No ifs ands or butts.

I've broken my tailbone three times.

The first time was when I was a kid learning to roller skate in the garage. I remember it hurt a lot, but I didn't want to make a big deal of it because I was afraid my parents might not let me skate anymore - and I loved skating. The second time was when I was a teenager and just doing the dumb things teenagers do. I don't think I told anyone about that fall because I was a teenager and some things you just didn't confess.

The last time was about seven years ago in a cave. I know what you're thinking... "Well that's what you get for going into caves. It's dangerous!" But it wasn't at all what you think.

For many years I had the privilege of volunteering my time doing restoration work in Carlsbad Caverns on three-day weekends. One of the projects I was involved with allowed me to lead restoration teams into the Dome Room in the caverns. The historically interesting thing about this room is the fact that in the 1920s it was used for weddings. The wedding party was lowered via guano mining buckets into the cave, and they would make their way to the area they called "The Chapel." The betrothed would then change into their finery, climb the hill into "The Chapel" and get married. Today we call it the Dome Room. I understand why they chose this room to stand before God and exchange vows. The Dome Room is one of the most beautiful, the gentlest, and one of the calmest areas in the cave. It feels like a very spiritual place, and many times I've sat in the stillness of the room wondering if it is the very place God chose to rest while he was creating the magnificent caverns. I love this room.

Anyway, once you reach the Dome Room, the terrain in the room isn't much different than being on the visitor trail. The main difference (to me anyway) is it doesn't have any paved trails. About seven years ago I was on my way into the Dome Room on the first day of our three day weekend for our first day of restoration work. I climbed up and into the room, stepped onto the smooth, flat part of the room to set down my pack and... down I went. Right onto my tailbone.

I didn't say anything out loud because what I was thinking wasn't very spiritual.

I was in so much pain I couldn't catch my breath. The room was spinning. I couldn't see. I couldn't stand up. I couldn't sit down. I couldn't move. And I didn't tell anyone I was in pain.

Eventually I was able to get up. I picked up my pack and spent the rest of the day on my knees cleaning formations. After the day's work we left the cave and went back to the cabin. Evenings in the cabin with the other cavers was "family time." We changed into clean clothes and fixed dinner. After dinner was always my favorite time. We'd sit around and tell caving stories and just enjoy each others company. It was then, and only after several rum and cokes - that I told anyone that I thought I had broken my tailbone. I laughed it off and said how amusing it was that in all my years of caving I sustained my worst injury in the easiest room ever. But no one knew how bad it really was. I was laughing on the outside, but on the inside I was screaming. The pain was nearly unbearable.

When the weekend was over we drove home. I rode sideways in the car because sitting was so painful, but as usual the next day I went back to work. I am sure all my co-workers thought I had a terrible case of hemorrhoids because I couldn't sit still or stay in one position very long. I didn't tell anyone what was wrong or how bad it hurt. I kept the pain to myself.

Some things never change.

The normalcy in fruitcake.

Today I spent most of the day making fruitcakes with my husband. He's a great guy anyway, but think about it this way... how many husbands out there would actually spend a Sunday afternoon listening to Christmas music and making fruitcakes? Not one, but both activities. Yup. I'd say he's a keeper.

Most people hate fruitcake. I happen to like it - especially if it's mine. I have the most wonderful recipe for fruitcake. Of course some might attribute this to the fact that it is half alcohol, but it actually is a very nice dessert. It's also a whole lot of work. If I hadn't have had help I don't think I could have made them this year.

Accepting help is hard for me. I've always been very self-sufficient, especially in the kitchen. It's rare that I've ever needed anyone to help me do anything in the kitchen, except of course washing dishes. I don't actually need help washing dishes, I just don't like that part.

