Two weeks of as much rest as I can possibly stand.
The trouble with having a rare disease, as I’ve said so many times before, is that you ALSO have real life. You ALSO have “normal people stuff.”
After that early January fall, I was quite consumed with my shoulder, and pretty bothered by the flippant attitude of my breast surgeon. All of which still stew inside of me as the real possibilities of breast implant associated illnesses are all over the news this week.
And then there was the new endocrinologist on March 12th. It was a backwards progression of sorts. A referral from the surgeon who has been following me since my PTEN diagnosis. I never really settled into a new endocrinologist after I disagreed with my long standing one in 1998. He was bothered by my questions. I bounced in and out of a few. I found them mostly arrogant and out of touch. I held with one during my pregnancy in 2003, but ditched him soon after my C-section. I had a primary running bloodwork, and I was guiding treatment based on my labs until the Cowden’s Syndrome surfaced.
At that point I was handed off to an endocrine surgeon. The possibility that the half of my thyroid which remained after a partial thryoidectomy in 1993 could fall into the 35% lifetime risk of thyroid cancer that comes along with a PTEN mutation was real. We agreed on annual follow-ups using the ultrasound in her office. All was smooth until February 26th, when she saw some calcifications on the ultrasound. She got spooked and wanted a “fresh pair of eyes.” She referred me to an endocrinologist in her hospital.
He sent me for a “proper” ultrasound before my appointment. He then, with some promising knowledge of what a “Cowden’s” thyroid looks like, went through the images from the exam. He told me that there were some potentially concerning features, but nothing that appeared urgent. He questioned why I had not been using the formal ultrasound at the hospital, as there was now no baseline to compare it to. In another episode of wondering why I don’t ask enough questions about my own care, I had to let it pass…
He told me the radiologist would read the ultrasound with more concern than he did. He was right. So there will be another ultrasound in August. We’ll talk about the status of that right thyroid lobe then. In the mean time he offered me a change of medication that in 30 years on Synthroid no doctor has ever entertained. Monday I will begin a lower dose of Synthroid combined with a twice a day dose of T3, liothyronine, in hopes that I might get some of my sought after energy back. With a standing order every 3 weeks to monitor blood levels, at this point, I have nothing to lose.
So back in circle to the “normal people stuff” intertwined in this balancing act. April 18th is still the earliest day to contend with the chronic ear pain and fluid I’ve been handling since September. It doesn’t matter that it has headed into my mouth and is bothering my teeth. That it is somehow messing with the nerves so badly that I ended up with a root canal specialist yesterday. Of course, she won’t touch the painful tooth because no one can know exactly what is in my ear. Pain management. Maybe it’s Cowden’s. Maybe it’s allergies. Maybe it’s simple. Maybe it isn’t.
And then there is that foot. Snagged on a kids chair in a third grade classroom in the middle of teaching a lesson. It knocked me on the floor. I was so worried about the shoulder, and the breast implant that I ignored the foot. At least I tried to.
About 2 weeks after the fall I saw my primary and asked for help. She suggested an MRI. GHI promptly denied the MRI and told me to ice and elevate as much as I could, and reevaluate in 6 weeks. I was left with no choice but to continue a job that kept me more hours on my feet than off. By March 6th I couldn’t take the pain anymore and headed to a podiatrist. He evaluated the foot, ordered Xrays, and got them read within hours. By the next day he had the MRI approved and I went in for the exam. About 72 hours later I got a call asking me to come in to discuss the results.
That’s never an actual good sign.
So when I walked into the office in two sneakers, I kind of suspected that I wasn’t going to leave in both of them. And I was right.
MRI revealed a partial tear of the lisfranc ligament in the left foot. Apparently this is an incredibly rare injury, (insert shock and surprise here) that the podiatrist anticipated before the MRI. Apparently you can only get this injury through a twist and fall, you know, like catching it on a student’s chair mid-step.
I got a soft cast, and a giant walking book. I got pulled out of work for at least two weeks, with no idea when the good people who review these cases will approve this as the clear work-related injury it is.
I have another appointment with the podiatrist tomorrow.
There is State testing at work this week. I’m always there for testing.
But right now I’m actually testing my inner strength. Resting my foot.
I’m preparing for my clearance to return to work. I’m preparing for my ENT appointment. I am preparing to get my ear fixed. I am preparing to get ready to lose the other half of my thryoid. I am preparing for another plastics consult…
And all the preparing in the world won’t matter. Because life will come in the order it wants. That is the lesson for Cowden’s Syndrome and real life…
The dog hair and I will be here until then….
And that might be an accurate description of my current assessment of living with Cowden’s Syndrome.
It’s so hard to put into words. Those who don’t understand are likely to think I’m insane.
