted to celebrate our anniversaries together.

2. My husband and I wanted to be with both kids.

3. I’ve felt pretty crappy lately.

In order to lighten the Thanksgiving load, we decided to order our meal from Whole Foods. We ordered an organic turkey meal for 6 to 8 people, which would give us plenty of stuff for leftovers as there would be only 4 of us. That really cut down on shopping and preparation time.

I vowed to my husband and daughter that I would not get into it with my son on Thanksgiving. I prayed to have a good day with him. What I forgot to pray about was for the same with the other members of our family. There were a few other things I forgot to pray about too.

The day before we decided the meal was to be served at 5 – ish.  My husband had picked everything up the night before. I unpacked the box to find a shrink-wrapped cooked turkey. I should have taken a photo because it looked rather obscene. In addition to the turkey there was mushroom stuffing, a green bean casserole (which I would never make, I like green beans à la olive oil), orange cranberry relish, mashed potatoes, mushroom gravy, corn bread and a pumpkin pie.

When I started to take everything out of the refrigerator and read the instructions, I realized I had a problem. I had to heat up the turkey for at least two hours at 325 and then all the other dishes required various cooking times with varied temperatures. I knew I was in trouble because I was not feeling well at all. And by not feeling well I mean I could not think. I’m not sure if I had a bug or was in a major lethargy/mind fog due to my screwed up thyroid levels. Probably both.

I attempted to rectify the confusion this all created by writing post-it notes for each item. Not finding any post-it notes, I resorted to little scraps of paper. I should have realized they would fall off. That caused a few problems later but suffice it to say I was struggling.

I was hoping for my daughter’s help but she showed up late and when she asked to help she wanted me to tell her exactly what to do which would have ended up taking just as much time and energy. I banished her from the room which says a lot about my mood. I was not a happy camper. At one point, surrounded by dishes and fallen “post-it” notes, I sat down on a stool in my kitchen under the microwave (which I did NOT want to use to heat stuff up) and cried. It was pathetic. This EASY Thanksgiving was not easy.

I ended up getting my dear husband to help and I’m sure it was not a pleasant experience for him. The damn turkey was so heavy and the breast was still cold even after cooking for almost 3 hours. By the time we sat down at the table, I was a wreck.

So what did I learn from the experience other than not to order a Thanksgiving dinner from Whole Foods?

1. My character defects sure flare up when I am hungry, angry, lonely and tired.

2. It’s not necessary to have a perfect, traditional Thanksgiving.

3. Better to enjoy the people I’m with than to try to be my Mother.

4. I really don’t like turkey, at all…

5. Sobriety trumps all the above. Any day I am sober is a good day.

One thing we will all take with us from this past Thanksgiving are the memories.

Today I will try to open myself to receive the abundance God holds out to me by experiencing what is and allowing God to decide what will be.

Taken from “Courage to Change”, July 20, page 202.

Sunday October 14:  Day Four of isolation while undergoing radioactive iodine treatment. I’m bored. Spending so much time in my room doing things I don’t like to admit to, like playing silly games on my iPhone, reading copious amounts of political news, reading the book, “Gone Girl”, that I keep putting down because I can’t concentrate, and even, God forbid, watching a couple of horrible movies on Lifetime Movie Network. My dirty secret is out.

Wednesday October 11:  D-day. The day I had my total body scan and plan to start radioactive iodine treatment.  I was dreading it a bit, thinking I’d light up like a Christmas tree. On Tuesday, I took a tracer dose of radioactive iodine that would be sucked up by any remaining thyroid tissue or thyroid cancer. Any uptake would show up on the scan. Since my blood showed thyroglobulin levels that shouldn’t be there after a total thyroidectomy, I was fairly certain something would show up. I had the scan. First a head scan followed by a total body scan. The hardest part was remaining still for 30 minutes but it really wasn’t bad. I made sure I didn’t open my eyes so I wouldn’t see the machine so close to my head.

After the scan I sat in a little room with my husband, waiting. The tech came back in, they wanted to do another scan. The second scan confirmed that there was an area of concern, so they decided to do an ultrasound, which has higher resolution and would show a better picture of what’s going on. A resident informed me I may have to have surgery before the RAI to have the lymph nodes removed before treatment. After the radiologists and endocrinologist conferred for a bit, they decided it was safe to go ahead with the RAI, hence my isolation.