I need help doing a lot of these things these days because I am so tired. Not just an ordinary done-too-much tired, but a deep down inside tired. I hate it. I just want to feel like I used to. I want to feel better so I don't always wonder what else is going on inside of me. I don't think it's over yet. I don't know what that means exactly but I can feel it. I had another scan a week or so ago and the radiologist said something showed up in the utlrasound. The odd thing is that the ultrasound was on my legs. The doctor wanted to check to make sure my legs were free of obstructions and this "area" showed up in the pictures. I asked the radiologist if it meant anything, and he said "well, it certainly isn't supposed to be there." That was helpful. I still don't know what it means, and I am guessing that I'll have to wait until after the holidays.

Meanwhile, I'll try to do "normal" things. I'll enjoy the fruitcake and try very hard to not to become one.

Out of control.

In the last few weeks I have said all kinds of things here. I have written volumes. I have been frustrated, angry, sad, and lost.

I should just tell my story but I don't. I save everything as drafts - and then erase it. Why do I do this? Isn't this my blog?

Oh Christmas Tree, oh Christmas Tree

I love decorating for Christmas. Usually I go on a decorating frenzy, and put everything up in a day or two. But this year is just isn't working that way. I start decorating then after 20 or 30 minutes I am so tired I have to stop and rest. I feel guilty just sitting sometimes when I have so much to do.

I am determined, though. I am going to get this finished because there is something about looking at Christmas decorations that makes me smile even when I don't feel like it.

Giving Thanks

In 1971 I was in New York City on Thanksgiving Day. My high school drama teacher arranged to take some of the students to the city to see several shows, and we stayed in the Time Square Motor Hotel. It wasn't exactly a high class hotel, and I believe it was condemned not long after we were there.

The most interesting thing about the trip was the fact that we were not required to stay together as a group. The teacher just told us where to meet each afternoon and we were turned loose. I rode a subway, went to Macy's, ate from a hot dog cart, wandered around Broadway, and toured Central Park. I don't think we could get by with that these days, but all of us survived.

The highlight of my trip though, was not the big Thanksgiving parade. It wasn't even the Broadway shows. In fact, I barely remember either. What I do remember is the first time I stood at the base of the Statue of Liberty. I just stood there a long time and looked up in awe. Then I climbed the spiral stairs and looked out the windows in the crown. I'll never forget that moment.

This Thanksgiving I have a new never forget moment. It was on October 1, 2010 when I was told "The preliminary report says it is Papillary Thyroid Carcinoma."

Thanksgiving is a little different after being told you have cancer. You still enjoy the turkey and dressing, you laugh at the weirdness of the relatives, and you still pretend to like watching football. But deep down your prayer of Thanksgiving is very personal.

Today I am grateful for a successful surgery. I am grateful for scientific advancement, and for the skill of my doctors as they continue to treat me.

I am grateful that I can still enjoy pumpkin pie.

But most of all I am grateful for the people in my life that surround me with love and hold me in their thoughts and prayers.

I am blessed.

I need a little Christmas

I usually start listening to Christmas music sometime in August. I hide it of course, because some people just wouldn't understand. They might think I am weird. I'm not. Well, maybe I am a little. I imagine people in the cars next to me think I'm really weird if they see me singing Frosty the Snowman at the top of my lungs...while it's 102 degrees outside.

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. I know it's overly commercialized, but what I love about it is the feeling of Christmas. If you are like me I don't even need to explain it. It just is.

Last night we went to a wonderful community theater production of "White Christmas." The stage play is quite different from the movie, but a lovely story just the same. The play captured a little of that feeling I'm talking about, especially when the audience was invited to sing the well-known and well-loved title song. This time one of my favorite songs made me really sad, though.

I can't sing.

The doctor doesn't believe my vocal cords have been affected, even though much of the time I can't speak very loud. But I can't sing at all. Believe me, I've tried. Nothing comes out, nothing even remotely recognizable as a musical note. I don't like it. I will have to just sit and listen this Christmas, and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. I'm angry, I'm sad. I'm frustrated.

And it's not fair.

meltdown.

I am so sorry I forgot to put my cancer on your calendar. What was I thinking?

Sure. I'll take it easy on my first days back. I'll get right on it as soon as I meet all your deadlines.

