D.R. and I don't fight much. Sure, we get frustrated with each other--eyes are rolled, fingers are pointed, fists find their way to hips (that's my signature move), and there are exceedingly long drawn out breaths of frustration. But our time together has been pleasantly devoid of the ol' Knock Down Drag Out. Make no mistake, this is not from my lack of trying.
I come from a family of fighters. Not so much on my mom's side (although, she perfected the silent treatment and wielded that weapon well when I was young), but my dad's side--whoo boy! There was yelling, stomping, screaming, swearing, slamming doors, and, my personal favorite, the strategic exit of a moving vehicle.
My father and stepmother, Sonjah, were fighting in the car on the way home from dinner one night. Amanda and I listened from the backseat, our foreheads creased with worry. I don't remember what they were fighting about, but Sonjah reached her threshold at the bottom of the biggest hill in our neighborhood. A hill that high school cross country coaches used to train and punish even their most seasoned runners. It's a big ass hill. At the top of her lungs, Sonjah shouted, "Matthew, stop this car right now! I am walking home!" We all tried to convince her that it wasn't necessary to get out of the car five minutes from home.
"I don't care! Stop the car!"
"Fine!" my father shouted. In one quick moment he pulled over to the side of the road, unlocked the car door, and stared straight ahead as his seething wife got out. She slammed her door and my father hit the gas. Amanda and I stared out the back window at Sonjah, astonished at how angry she was; scared she might not make it up the big ass hill and through the suburban wilds of Billings, MT; and, absolutely terrified of our father for letting her do it.
That's how you fight in the Dunn family: guns blazing, don't back down, and always wear comfortable walking shoes.
I employed this rampaging tactic with D.R. exactly one time. Again, don't remember what we were fighting about, but I literally threw down! . . . a pair of his dirty jeans that had not made it into the hamper, but had been living happily crumpled on our COFFEE TABLE for three days. I said something snarky as I slammed the denim on the floor. The gauntlet was thrown! D.R.'s eyes got wide, he braced himself against the couch while I growled and gnashed at him (I turn feral when angry). Then, his eyes went to the ground, his face expressionless, and I knew I had lost him. The defensive wall went up, and whatever I said fell on deaf ears. Progress made: none.
Since then, I've had to refine my tactical approach to conflict. I keep my crazy in check (for as long as I can) and D.R. has learned when it's necessary to rise up and tell me I'm being crazy (illogical, dramatic, unfair, selfish, etc.) . We have our issues just like any couple, but I am learning that it's not necessary to burn down the whole forest just because there's a twig in my shoe. And, I am happy to report, neither of us has ever had to exit a moving vehicle. Progress made: some.
Fortunately, this passion for conflict is the cousin of fierce strength and abiding love for family and friends. Both my mom and dad's families spring into action at the first sign of sadness or pain. If we can't be in the immediate proximity, we are shooting emails, making phone calls, and sending hand written cards. We link up over the time-zones--no matter how long it's been since we've seen each other or spoken--and wage war on whomever or whatever has dared stand against us. In this family you are loved . . . militantly.
When I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer in November, I handled the news as any normal person would: I cried.
D.R. was leaning on our kitchen counter as I wrapped up The Phone Call. His jaw was tight, his eyes were angry, and his arms were crossed over his puffed out chest. He wanted someone to blame just like I did. He hugged me and waited for me to speak. Since there wasn't much to say, he was content to let me use his t-shirt as Kleenex. Boys are so good at that.
When the crying was over, I took the next logical step that any normal person would: I started a mental draft of my will.
Regardless that every medical professional told me I would be fine. Regardless that I felt great and completely healthy. Regardless that I wasn't even on the surgeon's schedule yet because I wasn't considered "a ticking time bomb", I started leading D.R. around our apartment telling him who gets what in the event that I bite it. He rolled his eyes only a couple of times and reminded me that I was being a bit premature, and possibly--just possibly--a little dramatic. "Nevermind that! Who gets my vast collection of aprons?"
Confident that my worldly goods were in capable hands, I took the next logical step that any normal person would: I Googled "thyroid cancer".
My doctor warned me not to do it. D.R. tried to stop me. Hell, I tried to stop myself! But, as I mentioned, the first sign of pain or sadness, and we go to war. I was at war against an unknown and unwelcome thing. I figured the more knowledge, the better. I won't say that I was WRONG about that, per se, but I will admit that there are things I wish I could un-see. All those horrible accounts of mangled throats, spliced vocal chords, and uncontrollable weight gain kept scrolling across the page. When I brought the computer to bed, D.R. turned over with a disapproving sigh. I stayed awake until 3am, reading and panicking.
The next morning, the questions started. "What if the surgeon gets the wrong chart, and I end up minus one breast or something?"
"I will leave you immediately because I've made it very clear from day one that your breasts are the only reason I'm with you."
"What if they can't regulate the hormones and I turn into some horrible troll of a woman?"
"I will dress you up, charge people admission, and make lots of money off of you."
That, my friends, is someone you want by your side when you go into battle.
