Another Day. Another Organ Removed.

I don’t like surgery. I don’t like elective surgery. I don’t like surgery you have to have.-Sandra Bernhard

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

*I have been lax about adding new entries primarily because a lot has happened in the last few months. My energy is at most times minimal. And sometimes I simply can’t find the humor in my situation. Hopefully, that will change. I appreciate all that have subscribed and hope it brings you or someone you love a bit of joy. Thanks!*

When I was diagnosed with lung cancer in September 2020 there was one other concern that popped up on the CT scan—a nodule on my left thyroid. It was determined to be small, but large enough it shouldn’t be ignored. This was when I met the ENT doctor, which was doctor #5 in my current stable of eight specialists. 

His plan for treatment was a wait and see approach. That little nodule was not anything close to the “Danger, Will Robinson!” level of the tumor in my lung and brain. He ordered a biopsy, but those results were inconclusive. The only way to determine if cancer was lurking in my throat was to remove the thyroid and have it tested. However, he felt I needed to take care of the more serious issues first. He thought my other doctors would agree. They did.

Since the beginning of 2022 my health had been stable. There were some concerns about my remaining lung, but no issues with coughing or breathing. In fact, the only time I was aware of being a one lunger was when I tried to take the stairs two at a time and walking up steep hills. I doubt I’ll ever be able to do the Can-Can again, but no one wants to see that anyway.

Thyroid Guy was consistently cautiously optimistic. If that nodule was cancer, it was slow growing. I asked if it is cancer, wouldn’t the chemo have killed it? Unfortunately, no, it would not. It is a whole different animal. Cancer is like my cat, Nala. Some days she’s perfectly content letting me live here. The next day? One side glance sends her into a hissing “Get away from me, Peasant! Don’t even think about looking at me or I’ll vomit in your shoes and kill you in your sleep!” Nala doesn’t like me that much. I feel the same way about her—and cancer.

Due to the multiple pulmonary embolisms last year, I have been taking a blood thinner. For this surgery I would need to stop taking it for a few days beforehand. With Lung Guy’s approval, I was scheduled for a thyroidectomy. Thankfully, this was outpatient surgery. However, it is done using general anesthesia so there was the risk that I would have issues which would put me in the hospital overnight. Or I might not wake up at all. 

I understand that they have to give you all the worst-case scenarios, but...Jeezopete!  That always gets me to thinking about all the things that I swore I would do before checking out. Like organizing my office, decluttering every room, scanning old photos to digital files, writing that play, writing that book, losing the baby fat—so many things not yet done! 

The hospital instructed me to arrive at 11:30 a.m. with surgery at 1 p.m. No food or water after midnight. The going without food does not bother me, but no water or (GASP) coffee for more than 12 hours? That seems like excessive punishment for the privilege of having my throat cut.

The surgery could take up to two hours. Including the check in time, surgery and recovery, I was estimating I wouldn’t be leaving until after 5. I told my husband he could drop me off and I would call him when to pick me up. With the pandemic, he had become accustomed to sitting at home or in the car waiting as he was not allowed to come in with me. However, restrictions for someone staying with their loved one had eased. He decided to wait at the hospital. He loaded his backpack with his iPad, water, and enough snacks to sustain him for a couple of days. As an Eagle Scout, he is always prepared.

At the hospital we were escorted to outpatient surgery which was a very pleasant room with a big screen TV, comfy chairs, plus free coffee and snacks. My husband would be comfortable for up to a week here! I checked in and shortly after a nurse came in calling my name. She directed me to a cubicle with a gurney bed and began the preliminary questions. When did you last eat or drink anything? Fifteen hours ago! What medications do you take? Isn’t that listed on my chart? Are you allergic to anything? No. Do you know why you are here? I am here for a thyroidectomy.  I think that last question is designed to check cognitive capacity. She’s old. Does she remember this stuff? I do. However, if they ask what’s the name of the movie about the man in a boat and the actor that played the part, all bets are off.

I changed into the standard hospital gown and another new pair of sunshine yellow hospital grippy socks. So far in all my hospital stays, I’ve had sky blue, dove gray and surprisingly sexy red socks. Does anyone ever keep these? I don’t. 

Once changed and all my belongings in a plastic bag, they allowed my husband to come sit with me. The head nurse stopped by to see how I was doing. His name was Ben. He looked at my chart and said, “I see you had a left pneumonectomy. I worked in the surgical unit at that hospital for years. Who was your surgeon?” Total blank. I could see his face, but his name? No clue. Ben rattled off names of surgeons. None of them rang a bell. Hoo boy. What WAS his name? Am I failing this portion of the cognitive test?

Next the head of anesthesiology comes to ask me the same questions. Whew. I still remembered the right answers for him. Shortly after, the surgical anesthesiologist stopped to introduce herself. I told her where the gold was buried in the backyard. She said, “Awesome!” Ben stood next to her. She asked if I had met him? I exclaimed, “Kevin!” Their eyes widened with concern. Ben said, “I’m Ben.” Good grief. “Not YOU! That was the name of my surgeon.”  Sheesh. They were relieved. So was I.

Thyroid Guy showed up with his black sharpie to mark where he would cut my throat. He poked around a bit. “I like to make the incision in an established crease, but you don’t have one in a good spot.” I told him it was okay to make a new one as long as he pulled the skin to remove my neck wattle. He made no promises. 

It was another half hour before I was taken into surgery. In past procedures I clearly recall being wheeled in, seeing the surgical nurses and anesthesiologist, chatting about getting the happy juice, etc. This time I noticed the surgical lights above me and then I was completely out. Didn’t even get a chance to count down from 100.

When I woke, I was looking into the most beautiful blue eyes. Did I make it through the surgery or was this an angel? The eyes belonged to my recovery nurse. Even with a mask on, I could tell he was cute. He was holding my hand. Okay, maybe he was checking my pulse. The important thing is I woke up! The surgery went well, and I would be going home soon.

Recovery for this surgery was not at all bad. There was very little pain except for the incision site. I had a bit of a sore throat and hoarseness for a day or so. A week later I saw Thyroid Guy for follow up. He said it was textbook surgery. It only took about 45 minutes. I was very easy. I’ve been told that before, but it’s been a while. 

Now, it was waiting for pathology to report if the nodule was benign or malignant. Several days passed with no call about pathology results. There is nothing worse than waiting for test results. Finally, I got an email saying a new message has been uploaded to my online health chart. Now it’s the question of do I want to look at it now or wait for the doctor to call me?  

If it’s good news, huge relief. If not, I need some time to process the information and compile questions for what’s the next fresh hell in store. I opened the email. The first paragraph was titled “Gross Description.” Wow. Glad I didn’t see the surgery! It was all about what was removed; left thyroid lobe, its size, appearance, etc. Then it focuses on the nodule; its size, color, the number of slices to test it. The second paragraph: “The dominant nodule is largely infarcted with fibrosis. The small amount of viable tumor tissue has follicular architecture and bland cytology. There is no evidence of malignancy in the slides examined.”

BENIGN! Relief. Does this mean I can start taking my life back? I’ll organize my office, scan photos, write that play, write that book, lose the baby fat! Or I’ll take it easy a bit longer. Don’t want to overdo.