Heading for the hump

I made it through Monday. I made it through Tuesday. I'm not sure I can make it through Wednesday. I am really tired after my first two days back at work.

I don't feel like I've even been doing anything. I've been in meetings. I haven't been running around the block, I haven't walked any distance, and I even took the elevator down two floors when normally I would have taken the stairs.

I don't think I could possibly have done less. Well, maybe I could have. I guess I could have propped my feet up on the desk and just spent the day reading Facebook. But I didn't. I really tried.

I want to get back in the swing of things and do my job. But it's slow. I'm ready to get this cancer thing over and done with.

I have stuff to do.

Hi ho, hi ho...

It's off to work I go.

Tomorrow I go back to work after three weeks. I am actually a little nervous about it, but it has nothing to do with the cancer. I am nervous about how in the world I am going accomplish everything that has piled up on my desk. I've already checked my calendar and know that my boss has me scheduled for meetings all week. I have three meetings tomorrow alone - on my first day back.

I am worried that I can't do it. I am worried that I will try to do it.

This is hard.

Just sayin.

Today someone that I have always loved told me that I was using my cancer as an excuse to avoid stress.

If that were the case, I think a shot of tequila would actually have been more effective.

Through the storm

A couple of days ago we had some really intense weather that woke us up in the middle of the night. It had been a long time since we'd seen rain. I think I heard on the news that it had been more than 50 days, so the rain was actually welcome. But this one was a whopper of a storm.

It's hard to imagine how anyone could sleep through thunder and lightening like that. I have talked to people before who have said they can sleep through anything, but I can't.

Eventually the storm subsided and we went back to sleep. When we woke up it was much cooler outside and looked like we had quite a bit of rain. It was a beautiful morning and even the plants in our garden seemed to be smiling a little bit.

This week I saw my surgeon and he gave me good news. Since we caught my cancer early (and there was no visible spread) he said he would put me in a "low-risk" group for metastasis. Good news indeed. I'm still somewhat nervous about what my future holds, but now I feel like I've weathered the worst of the storm.

Some day it may rain again, but right now I'm smiling a little bit, and I am grateful for beautiful mornings.

A three-hour tour

Gilligan and the rest of the passengers on the USS Minnow's three-hour tour became survivors the minute they knew the Minnow was sinking.

I would think that being stranded on a deserted island would tend to bring out the best in a person's survivor skills. Even though they all got wet when the boat went down, Mrs. Howell never lost a diamond, Ginger never had a hair out of place, and Maryanne never lost her perkiness. Then there was the Professor, who topped them all. With nothing but a coconut, palm fronds, and fish bones he built a 1.21 gigawatt radio tower.

There is a saying among cancer survivors that says "You become a cancer survivor the day you are diagnosed." I don't feel like a survivor. I feel like I am just recovering from surgery.

Survivors have had a mastectomy and lost their hair. Survivors have scars all over their heads from melanoma surgeries. Survivors are weak from chemo. Survivors fought hard through their life and and continue the battle every day.

I am not worthy of the same status as those courageous individuals who are still in the fight for their lives. They are the true survivors.

I'm just on the island with the other seven castaways.

I think I can I think I can...

I'm tired.

Yesterday I tried doing a few normal things. We went to the grocery store and then I rode in the car for about an hour to pick my brother up at the airport. I gave it my all but fell way way short of normal.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I thought by now - almost two weeks since my surgery - I'd be up and running.

I'm not.

I've been sitting around doing nothing all this time, and I still get winded when I walk even a little ways. I came home and just crashed. I feel like a total wuss.

OK. That's enough complaining.

Now I'll look at the good things happening. My neck is feeling much better and my incision is healing really well. I've lost about ten pounds, mainly because it is still hard to swallow. (Yes, that's a GOOD thing!)

I just ran out of steam too soon. The little engine that could ...just couldn't this time.

Nothing to sneeze at

There are a lot of things that are somewhat uncomfortable right now while I am in recovery mode.