I had to go through the joyous process of finding a new doctor and surgeon, which meant surgery was postponed until January. I was ready for pumping anesthesia, flying scalpels, and now I had to wait?! Nothing puts a damper on a war like an enemy not willing to engage.
But, December actually turned out pretty awesome. I saw friends and family, even reconnected with people I hadn't talked to in years. D.R. talked me down from a number of irrational cliffs with the very calm observation, "I wouldn't know what to worry about first, so I'm just not going to start until I have to."
And so, with time, space, and pre-op testing, comes clarity. I am scheduled for surgery on January 20th, and what began as a war to be waged, now feels like a strongly-worded letter to be written.
Dear thyroid cancer:
Get the fuck out!
Sincerely, Samantha
The thing is, I know I'm a good fighter. I know I can make it up that big ass hill if I have to. Having D.R. by my side makes that possibility a lot less daunting.
But, if shit gets crazy, enjoy my real estate holdings and off-shore accounts. You know who you are.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
A Hulking Greatness
I completed the half-marathon and the victory has settled into my bones. Considering those bones are nicely insulated with Christmas cookies, wine, butter almond crunch, ridiculous amounts of cheese, peanut butter balls, and the fading hum of "Auld Lang Syne", the victory is well preserved.
It was a truly great day.
I ran with my seasoned running guru, Wendy, and my newest running hero, Erin. Both awesome women.
Wendy has been a runner for a while, but I became supremely impressed with her when she started training for her first half-marathon about 6 weeks post-C-section. I have been known to bitch and moan about running when it interferes with my stringent Barefoot Contessa viewing schedule--not Wendy. The half-marathon training went so well, she just went right on ahead and did the whole marathon. All the while, tending to two small boys, a husband, and life. Wendy runs with purpose, and allows very little room for bullshit. When she's ready, it's best to just git out the way, take a mental picture of her, and file it under "Ass, Bad".
She flew out to Los Angeles to run my first race with me, a 5K. She could run 3 miles in her sleep by that point, but I think she knew how important my first race was more than I did. I said to her, "You go ahead, I'm going to take it kinda slow."
"Nope, I am here to run this race with you."
She ran a 5K the day before on the beach--sand running, hard on the body--and it didn't even faze her as we ran on the hard asphalt in downtown Los Angeles. The last bit of the race found me dry-heaving just behind her left shoulder and praying my lungs would remain operational. "Samantha, you've got this . . . last tenth of a mile . . . let's go." I cried and hugged her as she handed me a banana and a cup of water at the finish line. She gave me a knowing look of welcome--a new member of the Runners' Fold. She is brave and bold in her running and her life. Hers is one of the voices on my mental motivation playlist. Stop thinking about it, Samantha, and just do it!
I met Erin in 2004 when she was one of my students at a community theater. I saw her perform with a youth Improv group and said to a friend, "Who is that amazing and hilarious creature?" Then, one day, I was waiting outside of the voice lessons room, listening to the strong, resonant, amazing voice of the singer that was finishing up inside. When the door opened and Erin walked out, I immediately developed a talent crush on her. I kinda wanted to follow her around making requests that she would sing on the spot. When I discovered she was one of the students in my voice class, I made up games that required her to sing as much as possible. The amount of talent this woman possesses is oodle-esque.
Wielding her guru abilities, Wendy convinced Erin--a woman who, much like me, despised running and said she would never do it--to start running. Not only did Erin start running, she decided to train for a half marathon--our half-marathon. It took me five years to build the gumption to train; Erin did it in less than a year. That is Erin's greatness: she's unassumingly plucky. She doesn't announce her best qualities and all the reasons you're going to love her. She doesn't shout for attention and clamor for accolades. She pulls you in with her genuineness and humor, and before you know it, you find yourself thinking I might be a little bit in love with you.
5am on race day found us pinning numbers on our shirts and passing around a box of Triscuits. We left D.R. and Wendy's husband, John, in the hotel room and headed to the start line in front of Mandalay Bay. Because there were so many runners, they did a wave start based on our predicted finish times. Erin and I dropped Wendy off and headed back to our corrals. When the gun went off, I was ready, man! . . . 20 minutes later I still hadn't crossed the START LINE, so I took the liberty of one final bathroom stop . . . 25 minutes after that, I officially started My Race.
The course was pretty sweet. It's hard to beat running on the Las Vegas Strip. As I was approaching mile 3, the winner of the half-marathon was sprinting in the opposite direction towards the finish line. Intimidating? Umm yeah, you betcha! I kept my pace and enjoyed the passing scenery, including the "Run-in Wedding Ceremony" in front of The Venetian. There actually were people running into it. Cheers to the happy couple!
I sacrificed 10 minutes waiting in line at a porta-potty at mile 5, and had to make the hard sell to get my body back in the run. Miles 6 and 7 meandered between the Strip and Freemont Street. There were barely any spectators, and I encountered one befuddled gentleman asking, "What are you guys doing?"
I was happy to see the Strip approaching around mile 8, and I kept my eyes on The Mirage's sign. Perhaps I am reading too much into it, but it felt like I covered the next mile and a half without the damn thing ever getting closer!