I shipped off my dogs and stationed myself in the bedroom with books to read, computer, iPhone, and TV. Friends dropped off meals so I wouldn’t have to be in the kitchen and contaminate my family. Highly appreciated! The radiologist recommended the rule of 5; 5 feet away from people for 5 days. That was simple, I could handle it. Looking back the treatment was not too bad. I had some flu-like symptoms but due to the anti-nausea medication, Zofran, I had no nausea. I drank tons of water in order to flush the radioactive material out of my system. They also suggested I suck lemonheads to activate the salivary glands. I never want to see another lemonhead.

Tuesday October 16: Post Radiation Body Scan: This time I knew what to expect. Had to repeat the scan because the lymph nodes continued to show up. Basically this means I have some small metastatic carcinomas in a couple of lymph nodes outside the thyroid bed. Doc tells me “hopefully the radioactive iodine will clear them up”. I didn’t appreciate the term “hopefully” but there is never a sure bet in matters like these, plus I’m certain he’d like to avoid future litigation, ha.

This is my opportunity to turn things over to my higher power. I can use my friend’s mantra, “God take my Bod”. More often I recite the serenity prayer.

Thursday October 18: My husband and I head down to New Orléans for a gastronomic weekend planned before we knew I had thyroid cancer or would be having this treatment. Still very tired and achy from treatment but decided to go along with the trip and make the best of it.

All things considered we had a great time. Took it easy in the Big Easy (now that’s corny), loved our hotel with wonderful views of the Mississippi River, ordered room service each morning for breakfast, went to some great restaurants, saw a couple of wedding parades, checked out the beautiful architecture in the garden district, and enjoyed our time with our friends who live Uptown. They gave us a great tour of the city and had us over for drinks and hors d’oeuvres before we went out to dinner at August, a restaurant I’d highly recommend.

New Orléans reinforced the fact that I have no desire to drink alcohol, a real blessing. If you spend any time at all in the French Quarter there is no escaping the constant revelry, as bars are open at 7am, (perhaps they are open 24 hours), and folks are free to carry open containers of alcohol on the street. I found the party atmosphere highly unappealing and am grateful to not be a part of it. Unfortunately, I did not make it to a meeting.

Back home now and ready to get on with things, I want to restart healthy eating, exercise and proper sleep patterns. I’m hoping my thyroid levels balance out soon so I have more energy.

Driving a friend to chemo on Tuesday. Cancer seems to be everywhere. It’s no longer the mysterious disease that “other people” have. It’s a part of life, although hopefully not for you. What I am getting out of this experience is that life continues to happen, good and bad, but the important thing is how I react to those things.

My focus today is to stay in the moment. It’s a beautiful fall day and later I’ll be out with my camera.

I’m on day 5 of a low-iodine diet to prepare for the radioactive iodine treatment I am having next week. On Monday, I begin thyrogen shots to increase my TSH. On Tuesday, I have another thyrogen shot and a low dose of radioactive iodine before a complete body scan to determine where my existing cancer is. The scan will determine the amount of radioactive iodine I receive on Wednesday. The goal is for the RAI to ablate any remaining thyroid tissue and disease.

For five days I will be in insolation, thankfully at my own home. During the five days I need to limit my exposure to others, no public places, no cuddling with my dogs (or husband and children) and I need to eat on disposable plates with disposable utensils. I need to drink lots of water and flush three times after I pee. Basically all that radioactive material goes down the toilet which is not a comforting thought when thinking of our water supply.

I know that everything will be fine but I woke up today with an impending sense of doom. I feel better already by writing about it.

I’ve been isolating so much over the past several weeks. It’s where I go when I am frightened. Despair grows when I give it plenty of space. I tried to talk to my husband about it this morning when I was falling apart but he walked out the door to go to a meeting. It hurts. I need to call someone in the program who understands my disease, and by disease, I mean the disease of alcoholism.

Reaching out by writing helps. I know I won’t die from this disease but the fear of the unknown is crippling me. I’m in my bed instead of being at the big book meeting.

There’s so much shame in all if this. Shame about gaining weight, and not wanting others to see inside me, to see my pain and vulnerability. I’ve always worked so hard to put a good face on when I am suffering.