Of all the things that aren't particularly pleasant, sneezing just rose to the top of the list. Until now, I had no idea that every single muscle in my neck and chest is required to sneeze.

I don't want to do that again.

If only I could dance

I am not a dancer because, well - basically because I have no rhythm. I used to play the piano, and sing a little. I guess that required some rhythmic ability, but it never required actual move-with-the-beat rhythm. When I was young I even tried to dance occasionally, but could never summon up the courage to really "let go" enough to learn to dance well. My husband on the other hand, has great rhythm, but thinks he doesn't so he won't even try to dance. (Now you know why we didn't dance at our wedding.)

But, you want to know a secret?
Sometimes we dance when no one is watching.

This morning we went to my appointment with the endocrine doctor. We got the news that we desperately wanted to hear. My cancer appears to have been confined to the tumor. This is not only good but could be considered great news. No visible spread means it was caught early.

We were discussing next steps, and the doctor said that while we are very optimistic that it was confined, there are no guarantees that the cancer hasn't spread elsewhere. Only time will reveal if it has spread, or will recur. Then he gave me the choice whether or not to go ahead with radioactive iodine therapy. I chose not to. From what I understand, there is no clear data confirming it will cause the cancer to be worse if we don't do it, so we can do iodine therapy later if it shows up somewhere else. I decided to take my chances.

Where do we go from here? Now the waiting game starts.

Next week I see my surgeon for a follow up, and six weeks from now I will have the first of many blood tests. There will be tests for tumor markers and some kind of other levels I don't quite understand. In six months I will have another ultrasound to create a new "baseline," to watch for changes in the lymph nodes.

So, there you have it. The news is as good as it can possibly be at this point. Am I still concerned? Of course I am. I just had my thyroid gland removed because it was cancerous. But I am filled with hope that it just might be gone.

If you peek in our window tonight, you might just see us waltzing around the house.

Where's the popcorn?

One of the things that makes MD Anderson unique is the "It takes a village" approach. I have one coordinating doctor (the one who did my surgery) and a whole team of additional doctors, physicians assistants, and nurses all focused on my cancer.

Tomorrow will be one week after my thyroidectomy, and I have my first follow up appointment. Hopefully they will have the final pathology in so we will know where we go from here. The news so far has been positive, as no visible cancer was present outside of the thyroid gland. I like good news.

This time when I go to the hospital I will see a new doctor, an endocrinologist. I find it interesting that I won't see my surgeon again until November 4th. My guess is that he will pull all the reports together and help me make sense of it all.

Now there's an interesting thought. Make sense of it all? Cancer? Really? How? Cancer is an insidious disease that doesn't make sense. Maybe instead I should say that the doctor will help me put it into perspective. I think the biggest challenge for me is keeping this in perspective. In the beginning I was really scared, and now I find myself not worried at all. There is probably a healthy blend of both emotions somewhere in the middle, but I haven't found it yet.

I am reminded here of one of my favorite lines from the Summer Mummers Melodrama put on by volunteers every year in Midland, Texas. In every performance for over 60 years the heroine has delivered the line "Oh me, oh my, I know not how to act!" to which the audience (for over 60 years) has responded "You can say that again!"

Well, I know not how to act.

In the eyes of the beholder

I think I'm headed back to the land of the living this morning.

Immediately after the surgery I hurt all over. I was on morphine though, which kept me blissfully not caring about the pain. But then an odd thing happened and I started feeling pain through the morphine. Not fun, not fun at all. I had a horrendous headache, which even the morphine didn't ease up completely. We think the headache was a reaction to the anesthesia, and I ended up staying in the hospital an extra day. Eventually it got better, but my hand started hurting. Of course the hand with the IV would have to be the same hand that has severe arthritis so that got better once the IV was removed. Anyway, it's over. Done. I'm glad.