Then, a new thing happened--a strange thing. I got raging mad.
You know that scene in Old School when Will Ferrell shoots himself in the neck with an animal tranquilizer? That was me, in running tights. I wanted to shove all of the runners that were using up my air. But, instead of a polite, "Excuse me, would you remove yourself from my path, please?", all I could muster was, "Brawwrfurrrwheeeclopyawroooolrsnark!" My legs felt like two linebackers were hitching a ride around my ankles. My hat was soaked to capacity, sweat droplets falling in front of my face. My form was drooping, and I felt the anger rising. Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again . . .
Figuring the anger was a result of depletion, I took my last gels a little after mile 9, and waited for the serenity to return. Each mile was marked on the course and I was relieved to see a giant "10" in the distance. My longest run before the race was 11 miles, so I had the comfort of knowing I could complete at least one more mile. Then, the smell of garlic wafted towards me somewhere around Caesar's Palace and I felt nauseous, along with my--clearly not subsiding!--urge to bludgeon the offending chef.
But, I kept running.
I craned my neck, looking for "11", but couldn't see it. Regardless of their encouraging intentions, the noisy spectators shouting on the sidewalks were pissing me off (how's that for gratitude?). I regretted my decision to run without my iPod, and I really regretted the invention of the cowbell. I still couldn't see "11" and I was doubting I would make it to the finish line.
My chin was down and I was employing the *Inhale*--1--2--3, *Exhale*--1--2--3 trick. I looked up praying for "11" and was surprised to see "12". One would think I would be elated and filled with power to blaze through my last mile. Nope. Instead, Where the hell is the goddamn 11?! I didn't pay a hefty entrance fee to run a mis-marked course! This is unacceptable! I assure you the course was marked perfectly, but logic had not been invited to this particular party. Only rage.
A spectator on my right shouted, "Don't worry, guys, just 3 more miles to go!" I realize he was going for sarcasm, but I wanted to forgo finishing the race, hunt the man down, and punch him in the neck.
I believe this is what the experts call "hitting the wall".
I knew in that moment I needed help, or the rage would win. I needed an encouraging and familiar voice to tell me everything was OK and I would finish. I listened for the encouraging voices I had catalogued for this precise moment--Dad? Amanda? Wendy? Erin? Hell, I'll even take Oprah? This is when I really need someone else on my side!
Not a single voice piped up in my head . . . and I felt lonely.
There is a slogan I see quite frequently: "Running: cheaper than therapy." Looking back at how I felt on that course, somewhere between mile 12 and 13, I understood. My wall had stripped me of all my good qualities and left me with the juicy center of my worst--my temper, impatience, and inclination to give up when things aren't going my way (to name a few). I was confronted with--well, myself, and it wasn't pretty. Being so depleted physically, the only thing I could do was let the rage roll on. I wanted to feel fast, powerful, and untouchable. Instead, I was a pair of cut-offs away from Hulking out.
But, I kept running.
And I made a decision: this finish is not going to be pretty, but I will finish. I accepted every emotion--good and bad. I accepted every thought--light and dark. I acknowledged that my internal voice, my muscles, my heart beat, my lungs, were all working to accomplish my goal. I let all of that fill me up like a balloon reaching capacity. And when I crossed the finish line, I felt whole.
It took a bit for the emotional overload to wear off as I walked around the finish area. The race organizers decided it would be a good idea to have the finishers get their picture taken with a Vegas showgirl. A fun idea certainly, but not when all I wanted was an effin' banana and a cup of water! You won't like me when I'm dehydrated! I did not participate.
I finally found D.R., who waited for me to finish even though there was a Bronco game in progress. Those of you that know D.R. know how much of a sacrifice that was on his part. His face is one of the best in the world, and I was grateful it was the first I saw. Plus, few things sound as good as the person you love saying, "I'm so proud of you! . . . and I have to go because the Broncos just scored."
Wendy, Erin, and I walked back to the hotel room with medals around our necks and salt on our faces. We chose the Fat Tuesday mango slushie as our "recovery meal". Later that evening, the three of us got tattoos commemorating the event. We got dressed up. We took ourselves out for a delicious, gourmet dinner. More than once, each of us turned to the group and said, "This is truly a great day."
It truly was.
I hope my running gets faster and my half-marathons easier.
I hope my running shoes continue to be a place where I find myself when life makes me want to Hulk out.
I hope for more great moments . . . days . . . races . . . friendships. Greatness is the complex carbohydrate of life--it fuels you more, and sustains you longer. I shall consume as much as I can.
It was a truly great day.
I ran with my seasoned running guru, Wendy, and my newest running hero, Erin. Both awesome women.
Wendy has been a runner for a while, but I became supremely impressed with her when she started training for her first half-marathon about 6 weeks post-C-section. I have been known to bitch and moan about running when it interferes with my stringent Barefoot Contessa viewing schedule--not Wendy. The half-marathon training went so well, she just went right on ahead and did the whole marathon. All the while, tending to two small boys, a husband, and life. Wendy runs with purpose, and allows very little room for bullshit. When she's ready, it's best to just git out the way, take a mental picture of her, and file it under "Ass, Bad".