The nightmare I had last night didn’t help. I’ll leave that dream for another post. Right now I need to pray. Thanks for being there, dear readers.

xoxo

I’ve been down in the low country for a week now on my own and am settling into life dictated by the rhythm of the tides. Low tide and high tide each present different opportunities. At low tide, the beach on the sound near my house opens up and it is easier to walk long distances. During low tide you will see many wading birds; herons, egrets, and sometimes oystercatchers, my favorite, foraging for food among the exposed grasses and steamy pluff mud, which is mud formed by the decomposing spartina grass.  Oysters, horseshoe crabs, whelks, hermit crabs, and many other small foraging creatures abound. At high tide, water floods the tidal marshlands on the other side of the beach and I can see water in every direction. High tide at the end of the day is a site to see and on many days I get to watch the dolphins come in with the tide to feed on the small fish. The tidal range between high and low tides can be anywhere from 6 to 10 feet and the water moves rapidly in and out of the estuaries here. You really have to know the tides if you boat or kayak on these waters.

It’s a blessing to spend time here in such a diverse and rich ecosystem.

One thing I’ve found is that I don’t have to be lonely down here. There’s always a meeting to go to, and I can always go outside and do something, walk the dog, walk on the beach, go to the gym, or the pool. September is a beautiful time in coastal South Carolina.

Yesterday I went to a yoga class, had a massage, and went to an evening meeting. A perfect day.

I’m not dwelling on the fact that I have cancer, and I’m actually starting to have a bit more energy, all good things. Today my gift is gratitude.

I don’t really want to get out of bed. It’s the sheer luxury of it all. The sun shining brightly through the window, me, coffee in hand, surrounded by books I’ve read and books I’m going to read. A friend texted asking if I’d like to take a walk but I don’t have the inclination to make myself presentable. I’m in a lazy state of mind, sloth pervades.

Yesterday I had a neck ultrasound and they saw nothing suspicious so we are going ahead with the radioactive iodine treatment. The RN in charge of setting up my treatment plan was wonderful.

She gave me a brochure, “Understanding Thyroid Cancer” and another copy of my pathology report. She described what the treatment entailed, I interrupted her with questions, a lot of questions.

In the brochure she had written out Thigh Row Glob You Lynn next to thyroglobulin, as if I couldn’t pronounce the word and didn’t know what it meant. I asked her questions she couldn’t answer. I’d read a lot of studies but was staying away from the message boards. The God damn message boards.

I’m curious about my N Ras mutation. Does it mean I’m more susceptible to other kinds of cancer? Questions, always questions. I figure if I understand the worst case scenario, it will never happen to me. Or maybe it will and I’ll be strong enough to fight it.

I read about the low iodine diet I’ll follow before treatment. “No chocolate” jumps out at me. Ten years ago “No wine” would have evoked the same response.

Now that I have a plan things don’t seem so bad. I realize I’m in a much better spot than I was two weeks ago.

I knew there were risk involved in my thyroid surgery. I had a pre-operative visit at the Voice Center where they inserted a tube through my nasal cavity to look at my vocal cords and nerves, performed a few tests, had me sing, and everything looked normal. They told me there was a lot they could do to repair voice damage if it happened as a result of surgery.  We’ll see.

Last Friday, my endocrinologist said that my prognosis for this cancer looked great. I did not have an invasive type and the lymph node involvement didn’t worry him too much. He said, “you should count yourself as one of the lucky ones, I usually see all the train wrecks.”

He thought that I would not need radioactive iodine treatment because in cases like mine, the treatment did not improve outcomes. All I needed to do was have a couple of blood tests and he would follow-up with neck ultrasounds and thyroglobulin blood tests yearly. I left the visit optimistic, feeling I’d somehow skated from danger.

I had the blood tests right after the visit and quickly found out I was hypothyroid. (low thyroid functioning)  So it wasn’t just the chocolate chip cookies that caused my weight gain? He increased my dose of synthroid, boy, did that make me happy. Then yesterday, while I was driving to spin class, my endo called again to tell me my thyroglobulin levels were higher than he’d like to see, they should be 0 or very low and they were over 8, which means there is likely still disease present; there’s either some stray thyroid tissue left behind after the surgery or more lymph node involvement. Therefore he is now recommending the radioactive iodine treatment.