Today the pain is actually focusing in where it belongs. Now it's a real pain in the neck. But it doesn't hurt all the time. It only hurts when I lie down, get up, turn my head, talk, eat, drink, blow my nose, or brush my teeth. And what if I hiccup? Oh, don't even go there. But other than those circumstances I am almost pain-free. Pain pills are my friends, and I am not ashamed to say that I take advantage of the welcome relief they provide.

So now that I'm feeling better I'll answer the big question. What do I look like when I look in the mirror?

I originally envisioned having a big Frankenstein scar around my neck. But that's not what I have at all. From what I can see so far, the doctor was telling the truth about the whole minimally invasive thing. The incision looks to be about two inches long, and I have a knot the size of a jumbo free-range egg under my skin. Oddly enough there seems to be almost no bruising.

Unfortunately, the rest of my post-op face looks like I have on one of those cheap Halloween masks you buy at the dollar store. You know the kind I mean. I'm talking about the masks that are indistinct and washed out. They all vaguely resemble Richard Nixon. The only difference between me and Tricky Dick right now is that I have a big lump in my neck covered by steri-strips. I don't think he had that.

I'm sorry to say the surgeon didn't give me a face lift. But soon I'll be up to putting on some makeup. Then maybe I won't feel like I have to apologize to the American people every time I glimpse myself in a mirror.

Don't make me go in there alone!

This time of year a lot of non-profit organizations put together haunted houses to raise money. They really are a lot of fun, both for the volunteers and the people who actually pay to get scared. I've helped build haunted houses and I've worked in haunted houses. Just don't ask me to go through one with you. I can't even go through the ones I've built! (Now ask me to scare someone else? Oh yeah... I'm there. Now that's fun.) Anyway, the few times I've summoned up the courage to go through a haunted house, I've only made it through because someone I trust has been holding my hand.

Today most of you just found out that I have cancer. My intent is not to worry you, but to ask if you'll hold my hand as I go through the scary stuff. It's the only way I'll make it.

Just don't look in the closet.

I spent my weekend cleaning the house.

Any time we've gone on vacation I have always made sure the house is clean. I mentioned this to a co-worker once and she said she was the same way. She told me she likes to come home to a clean house too. I agreed with her at the time, but deep down I think the reason might be that I want the house to be clean in case I don't come back.

I don't want anyone to come into the house after I'm gone and see I'm a messy housekeeper. That in itself is funny for two reasons. First, because in reality I am a crappy housekeeper. Second, if something happens to me is anyone actually going to care if my house isn't clean?

Seriously. I've always been a semi-bad housekeeper and it's gotten much worse now that I travel so much for my job. The last thing I want to do when I come home is scrub a toilet. (Disclaimer here: I do have a wonderful house husband helping me take care of a lot of this, but he is really a "touch up" kinda guy. He doesn't do the heavy-duty cleaning unless he's following me around. But it's okay. He fixes dinner, washes dishes, vacuums, and does windows. I like that.)

Anyway, if you just glanced at our house on any given day you'd think I was only a minimally bad at keeping things clean and orderly. If you are just doing a casual walk-through you might notice a little dust, or a mirror that has splash spots. That's because you aren't looking very close, and you certainly didn't look behind the closed doors. But, be warned - if you open a closet door do so at your own risk. All the stuff I am too lazy to organize, all the stuff I really need to throw out, all the stuff I am just not ready to deal with yet ends up in the closet.

Yesterday morning I woke up thinking about all the things I need to do before I have surgery. At the top of my list was making sure the house is clean, so this weekend I cleaned. To the casual observer everything looks great.

Now I wish I had time to clean my closets.

All in a days work.

Yesterday and today I met with my surgeon, doctor, a gazillion lab techs, physicians assistants, and nurses. It seemed like every one of them wanted to take my blood pressure, temperature, and oxygen level. I had X-rays, EKGs and ultrasounds. I am happy to say I passed all their tests. That wasn't too surprising though, since all the questions were the same. By the time they finished I think they had drained me of all my blood and pee. (OK, so maybe you didn't really want to know that part. )

What does all this mean? It means that on Monday at 10:30 a.m. I will have surgery to remove my thyroid and some lymph glands. The doctor said the video-guided surgery will probably last about three hours, and if all goes according to plan will be minimally invasive. Somehow I find it hard to believe that any surgery removing an entire gland is "minimally invasive" but, hey. What do I know?