She flew out to Los Angeles to run my first race with me, a 5K. She could run 3 miles in her sleep by that point, but I think she knew how important my first race was more than I did. I said to her, "You go ahead, I'm going to take it kinda slow."
"Nope, I am here to run this race with you."
She ran a 5K the day before on the beach--sand running, hard on the body--and it didn't even faze her as we ran on the hard asphalt in downtown Los Angeles. The last bit of the race found me dry-heaving just behind her left shoulder and praying my lungs would remain operational. "Samantha, you've got this . . . last tenth of a mile . . . let's go." I cried and hugged her as she handed me a banana and a cup of water at the finish line. She gave me a knowing look of welcome--a new member of the Runners' Fold. She is brave and bold in her running and her life. Hers is one of the voices on my mental motivation playlist. Stop thinking about it, Samantha, and just do it!
I met Erin in 2004 when she was one of my students at a community theater. I saw her perform with a youth Improv group and said to a friend, "Who is that amazing and hilarious creature?" Then, one day, I was waiting outside of the voice lessons room, listening to the strong, resonant, amazing voice of the singer that was finishing up inside. When the door opened and Erin walked out, I immediately developed a talent crush on her. I kinda wanted to follow her around making requests that she would sing on the spot. When I discovered she was one of the students in my voice class, I made up games that required her to sing as much as possible. The amount of talent this woman possesses is oodle-esque.
Wielding her guru abilities, Wendy convinced Erin--a woman who, much like me, despised running and said she would never do it--to start running. Not only did Erin start running, she decided to train for a half marathon--our half-marathon. It took me five years to build the gumption to train; Erin did it in less than a year. That is Erin's greatness: she's unassumingly plucky. She doesn't announce her best qualities and all the reasons you're going to love her. She doesn't shout for attention and clamor for accolades. She pulls you in with her genuineness and humor, and before you know it, you find yourself thinking I might be a little bit in love with you.
5am on race day found us pinning numbers on our shirts and passing around a box of Triscuits. We left D.R. and Wendy's husband, John, in the hotel room and headed to the start line in front of Mandalay Bay. Because there were so many runners, they did a wave start based on our predicted finish times. Erin and I dropped Wendy off and headed back to our corrals. When the gun went off, I was ready, man! . . . 20 minutes later I still hadn't crossed the START LINE, so I took the liberty of one final bathroom stop . . . 25 minutes after that, I officially started My Race.
The course was pretty sweet. It's hard to beat running on the Las Vegas Strip. As I was approaching mile 3, the winner of the half-marathon was sprinting in the opposite direction towards the finish line. Intimidating? Umm yeah, you betcha! I kept my pace and enjoyed the passing scenery, including the "Run-in Wedding Ceremony" in front of The Venetian. There actually were people running into it. Cheers to the happy couple!
I sacrificed 10 minutes waiting in line at a porta-potty at mile 5, and had to make the hard sell to get my body back in the run. Miles 6 and 7 meandered between the Strip and Freemont Street. There were barely any spectators, and I encountered one befuddled gentleman asking, "What are you guys doing?"
I was happy to see the Strip approaching around mile 8, and I kept my eyes on The Mirage's sign. Perhaps I am reading too much into it, but it felt like I covered the next mile and a half without the damn thing ever getting closer!
Then, a new thing happened--a strange thing. I got raging mad.
You know that scene in Old School when Will Ferrell shoots himself in the neck with an animal tranquilizer? That was me, in running tights. I wanted to shove all of the runners that were using up my air. But, instead of a polite, "Excuse me, would you remove yourself from my path, please?", all I could muster was, "Brawwrfurrrwheeeclopyawroooolrsnark!" My legs felt like two linebackers were hitching a ride around my ankles. My hat was soaked to capacity, sweat droplets falling in front of my face. My form was drooping, and I felt the anger rising. Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again . . .
Figuring the anger was a result of depletion, I took my last gels a little after mile 9, and waited for the serenity to return. Each mile was marked on the course and I was relieved to see a giant "10" in the distance. My longest run before the race was 11 miles, so I had the comfort of knowing I could complete at least one more mile. Then, the smell of garlic wafted towards me somewhere around Caesar's Palace and I felt nauseous, along with my--clearly not subsiding!--urge to bludgeon the offending chef.
But, I kept running.
I craned my neck, looking for "11", but couldn't see it. Regardless of their encouraging intentions, the noisy spectators shouting on the sidewalks were pissing me off (how's that for gratitude?). I regretted my decision to run without my iPod, and I really regretted the invention of the cowbell. I still couldn't see "11" and I was doubting I would make it to the finish line.
My chin was down and I was employing the *Inhale*--1--2--3, *Exhale*--1--2--3 trick. I looked up praying for "11" and was surprised to see "12". One would think I would be elated and filled with power to blaze through my last mile. Nope. Instead, Where the hell is the goddamn 11?! I didn't pay a hefty entrance fee to run a mis-marked course! This is unacceptable! I assure you the course was marked perfectly, but logic had not been invited to this particular party. Only rage.
