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Chapter 5 The Legend of Follicular Cancer Lady 
7/15/04 I spent the better part of yesterday (well that's a lie, it wasn't really the BETTER part of my day) at the cancer center. I was the youngest person there by at least fifty years (the selection of music reflected that fact-lots of Boogie Woogie Bugle boy type stuff). When I gave my name at the desk I learned I was a B-list celebrity and didn't even know it. "Oh my gosh-so YOU'RE the follicular cancer lady!" the receptionist gasped. "Hey Sue, it's the follicular cancer lady!" Every woman in pastel scrubs within a five-mile radius trotted over to have a look at me. They marveled at my youth, and my type of cancer that rarely came through their doors. Odd reaction, I thought, surely other people have thyroid cancer? I decided to keep my mouth shut and accept my new celebrity status. I sat down to await whatever this cancer place had in store. The day was kind of like a video game with various levels for me to conquer before reaching the end. First, I was led through a labyrinth into a room where I sat for thirty minutes before anyone came.  I'd left my "Official Guide to Celebrity Break-Ups" in the waiting area so I was stuck reading about how to make star shaped apple tarts for the fourth of July. I wasn't allowed to eat anything that day in order to get the injection for the PET scan, so I was daydreaming about apple tarts and macaroni salad when someone knocked on the door.
This person's only purpose as far as I could tell, was to make sure I was really alive by taking my pulse and temperature (lest they waste time on a dead person). Once I got past the "death-checker," the next challenge was to answer one-hundred and forty seven questions. Do you have any allergies? Have you ever been pregnant? Do you ever wish to be pregnant? Have you ever lived next to a nuclear power plant? If I answered all those correctly, I was allowed to move on to the next level where another person in a different color uniform would ask me roughly the same questions. Then that person would leave and I would wait another twenty minutes before I got to go to the next level--seeing the actual doctor. I think this is like getting to see the knight who guards the holy grail. You have to pass all the physical tests, answer the riddles and slay the on-call nurse before you get to talk to him. Once I passed all the trials my (very cute) oncologist came in to ask me the same questions everyone else had while he nodded his head and looked at my chart (which said exactly the same thing I was telling him). He instructed me to take off my top and handed me the ceremonial garment (a pink paper shirt that came two inches short of covering my belly). He told me he'd be back in a bit. By this point in my cancer process I was an expert in standard medical time measurements. For instance, I knew that the term "right back" meant twenty-five minutes from now. "I'll return shortly," means as soon as I finish the triple heart by-pass in the next room. And "In a bit" means after I go to lunch, play nine holes of golf and shampoo my Yorkie Terrier. I spent my time attempting to find the best pose in my ceremonial garb, one that minimized my bulging gut and concealed my unshaven armpits. When he finally returned, I was damp with perspiration and the paper that used to cover the exam table was now a wet, shredded clump near my knee. He asked me to raise my arms above my head and before I could say, "Bic Triple Blade Action" the exam was over and he was mumbling those four little words every patient loves to hear, "I'll be right back." He came back the customary twenty minutes later to discuss my treatment plan as if it had been passed down from Buddha himself. I listened as he solemnly explained that after my surgery I would have to walk seven deserts and swim seven seas.  Once on dry land again, I would be treated with radioactive iodine. I'd have to wait a month after thyroid removal to have this treatment and I couldn't go on thyroid medication until after I was radio-activated. He nonchalantly said this meant that for those four weeks I would be utterly exhausted all the time with no thyroid and no artificial thyroid hormone.
He went on to say that for the radioactive iodine treatment I would need to be in the hospital for three days. This is because I'd be too radioactive to be in the general population. I giggled and imagined a concerned teacher telling a parent, "I'm sorry Mrs. Seguin, but your daughter is just too radioactive to be in the general population." The doctor droned on that  I wouldn't be allowed to share silverware, hold babies or be around pregnant women for a week. I acted upset and said I made it a rule to go no longer than four days without eating off someone else's fork while rubbing a pregnant woman's belly. He blinked at my bad joke and said, almost happily, that I wouldn't be able to have visitors while I was radioactive. I tried hard not to smirk every time he said "radioactive" (which was a lot) and thought of what superpowers I might acquire. Maybe I'll have the power to answer all medical questions with a single stroke of my pen, maybe I'll have the power to vanquish the insurance companies with my radio-active stare... Only time will tell...