I would like it to mean a smaller scar. Not that I'm vain mind you... at my age I have kind of given up on the whole "looks matter" approach but think I'd like a smaller scar anyway. I asked the doc if he could do a little mini-face lift as long as he was digging around in there. He laughed and said he gets asked that a lot, but - no. Oh well, I tried.

From what I understand, later on I will have Radioactive Iodine to try to kill the rest of the cancer cells. I haven't asked a lot about that yet because it happens later. Right now I am just working on getting past Monday.

Is there a secret handshake?

So far very few people are aware of my diagnosis, but I have to be practical in all this. Yesterday I was arranging to have time off work, and all the other things necessary to be out of the office for a while. I decided to confide in one of my coworkers who happens to be a three-time cancer survivor. I admire her for her sense of humor and directness and knew she might be able to offer some much needed work-related moral support.

One of the things she told me as I was leaving her office was "welcome to the club." Now I didn't see this as weird at all, because I had already thought about it. I knew I had already become a statistic when I heard the diagnosis. You know, that one-in-however-many-will-be-diagnosed-with-cancer-in-their-lifetime statistic.

I've never been much of a joiner, so now that I'm in the club I have lots of questions so I'll know how to act. Is there a code of conduct? A dress code? Is there a tree house?

Hopefully as the next few weeks unfold I will have a lot more answers. The scariest part of all this for me is simply not knowing.

Parking allowed in designated spaces only

My surgery is scheduled for Monday, October 18th.

I will have a thyroidectomy, and we'll find out that day if there is involvement outside of the thyroid gland.

It sounds awfully scary.

But look at the bright side... It's not quite as scary as trying to find a parking spot at the Medical Center. Kind of puts things into perspective doesn't it?

If I ran the zoo.

My husband emailed this to me at work and it makes me laugh every time I read it,
so I thought I would share it. 

I realized something while I was on my walk.

You went to work for the Red Cross, and we had a house fire.
You went to work for Midland Community Theatre, we got season tickets and I won the McLaren.
You went to work for MD Anderson, and this happens.

If you had gone to work for the Atlanta Zoo we'd have a panda by now.

He makes me laugh when I need it most. I think I'll keep him. 

Waiting for God

It's really hard right now to not think of all the "what if's."

I mean, what if the cancer has metastasized? What if I get a bad prognosis? I don't want to think about it but I can't help it. Hopefully I will have some answers soon. I don't like not knowing.

I need to know.

What if? God knows. I guess I'll just have to wait.

Here's yer Sign

So, here’s the reality so far.
I have Papillary Thyroid Carcinoma with a Follicular Variant.

When the pathologist gave me the preliminary report on Friday I wasn’t all that surprised. I somehow expected it. In fact, before we went to the hospital I told my husband that I had the feeling my life as I knew it was about to change forever.

The pathologist told me not to go look up my cancer on the internet, so of course I went home and looked it up.

The good news is that my cancer (did I really call it my cancer?) can be a very treatable form of cancer. The bad news is that it is still cancer, and it can take many different paths. What if it has already spread?

After I see my doctor I'll have more answers I am sure. But I haven’t talked to my doctor yet, and for now I only have the preliminary pathology report. I know that there will be more tests and many more visits to the hospital.

I have cancer.

I don’t want to do this. I am scared.

Tomorrow is another day.

Today I found out that I have cancer.

I have known for some time that something has been wrong. I put off going to the doctor for several reasons – fear, worry for my family, but mostly because it just didn’t fit into my work schedule.

I have things to do. I don’t have time to be sick because I have a job to do. But you know, somehow rationalizing about it doesn’t help right now. I don't think I have a choice but to think about this.

Today I became a patient at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. There, I said it.

But I'll think about it tomorrow.

Today I’m not ready.