A spectator on my right shouted, "Don't worry, guys, just 3 more miles to go!" I realize he was going for sarcasm, but I wanted to forgo finishing the race, hunt the man down, and punch him in the neck.
I believe this is what the experts call "hitting the wall".
I knew in that moment I needed help, or the rage would win. I needed an encouraging and familiar voice to tell me everything was OK and I would finish. I listened for the encouraging voices I had catalogued for this precise moment--Dad? Amanda? Wendy? Erin? Hell, I'll even take Oprah? This is when I really need someone else on my side!
Not a single voice piped up in my head . . . and I felt lonely.
There is a slogan I see quite frequently: "Running: cheaper than therapy." Looking back at how I felt on that course, somewhere between mile 12 and 13, I understood. My wall had stripped me of all my good qualities and left me with the juicy center of my worst--my temper, impatience, and inclination to give up when things aren't going my way (to name a few). I was confronted with--well, myself, and it wasn't pretty. Being so depleted physically, the only thing I could do was let the rage roll on. I wanted to feel fast, powerful, and untouchable. Instead, I was a pair of cut-offs away from Hulking out.
But, I kept running.
And I made a decision: this finish is not going to be pretty, but I will finish. I accepted every emotion--good and bad. I accepted every thought--light and dark. I acknowledged that my internal voice, my muscles, my heart beat, my lungs, were all working to accomplish my goal. I let all of that fill me up like a balloon reaching capacity. And when I crossed the finish line, I felt whole.
It took a bit for the emotional overload to wear off as I walked around the finish area. The race organizers decided it would be a good idea to have the finishers get their picture taken with a Vegas showgirl. A fun idea certainly, but not when all I wanted was an effin' banana and a cup of water! You won't like me when I'm dehydrated! I did not participate.
I finally found D.R., who waited for me to finish even though there was a Bronco game in progress. Those of you that know D.R. know how much of a sacrifice that was on his part. His face is one of the best in the world, and I was grateful it was the first I saw. Plus, few things sound as good as the person you love saying, "I'm so proud of you! . . . and I have to go because the Broncos just scored."
Wendy, Erin, and I walked back to the hotel room with medals around our necks and salt on our faces. We chose the Fat Tuesday mango slushie as our "recovery meal". Later that evening, the three of us got tattoos commemorating the event. We got dressed up. We took ourselves out for a delicious, gourmet dinner. More than once, each of us turned to the group and said, "This is truly a great day."
It truly was.
I hope my running gets faster and my half-marathons easier.
I hope my running shoes continue to be a place where I find myself when life makes me want to Hulk out.
I hope for more great moments . . . days . . . races . . . friendships. Greatness is the complex carbohydrate of life--it fuels you more, and sustains you longer. I shall consume as much as I can.
 |
| Erin |
 |
| Wendy |
 | |
| Me |
Monday, November 29, 2010
Passing Inspection
Two years ago I found a little lump on the front right side of my neck. I had it checked out, and was told it was a "complex cystic structure". My doctor did not seem too concerned, and I left his office with some relief that the weird little knob was just there to hang out--cool, I can be hospitable and accommodating. I kept my eye on it, making sure it didn't get out of line, or take advantage of the cells I was so graciously supplying.
Finally, in October, for no other reason than I was tired of having some strange thing on the side of my neck that didn't seem to serve any purpose, I requested my doctor take the little freeloader out. He wasn't too keen on slicing open my neck to remove a lump that hadn't shifted, morphed, or proven itself a Gremlin. He explained that many women have these nodules near and/or on the thyroid. He asked me if I had experienced any other symptoms. Nope. Without other symptoms, he reiterated, he was definitely not going to get scalpel-happy on my neck. However, just to be safe, he sent me in for an ultrasound. I made the appointment for Friday, November 5th.
Feeling relief that I would soon get the "we have confirmation that you have nothing to worry about" phone call, I went to work on Monday morning . . . and was promptly laid off. Awesome.
My level of panic over losing my job can be gauged by the fact that I drank only a bottle of wine, and not a bottle of tequila. I made appointments with all my doctors before my insurance ran out (good girl!), signed up for unemployment, dusted off my resume, and started asking myself if the quest for the perfect piece of chocolate cake was really going to be my only contribution to society? What do I want to be when I grow up?
I went in for my ultrasound on Friday and was reassured that I had nothing to worry about from my lovely ultrasound tech, Olga (I'm going with Hungarian. The story is more fun if she's Hungarian). "I see these all the time with women your age. Start worrying when there is only one lump. You have numerous." I know she was shooting for comforting, but how comforting is the thought of "numerous" nodules running rampant all over my throat and thyroid?
My doctor called that afternoon.
I was informed that the nodule on the right side of my thyroid was about 3 centimeters long--cause for concern. The next step was a Fine Needle Aspiration biopsy. Fine needle or not, I was not jazzed about, essentially, being stabbed in the neck. The fact that it would give a conclusive answer was a comfort. As my doctor went on describing the short procedure, I realized this was the first time the word "cancer" had graced us with its presence. No more talk of "complex cystic structures" and "nodules". Whatever was lounging in my neck either was, or it wasn't. I guess I was grateful we had narrowed down the outcome.
