I can tell you where I was in my house when I got the late night call from my doctor.
I know what I was wearing, I can still smell my scented candle, and I remember the look in my husband’s eyes as I repeated the surgeon’s words, ‘so you think it’s cancer?’
That was almost three years ago and I can tell you, I’m now more convinced than ever that few things cast a longer shadow than a diagnosis of the “C” word.
Papillary Thyroid Cancer
For me, it was in my thyroid; a diagnosis that gets its five minutes of fame every September for Thyroid Cancer Awareness Month.
Before then I had never heard of the cancer affecting 11 people every day in the UK. Actually, I had barely given a thought to my thyroid at all. Yet there we were wondering how I’d manage without it.
A week later I was in hospital having a radical neck dissection which confirmed papillary thyroid carcinoma. Another seven days after that and the other half of my thyroid was removed along with a further pile of lymph nodes.
A “great result” meant all the black, necrotic nodes and the tumour were removed. A dose of radiation and I’d be good to go.
And so I was. Physically, at least. Aside from a stiff neck and damage to nerves in my face, I responded well to everything thrown at me.
But like the cold water shock of grief, when life bullishly went back to normal, I was wandering around in a daze imaging every itch or tightening in my neck was “cancer – the sequel.”
Lasting impact
In truth, I’m still living with the pathological impact cancer has had.
The radiation burned by mouth. I’m now tonsil free and have had one salivary gland reconstructed.
In a fortnight my other cheek will be operated on and the glands under my tongue excised.
My immune system has also embodied the persona of a Scottish granny and seems hell bent on welcoming every pathogen in off the street to join me for a bowl of soup.
And to the delight of my kids, courtesy of Horner Syndrome, my face looks like a drumstick lolly when I exercise.
All of that, I can take in my stride.
What I wasn’t prepared for is the impact even a so-called “good cancer” can have on self-esteem. I joke that my confidence was cut out with the dodgy lymph nodes, because that’s how quick a transition it was.
Even a “good” cancer can leave you in the shadows.
Confidence battle
I mean, I’ve never been the kind of gregarious, schmooze-people-at-bars-for-stories journalist you see in movies. I was, however, never scared to walk across a newsroom before. It’s crippling.
On my first day at DC Thomson I panic bought a venti latte from Starbucks then found myself too anxious to ask where the loo was.
When eventually even religiously maintained pelvic floor muscles began waving the white flag I made a dart for the exit where I accidentally found the restrooms.
Champion, except then my directionless brain was too embarrassed to ask for a map back to my desk.
The only thing that got me out of there was the further worry of wondering how I would find my bag if the lights were turned off by the time I re-emerged.
I used to investigate sex trafficking for crying out loud!
The struggle, as the young folk say, is real.
Scanxiety
Just when you get the hang of juggling the jaggy plates of work duties and home life, a massive weight of anxiety somehow also finds its way into the mix.
And all that on top of the massive weight, of, well, excess body weight.
Less said about that the better.
I’ve spoken to some friends currently going through cancer who all feel the same way.
You know you aren’t to blame for an uninvited diagnosis – but feel like guilty for adding to everyone else’s worries.
Even with a good report scanxiety comes to town as soon as that MRI appointment drops through the letter box.
There’s even survivor’s guilt for doing well when others are wading through a less optimistic mire.
Find something to smile about
I did get a kick-ass scar though. Coupled with a Lanarkshire accent, I can be decidedly more intimidating that I actually am. Ha. Lindsay 1 – Cancer 0.
In truth, clinging to a sense of humour about it all has been vital.
Making jokes about my dodgy veins and droopy eye, or the need for industrial strength Spanx, cover a multitude of emotions eroded and subdued.
I’m going to need to take medicine every day for the rest of my life but my prognosis is good.
I’m not 100% cancer free, but I’m told I may never be. But the word I keep being told is “good”.
So do me a favour. For this year’s Thyroid Cancer Awareness Month, check your neck and follow any lumps up with your GP.
Cancer is the club none of us want to be in, and while we’re a friendly bunch with an often irreverent sense of humour, we’d rather you didn’t join us.
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