*** After my tasks were laid out before me, the Doctor escorted me to the next level of the game--the PET/CT SCAN level. I had made it! Sound the bugles! Finally, I would get to do what I showed up for three hours ago! PET stands for Positron Emission Tomography--and yes, it's as cool as it sounds. They lit this wing of the building as you would a cave. On the wall were the ancient markings of previous patients; stick figures of nurses and herds of syringes were portrayed. I was shown into a room with a puffy barka lounger and told that the Nuclear technician would be right with me. I converted that to standard medical time, and decided I would indeed have time to translate the Dead Sea Scrolls and maybe even start building a fort out of cotton swabs. I had just begun installing storm windows on my fort when a young girl came in. She asked me the exact same questions I'd answered so many times before (and it's worth mentioning again-also appear in my chart). No, I'm not pregnant; No, I'm not allergic; Yes, I can really pull my finger out of socket and flail it around (are they really listening anyway?) "You haven't eaten today right? Because I can't inject the radioactive stuff if you've eaten" She said. I assured her I hadn't. Just like I'd assured the eight other scrubs who'd asked me that same question. Each time a more painful reminder of the hollow crypt that was my stomach. I started seeing mirages, imagining the nurses and staff as enormous walking turkey legs and flank steaks. She proceeded to tell me that she'd just graduated and this was only her second day on the job. How special. It's my first time being injected with a radioactive substance, it's her first time injecting a radioactive substance… She jabbed my arm about eleven times before successfully starting the IV. Then, very ceremoniously, she came in with a syringe wrapped in a two-inch thick lead syringe-cozy.  This little cocktail had been ordered especially for me and driven over from the storehouse in a lead box. She held it out proudly for my approval like a waiter with a rare wine and assured me that the green glow was from the surrounding tube, not the liquid that was about to be introduced into my bloodstream.
She injected me with the (choose your own science sounding words) radioactive glucose nucleotide inhibitors. These little radio-nucleotides have the job of ferreting out cancer in your body and lighting it up like a Christmas tree so it can have its picture taken. My task for the next hour was to sit as still as possible (no reading, no TV) so that the nucleotides wouldn't confuse things like, oh, thought or movement with cancerous growth. You'd think they could train the nucleotides to be smarter so I could at least watch a little People's Court. The nuclear tech told me to "try not to think too much." Not a problem, I'd been there for four hours answering the same five questions, normal brain function ceased long ago. With that, she tucked me in, put my feet up, and left me with the nucleotides. *** An hour later, my IV was unhooked and I was ushered into the next and final level of the game. This was it--if I made it past this level I won the coveted prize of getting to GO HOME. In stark contrast to the dim, cave lighting I had dozed in for the last hour, the PET scan room was filled with what were quite possibly the brightest flourescent lights in the history of mankind. The room was completely white and resembled the lab in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory where the Oompa Loompas are sending candy bars through TV waves and they all have on those little white outfits. The machine loomed in the center of the room, a big white block with a hole through the middle and a tongue sticking out at me.  I tried to erase the image of a pencil sharpener from my head as the Oompa Loompa, I mean Nuclear Tech, told me to lay down on the tongue of the machine.
I laid down on my back and eased my head in between two padded blocks on either side of the plank. The nurse crossed my arms and wrapped me tightly like a pig in a blanket, pulling a large canvas cloth across my torso. This was either to make sure I didn't fall off the board, or to ensure that I would have a nervous breakdown. She then left me alone in the room to "just relax" (HA!) while I went for a ride in the tunnel. As she left she flipped a switch and the room was filled with more "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." The PET scan lasts about thirty minutes. The tongue goes in, out, in and out again. Pausing now and then so you can savor the good time you're having. The staff had made it more pleasant by placing a few butterfly stickers here and there. Which was good because sparkly butterflies three inches from my face took my mind right off the fact that I was strapped to a board in a dark tunnel. I closed my eyes and wished that instead of butterflies they had installed a concession stand because at this point my stomach was actually collapsing in on itself and dissolving into a paste. When the ride came to a complete stop, I was unstrapped and told I was free to go. I backed out of the room cautiously, unsure if this was truly the end or if I was being tricked. Was there a young girl hiding behind the door with a clipboard and more questions? Delirious with hunger, I strode quickly toward the reception area. As I rounded the corner I saw the receptionist's candy bowl. My eyes became wild. I clamored over two wheel chairs and a mailman and dove head first onto the counter. I clawed through the dish of starlight mints and Hershey's minis like a rabid dog. When I surfaced, covered with melted chocolate and candy wrappers, I turned toward the exit and broke into a run. "Wait!" the receptionist called after me "We need you to answer some questions for our files!" *** Follicular Cancer Lady will be making appearances in Las Vegas this weekend but tune in next week for: results of PET scan adventure and surgery date!!! Also coming soon to a hospital near you: "T2: Thyroidectomy, The Sequel" and the soon-to-be horror classic "The Girl Without a Thyroid" (in hospitals this August--check your local listings) |