So, I got stabbed in the neck. It felt weird, but George, from Honduras, sweetly stood beside me and kept asking if I was alright. We talked about his 11-year-old daughter and his experience running marathons. Like Olga, George assured me they had done a number of these procedures on women and it turns out to be nothing. Gotta love those optimistic foreigners.
Two days went by . . . three . . . four . . . the weekend. This Monday, while D.R. and I were in the throes of cleaning for Thanksgiving company, my doctor called with the results. Let's just say the dusting and vacuuming came to a halt.
Papillary thyroid carcinoma. It is the first stage of the most manageable type of cancer one can get. It requires surgery to remove the tumors and the possibility of radiation to zap any lingering cells. My thyroid will come out along with all of the offending lumps, and I will be on hormones for the rest of my life.
Once I got over the horrible imagery that followed the connection of my own life to the word "cancer", I realized I've got it pretty good. My grandfather had thyroid cancer and the same operation I will have. That was in 1968. He died just last November after a long and healthy life. My mom and her sisters have all dealt with some sort of thyroid issue and they are still bossing family members around with grace and finesse. I come from good stock, people.
My doctor assured me I was not "a ticking time bomb". He told me to schedule the surgery for some time after Thanksgiving.
It is amazing how certain news makes all those little planets orbiting around our heads at any given time--bills, the holidays, family, desk organization, laundry--line up for inspection. And, if they don't pass inspection, they are let go. Life makes perfect sense in those moments. As all those little planets left my orbit and wandered to a galaxy that I will revisit some time in 2011, I said, "Doc. I am scheduled to run a half-marathon on December 5th. Can we schedule the surgery after that?"
"Absolutely. I think it would be good for you to do that."
You have no idea how right your are, Doc. No idea at all.
Finally, in October, for no other reason than I was tired of having some strange thing on the side of my neck that didn't seem to serve any purpose, I requested my doctor take the little freeloader out. He wasn't too keen on slicing open my neck to remove a lump that hadn't shifted, morphed, or proven itself a Gremlin. He explained that many women have these nodules near and/or on the thyroid. He asked me if I had experienced any other symptoms. Nope. Without other symptoms, he reiterated, he was definitely not going to get scalpel-happy on my neck. However, just to be safe, he sent me in for an ultrasound. I made the appointment for Friday, November 5th.
Feeling relief that I would soon get the "we have confirmation that you have nothing to worry about" phone call, I went to work on Monday morning . . . and was promptly laid off. Awesome.
My level of panic over losing my job can be gauged by the fact that I drank only a bottle of wine, and not a bottle of tequila. I made appointments with all my doctors before my insurance ran out (good girl!), signed up for unemployment, dusted off my resume, and started asking myself if the quest for the perfect piece of chocolate cake was really going to be my only contribution to society? What do I want to be when I grow up?
I went in for my ultrasound on Friday and was reassured that I had nothing to worry about from my lovely ultrasound tech, Olga (I'm going with Hungarian. The story is more fun if she's Hungarian). "I see these all the time with women your age. Start worrying when there is only one lump. You have numerous." I know she was shooting for comforting, but how comforting is the thought of "numerous" nodules running rampant all over my throat and thyroid?
My doctor called that afternoon.
I was informed that the nodule on the right side of my thyroid was about 3 centimeters long--cause for concern. The next step was a Fine Needle Aspiration biopsy. Fine needle or not, I was not jazzed about, essentially, being stabbed in the neck. The fact that it would give a conclusive answer was a comfort. As my doctor went on describing the short procedure, I realized this was the first time the word "cancer" had graced us with its presence. No more talk of "complex cystic structures" and "nodules". Whatever was lounging in my neck either was, or it wasn't. I guess I was grateful we had narrowed down the outcome.
So, I got stabbed in the neck. It felt weird, but George, from Honduras, sweetly stood beside me and kept asking if I was alright. We talked about his 11-year-old daughter and his experience running marathons. Like Olga, George assured me they had done a number of these procedures on women and it turns out to be nothing. Gotta love those optimistic foreigners.
Two days went by . . . three . . . four . . . the weekend. This Monday, while D.R. and I were in the throes of cleaning for Thanksgiving company, my doctor called with the results. Let's just say the dusting and vacuuming came to a halt.
Papillary thyroid carcinoma. It is the first stage of the most manageable type of cancer one can get. It requires surgery to remove the tumors and the possibility of radiation to zap any lingering cells. My thyroid will come out along with all of the offending lumps, and I will be on hormones for the rest of my life.
Once I got over the horrible imagery that followed the connection of my own life to the word "cancer", I realized I've got it pretty good. My grandfather had thyroid cancer and the same operation I will have. That was in 1968. He died just last November after a long and healthy life. My mom and her sisters have all dealt with some sort of thyroid issue and they are still bossing family members around with grace and finesse. I come from good stock, people.
My doctor assured me I was not "a ticking time bomb". He told me to schedule the surgery for some time after Thanksgiving.