Next week we are planning to drive down south where I’ll stay at our beach house for the month of September. Now I’m wondering if this is the right time to go. There’s so much to do to prepare for the treatment; a special diet to follow, shots to elevate my TSH, possible voice therapy, and on and on.

I need to pray, take this one step at a time, slow down, breathe. I know everything will be ok, but Fear is creeping in. What if I can’t sing again? I can’t tell you how important singing is to my life. It’s therapy, it got me through the grief of losing my parents, it helps me express joy, and love. I cannot imagine not being able to sing again. Even when I sing “Happy Birthday” now, I sound like a frog,

I was just out doing a little retail therapy at Anthropologie when I received a call from my doc’s office asking if I can come in tomorrow morning for a neck and chest ultrasound. So that’s on my schedule now too and I’m trying not to think about lung metastasis. D suggested I get to a meeting, to get my head out of my head. Good idea.

Thank God for my dogs. I’ll miss them when I’m radioactive but for now they are keeping me sane.

Keep you posted.

Just a quick update. I was feeling really low yesterday afternoon. Uncertain that I would ever get in with the endocrinologist I wanted to see, the one with the best reputation in the city, I had just about given up. I’d just left a tearful message on my friends’ voicemail, I was falling into despair.

Just minutes after letting go, basically giving up in my mind, I got a phone call from the doctor’s secretary. “Are you available on Friday morning?” Hell, yes, I said, thanking the woman profusely and finding it hard to hold my composure. “It’s a miracle”, I think. And yes, it was quite a miracle but also the result of using every possible contact I could to get in with this doc. Knowing a really good med-mal defense attorney didn’t hurt.

I was joyful and relieved but I couldn’t help thinking about all those folks out there who aren’t proactive with their own healthcare; they either don’t have insurance so have no options, don’t have the self-confidence to pursue the matter relentlessly, or don’t even know where to begin. They also may not know somebody that could help, after all, it pays to have connections, even though that seems inherently unjust.

When things get rough I am willing to use my connections. I remember when I was young in my career soon after graduating from college. I was in the same company as my Dad, that’s how I initially got the job, and quite frankly, I hated it. I had to get out of his division to break free. I found out about a job in another division through the grapevine. It was the first time I really put my mind to getting what I wanted, completely on my own. I persevered and was successful. That’s been a continuing theme in my life. I pretty much get what I want (or what I need) if I put my mind to it. I always thought I’m either very lucky, after all, I’m a Sagittarius, or just plain bull-headed.

Some people may not look at my life and think of the word lucky. After all, I grew up in a dysfunctional alcoholic family. Despite that, I knew I was loved, however flawed that love may have presented itself. Ultimately, I succumbed to alcoholism as well and spent several years under its wicked spell, wreaking havoc on myself, my family and others. But now I have recovery, and if that isn’t luck and perhaps a miracle, I’m not sure what is.

I also feel pretty darn lucky that if I have cancer, it’s this cancer, thyroid cancer, and it is very treatable. Plus the medical advances have made cancer in general so much more treatable in recent years. So my timing isn’t bad either.

I can choose what attitude I bring to this challenge and I really want to face it with humor and grace. I’m always looking for Grace, that should have been my daughter’s name, then I’d be certain to always find it.

I’m thinking about my girlfriend in Alabama whose been struggling with breast cancer. She’s had years in Al-Anon. She battled her cancer with openness, courage and humour. I can just imagine lying around her in bed after chemo or radiation, laughing about her boob biz. I wish I could be down there with her now. Tomorrow she’s having another reconstructive surgery. And another breast-cancer survivor friend is having a cyst on her ovary removed tomorrow. And it’s my husband’s birthday tomorrow and we’re going to the baseball game. A lot is happening tomorrow and I hope they are all good things. I’m praying.

I’m blithering on now mainly because I’m happy. I’m extremely grateful for all the people in my life. Lots of people who I love and who love me. Now that’s something.

I’m trying to do the right things; go to meetings, reach out to people, help others, blah, blah, blah. I’ll feel temporary relief but then I inevitably sink back into frustration, impatience and anger.

What I am angry about is this; I haven’t been able to get an appointment with an endocrinologist to find out what my treatment plan will be. Because my PCP unexpectedly left her practice last week, things are really screwed up.