When you know your mission, you carry it out. You are driven. Focused. There is something that needs to be accomplished, or an adversary beaten. You have a crystal clear goal.
As difficult as those moments have been, I am starting to find the ‘forever’ aspect of this syndrome to be overbearing at times.
Some days it seems no matter which hurdle we clear, something else is in the line of fire.
I waffle between doctors who are either not interested, or are so overworked that they lack the time, energy, or desire to research and think from the alternate view required for a 1 in 200,000 mutation on the PTEN (tumor suppressor) gene.
Research. Real research (yes, I am smart on the internet and know what to read and what to brush off,) is surfacing so often that it is hard for me to even keep up. I don’t expect my doctors to be on top of it.
I expect them to treat me as a partner in my own care.
They have gone to medical school. I have not. However I have more extensively studied Cowden’s Syndrome than they ever will. And I still have a great deal to learn.
Gone are the days when “doctor knows best,” and I should comply without question or explanation. This is my life. This is my daughter’s life. And wherever I can assist, I intend for those lives to be long and strong – physically, mentally and emotionally.
Tuesday the 26th was my “doctor day.” It became a necessity years ago that I take a personal day and “stack” my annual appointments. This makes the day out of work worth it. Some years things are smooth. Other years, well… not so much.
After a fall at work in January, where my 5 foot 7 frame ever so gracefully landed on my right shoulder and implant, I have been uncomfortable. The implant that was previously easy to ignore was prevalent in my thoughts all day. It is not ruptured, and I was able to get MRI confirmation of that. However it is just annoying. It sits slightly off place, a constant reminder to my brain and body that it is THERE. I am grateful it is not painful. I am not content to live with this situation indefinitely.
My discomfort, and the knowledgeable people I share some Facebook support groups with, let me down a path of research on silicone implants.
I learned a whole bunch of things. Most of those things are probably inconsequential in my life, but they made me angry. I had double mastectomy with immediate implants in 2012. In 2016 the implants needed to be replaced way ahead of schedule. (With a maximum of about 10 years on average). I had one breast surgeon and two plastic surgeons.
No one spoke to me about a condition called BIA-ALCL (breast implant associated anaplastic large cell lymphoma). The risk is minimal, but it exists. No one ever talked to me about it and allowed me to make an informed decision. We have a rare disorder that predisposes us to greater cancer risk. No one has thoroughly studied the occurrence of BIA-ALCL, and certainly no one has considered it in relation to PTEN Mutations. No one knows. But, I deserve the uncertainty discussed.
Further down the same page is the screening recommendation that women are screened via MRI for silent rupture 3 years after the first implants, and every 2 years following.
Not a word. Ever.
There are other pages. Solid articles. But if you read the above link you get the point.
So I saw my breast surgeon first. All was good on exam. That was a relief. I began a discussion about the above, and was really upset by her flippant response. I was told I was reading too much on the internet. I was told that there was no conversation about possibly removing my implants. Granted this is not something I was ready to do tomorrow, but it was something I wanted to learn about. I was told I would be subjecting myself to unnecessary surgery and she would counsel my plastic surgeon against even entertaining it.
I honestly felt like I had been hit.
I asked her what her thoughts were on BIA-ALCL related to Cowden’s Syndrome. She had no answer. I asked her how many PTEN patients she sees. 20? No 10? No 5? No, less than 5.
I asked about screening MRIs. I was told they were “unnecessary”. I referred her to the above link.
I could not believe that I sat in the middle of a major cancer center in New York City. I felt violated and angry.
Next came my oncologist.
She is a kind woman with very few answers or helpful tips on risk management. She pretty much looked up Cowden’s and checked that I have no breasts, no uterus, and half a thyroid, so I should be easy to manage. I asked her questions about bone density,and heart health, (30 years of thyroid replacement, 7 years into forced menopause) and she simply said, “I don’t know.” I asked about the lymphangiomas on my spleen that currently outsize the spleen itself. She started to talk to me about spleenic “cysts” but I drew her back to lymphangiomas and the vascular component that often affects PTEN Patients. I have not desire to lose my spleen, nor do I have a desire to harbor a potentially destructive organ. We settled on a bone density and an abdominal sonogram to measure the lymphangiomas. At least this makes sense to me.
Off to the otolaryngologist with a hopefully not PTEN problem. He did vocal cord surgery for me 2 years ago to remove some growths. This day the vocal cords were clear. The right ear however has been an issue since September. I spent a bit of time treating for migraine, and blaming the chlorinated pool spectator sections. I had 4 doctors prescribe antibiotics when they saw fluid in my ear, and another a short course of steroid. All cautioned me about hearing loss. I regained my sanity to some extent when a friend gave me Mucinex sinus max. Something about it helped the pressure. The doctor got a look in my ear and used his camera to show me the fluid inside the right ear that is not draining. He also looked deep in the ears and told me something was “off” with the ear canal. But that was as far as he would or could go. He gave me the name of a doctor to treat me. He also told me to get a hearing test, and to understand that they must find a cause prior to any treatment. April 18th was the first I could get. Mucinex for all till then.