It is amazing how certain news makes all those little planets orbiting around our heads at any given time--bills, the holidays, family, desk organization, laundry--line up for inspection. And, if they don't pass inspection, they are let go. Life makes perfect sense in those moments. As all those little planets left my orbit and wandered to a galaxy that I will revisit some time in 2011, I said, "Doc. I am scheduled to run a half-marathon on December 5th. Can we schedule the surgery after that?"
"Absolutely. I think it would be good for you to do that."
You have no idea how right your are, Doc. No idea at all.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Onwards, Upwards, and Nauseous
Distance Run: 4.5 miles @ 9pm
Time: 55:39
Route: East on Los Feliz and back.
I won't bury the lead with attempts at insight. I got laid off from my job and the past three days have been less than stellar as I "transitioned" everything to my replacement. It's over now.
I viewed tonight's run as a purging of the anxiety, anger, and uncertainty that has dominated my brain since Monday morning. With those emotions as my base, I'm not surprised the run didn't go as well as I hoped.
Along with battling some unseasonably warm weather (90 frakkin' degrees in November?), my lungs are still struggling with the remnants of the Wretchedness. My legs felt heavy and my feet were dragging. I've had a wonky stomach since this morning and the jostling didn't help at all--Pepto Bismol for dinner. Funnily enough, my hip feels much stronger.
This run will not go down as an example of powerful athleticism, but I am so grateful for it. Life isn't what I want it to be right now, but running is exactly what I need.
Time: 55:39
Route: East on Los Feliz and back.
I won't bury the lead with attempts at insight. I got laid off from my job and the past three days have been less than stellar as I "transitioned" everything to my replacement. It's over now.
I viewed tonight's run as a purging of the anxiety, anger, and uncertainty that has dominated my brain since Monday morning. With those emotions as my base, I'm not surprised the run didn't go as well as I hoped.
Along with battling some unseasonably warm weather (90 frakkin' degrees in November?), my lungs are still struggling with the remnants of the Wretchedness. My legs felt heavy and my feet were dragging. I've had a wonky stomach since this morning and the jostling didn't help at all--Pepto Bismol for dinner. Funnily enough, my hip feels much stronger.
This run will not go down as an example of powerful athleticism, but I am so grateful for it. Life isn't what I want it to be right now, but running is exactly what I need.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Seven Miles in My Head
My Nike+ is no longer calibrating correctly, so I am forced to run (gasp! shudder!) tech-free until I get a new one. Since I can't make notes about my runs on the Nike+ website, I figured I would come here and tell the Interwebs of my running revelations.
Distance run: 7 miles
Time: 1:29:31
Route: East on Franklin, past John Marshall High, down the west side of Silverlake Reservoir and back.
This is my first run back after being sick with the Wretchedness for two weeks.
We went to Billings a couple weekends ago to celebrate my stepmother's 50th birthday, and my sweet niece, Isla, gave us all her cold. Seriously, with this face, I ask you, could you stop yourself from picking her up and smooching her?
I read an article a while back about a man that can run an entire marathon on a treadmill with no music or background noise. He has honed this ability over many years, focusing on his breathing and how his body feels at any given moment. He is very present, almost yogic, in his running.
I cannot relate.
I am an iPod runner. I need that music pumping in my ears to get me through the tough spots. The Nike+ understands this so well, it has the option of a "Powersong". A song of choice is programmed (currently, mine is Kelly Clarkson's "My Life Would Suck Without You"), and when that last mile is nothing but wheezing, burning, and shuffling . . . Kelly saves the day. I. Need. My. Ipod. Moreover, the thought of running 26 miles in one place is like death to me. I can't run the same 3-mile route for more than a week, let alone on a treadmill. I need changing scenery, uneven roads to maneuver, people that walk 3-bodies wide on a sidewalk so I can sigh disapprovingly at them when I pass. Oh, excuse me! Am I in the way of your Humvee stroller and chihuahua on a 37-foot long lead?
I do yoga. I love yoga. I do it as a counter-balance to the heart-pumping, body-pounding, glory-seeking that is running. Yes, yoga has great mental benefits and forces me to focus on my breathing and stretching. But, to be honest, I am not waiting for a moment of enlightenment; I am waiting for my hip to loosen enough so I'm a little more Warrior 3, and a little less Wobbly 1.5. I proudly admit that I am a results-oriented person.
I'm sure there are runners like me that start the run . . . then immediately place their focus on the end of the run. Just get it over with! Then, I thought about people that have asked my why I run. I never answer, "Well, the sooner you start, the sooner it's over!" I explain that, running is about proving to myself that my body can do something even when my brain is telling me it's a horrible idea. It is about overcoming all those voices that said I could never be an athlete. It is about finding solace in motion.
The thought occurred to me that maybe I need to focus on feeling that way while the run is in progress. Mr. Marathon on a Treadmill presents an interesting challenge: be present in your body at the time you are requiring the most of it.
I set a goal to adopt this "meditative running" for a period of 6 months, with the caveat that they did not have to be consecutive. Whenever I feel like challenging myself, or when my running play list turns boring, I can turn it all off and just listen to (and hopefully subside) the traffic in my head.