I have a few different thoughts running through my head. This is bullshit, our medical system is broken, how can they ignore me when I was just diagnosed with a life-threatening illness? Why are the docs so busy and overloaded? And holy shit, why am I not getting my way? Aren’t I important enough?

Then my sane voice tells me to take it easy, I’ve had this cancer for a while, most likely years, waiting a bit for an appointment is not going to kill me. A friend who has survived two cancers, melanoma and lung cancer suggests I turn it over. That’s what everyone is suggesting but I keep thinking that if I’m not proactive then nothing will happen. And quite frankly, I’m used to getting my way. And when I think I’m not being heard, I get pissed off.

Another thing that same friend suggested is that I not back myself into a corner. I ‘m not doing myself a favor trying to force solutions.

Times like these are when I need the steps. Step Three,

I just finished reading “The Immortal LIfe of Henrietta Lacks“. How ironic that I’d be near the end of reading a  book about the woman whose cancer cells, taken from her without her consent, became one of the most important tools in medical research. Her cells were the first ones scientists were able to exist and reproduce in vitro. Cancer cells differ from regular cells in that they can divide indefinitely, unlike regular cells which are limited by the Hayflick Limit, the limited number of times a normal cell can reproduce before becoming mature. I think about my cancer, are the cells continuing to reproduce inside me or did the surgeon get them all out when he removed my thyroid? My chest tightens when I think of this, I feel my lymph nodes in my neck, are they growing there too? Has it spread? When they removed my thyroid, they also removed two lymph nodes, and the cancer had spread to one of them, very common in thyroid cancer.

Micrograph showing that the papillae in papillary thyroid carcinoma are composed of cuboidal cells. H&E stain. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’d prefer my cancer cells not be immortal.

I speculate about my response to all of this if I was still drinking. Would I get wasted every night, blotto, wiping out the fear and ultimately making it much worse than it actually is? Instead I go to meetings and talk about it, demystifying and sharing my fears. I’m enveloped in the fellowship of the program. I feel the love and support of my fellow alcoholics, it’s a miracle, really. My friends who’ve gone through this with their own cancer are reaching out to me, one wrote me an email late last night which I read right before I fell asleep. I’m walking with one of my best friends, a breast cancer survivor, on Monday morning.

I joined the “C” club without even realizing I’d been invited.

I remember when I was about 5 years old and my mother took me to the hospital for treatment for recurrent tonsillitis. I remember standing in a room and being told, “this is just like what you get at the dentist office, it won’t hurt.” Then everyone else left the room.

Exposure to radiation, especially as a child, is a common reason for the development of thyroid cancer. Shortly after my treatment, I had my tonsils and adenoids removed anyway, my first surgery and first hospital stay.  The highlight of that event was eating popsicles and a visit from my favorite big brother. I was 6 and he was 16, he meant the world to me.

I’ve gained weight since the surgery. My thyroid is suppressed, I’m on a low dose of synthetic thyroid hormone replacement. But honestly I think it’s the chocolate chip cookies. I’m blocked about going back to the gym, a hurdle I just need to get over. The plan is to hit the gym for a spin class today at 3:30pm. Wish me luck.

I want to live my life fully and do everything I can to be healthy through this. I know I’ll feel better if I go back to being dairy, soy and gluten-free. And the sugar. I need to cut out the added sugar, cancer’s favorite food. Sugar was the first substance I abused and one I fall back on by default. My best friend and my worst enemy. It doesn’t make me feel good, well it does initially, but the feeling I get soon after dispels the temporary high, much like the hangovers I’d get from drinking too much.

Practicing moderation and temperance is tricky for the alcoholic in me. My passions run amok. This time it’s gluttony, one of the seven deadly sins and a character defect I had to face during my fourth step. If I can channel these passions into healthy ones, exercise and meditation, I’ll be ahead of the game. And gratitude. I need to practice gratitude. After all, I could be facing a more virulent form of cancer and the treatment and prognosis could be much worse. So what if I’m radioactive for a week? The worst part of that will be not being able to cuddle with my pups.

I’m grateful for having this outlet to write about my experience. Writing down the bones. That’s it. And this is therapeutic. It’s my story and it’s a good one, really. In a few years I’ll look back on it and it will be a memory, just like the one of me at five years old standing in that big empty room with the large noisy machine. It will be over, I’ll have moved on.