Lucky me, October is one of my chosen months.
Distance run: 7 miles
Time: 1:29:31
Route: East on Franklin, past John Marshall High, down the west side of Silverlake Reservoir and back.
This is my first run back after being sick with the Wretchedness for two weeks.
We went to Billings a couple weekends ago to celebrate my stepmother's 50th birthday, and my sweet niece, Isla, gave us all her cold. Seriously, with this face, I ask you, could you stop yourself from picking her up and smooching her?
(Uncle D.R. was very proud of her choice of toy)
(Blue eyes in the bath)
("Little Girl, Big Dreams")
While completely worth it, I have felt like an elephant on fire has been sitting on my chest for two weeks. Today was the first day that I felt my lungs could handle some real work.
**********
I read an article a while back about a man that can run an entire marathon on a treadmill with no music or background noise. He has honed this ability over many years, focusing on his breathing and how his body feels at any given moment. He is very present, almost yogic, in his running.
I cannot relate.
I am an iPod runner. I need that music pumping in my ears to get me through the tough spots. The Nike+ understands this so well, it has the option of a "Powersong". A song of choice is programmed (currently, mine is Kelly Clarkson's "My Life Would Suck Without You"), and when that last mile is nothing but wheezing, burning, and shuffling . . . Kelly saves the day. I. Need. My. Ipod. Moreover, the thought of running 26 miles in one place is like death to me. I can't run the same 3-mile route for more than a week, let alone on a treadmill. I need changing scenery, uneven roads to maneuver, people that walk 3-bodies wide on a sidewalk so I can sigh disapprovingly at them when I pass. Oh, excuse me! Am I in the way of your Humvee stroller and chihuahua on a 37-foot long lead?
I do yoga. I love yoga. I do it as a counter-balance to the heart-pumping, body-pounding, glory-seeking that is running. Yes, yoga has great mental benefits and forces me to focus on my breathing and stretching. But, to be honest, I am not waiting for a moment of enlightenment; I am waiting for my hip to loosen enough so I'm a little more Warrior 3, and a little less Wobbly 1.5. I proudly admit that I am a results-oriented person.
I'm sure there are runners like me that start the run . . . then immediately place their focus on the end of the run. Just get it over with! Then, I thought about people that have asked my why I run. I never answer, "Well, the sooner you start, the sooner it's over!" I explain that, running is about proving to myself that my body can do something even when my brain is telling me it's a horrible idea. It is about overcoming all those voices that said I could never be an athlete. It is about finding solace in motion.
The thought occurred to me that maybe I need to focus on feeling that way while the run is in progress. Mr. Marathon on a Treadmill presents an interesting challenge: be present in your body at the time you are requiring the most of it.
I set a goal to adopt this "meditative running" for a period of 6 months, with the caveat that they did not have to be consecutive. Whenever I feel like challenging myself, or when my running play list turns boring, I can turn it all off and just listen to (and hopefully subside) the traffic in my head.
Lucky me, October is one of my chosen months.
**********
I've been fulfilling my goal with the Nike+ because it offers the option of no music while you run, but still has the voice that reminds you how far you have gone. Very helpful. With no audio mile-markers to look forward to, I really had to implore my brain to be my ally today.
I always find that for the first mile, I am asking my body to remember how great running feels and get on board for the journey. OK, everybody, remember this: one foot goes down, then the other? I find it takes at least the first mile for all body parts to get in sync and play nice with each other.
The second mile was very hilly. I reminded myself to shorten my steps and keep the cadence the same. "The body's form and speed should not change because of a hill," says some running dude at Runner's World. I actually enjoy hills because it gives my brain something on which to focus. It's when I'm running flats that my brain starts to wander. Today, my brain wandered right into Nelly's "Ride Wit Me" lyrics. I have no idea why. I haven't heard it on the radio. It's not on my iPod. And, I don't really know the song, so I just kept repeating, "If you wanna go and take a ride with me . . . Hey! Must be the money!"
Miles three and four were on the path around the reservoir, which means I was doing a lot of stroller/dog-walker/unobservant runner dodging. Not having music made me more aware of my rage at people who do not adhere to path etiquette.
Mile six was the reverse of the hills of mile two. I had to give myself a pep-talk. Out loud. I didn't care if anyone could hear me, and I don't really know what I said. I do remember repeatedly saying, "It's all mental . . . it's all mental." Kelly Clarkson would've been helpful here.
The rest of the way home, I concentrated on the ground I could see under my hat brim. I didn't lift my chin to see how far I had to go. No. I covered the 10 feet I could see under my hat brim, then I worried about the next 10 feet. What can I control right now when my body is on the verge of revolt? My legs are heavy. My feet are burning. That fucking en fuego elephant is back lounging on my chest! Those ten feet were all I could handle.
I was afraid of that seven miles, so I'm grateful and proud that I completed it. But, I'm saving my victory dance because I had a moment of stark clarity before entering our apartment: I am closer to achieving my goal than I am to starting my goal. I am past the halfway point. It's going to get harder before it gets easier.
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