The endocrine surgeon came into my world post diagnosis in early 2012. I believe her function was to evaluate regularly the remaining 1/2 thyroid, as thyroid is one of the greatest PTEN related cancer risks. My thyroid was partially removed in 1993 due to a diagnosis of “multi nodular goiter.” At the time, the prevailing wisdom was to leave one of the lobes intact and suppress it with high doses of synthroid, keeping the TSH (Thyroid Stimulating Hormone) low. For years I operated with a lower than normal TSH, but it worked for me and seemed to keep the remaining tissue quiet.
When I was diagnosed and my team changed, so did some of the management theories. This endocrine surgeon, who was only managing my medication as a courtesy, not as a regular practice, preferred a slightly higher TSH level. We jousted a few times about fatigue, and other side effects that come with adjustment. We had made peace on a split dose, until I had my levels measured in January and they were WAY to high for my physical comfort zone. After my initial glee that I was not totally losing my mind, and that I needed medication, I started to wonder why the level change. My weight was consistent…. my activity level consistent…
She did a routine sonogram of my neck in the office. For the first time in 7 years she paused. “There are small calcifications. They were not there before.”
I asked about a biopsy and she told me she would not even know what to biopsy. She’d be “guessing” as the thyroid bed is undefined. She said she wanted me to consult with a colleague who is an endocrinologist well versed in molecular genetics. She told me it was no rush. She was going to Email his staff, and I could reach out when I have a school break in April.
That was Tuesday afternoon.
Wednesday morning I received a call that it was suggested I book the first available appointment. I did so for March 12th.
I was told to obtain an ultrasound for basis at a local facility.
Thursday morning the phone rang again directing me to get the ultrasound at the hospital before I see the doctor.
Things seem to have moved from very casual, to lets not dawdle, quite quickly.
I’m not emotionally attached to too many non-essential organs anymore. I’m vested in getting anything out before it causes me trouble.
Life is a juggling act.
I have plans.
Doctors appointments get in the way.
I know people who use sick days to vacation. I use mine on the Gowanus Expressway.
I want to get it together, and see people. I want to have casual conversations and catch up on people’s lives.
I will. One day.
But for now the energy remains focused on a kind, lovely, compassionate teen, and keeping these two “Rare” ladies in their best health.
Oh, and that fall in January left me with a pain in my right foot that just won’t quit…
Tick tock… the waiting continues…
And we remain forever
Thursday, February 28th, 2019 is World Rare Disease Day.
There was a point close to forever ago when that meant nothing to me. I had never even heard of it.
Our initial Cowden’s Syndrome diagnoses came in the fall of 2011. Meghan got her’s first, and mine followed soon after. 2012 held the most insane whirlwind of medical and surgical experiences we have ever known.
By the time Rare Disease Day came around in 2013, we had begun to feel the need to raise awareness of our PTEN Mutation causing Cowden’s Syndrome. Even though we were grateful to have each other, to be 1 in 200,000 can be isolating.
At the time my girl took to the Global Genes Project and learned all she could about rare diseases. She was most struck by the reality that many children diagnosed with rare diseases don’t live to see their 5th birthday. She promised she would always try to speak, not only for herself, but also for the “littles” who couldn’t tell their story.
Meghan’s Speech in 4th Grade…
The text of her speech – Meghan Speaks Out!
In 2013 she spoke at her school and at mine. We handed out denim ribbons, and started opening eyes.
In 2014 we stood together, as she was a student at my elementary school. She created a video, we did a fundraiser. There was something empowering about sharing knowledge.
In 2014 she met Borough President Oddo and they are still in contact. He has been a mentor for her through the years.
Rare Diseases as a whole are common. One in ten people suffers with a rare disease. Yet, there are over 7,000 rare diseases and each carries with it it’s own specific challenges. More than 350 MILLION people suffer from a rare disease, yet it takes 8 years on average for a diagnosis. https://globalgenes.org/rare-facts/ In the interim, so many people trudge through the day to day challenges alone. Typically there is no one to relate to their experiences, and even the best intended friends and relatives often tire of the chronic nature of a disease that won’t ever leave.
Raising awareness became a mission of Meghan’s to help people become more compassionate and kinder towards each other. We have always worked with the understanding that “everyone has something,” and the more we learn empathy and compassion, the further we will get.
Meghan’s early days of speaking in schools, and creating awareness videos evolved into “Jeans for Rare Genes” a fundraiser involving friends, family, and the community. There have been 4 so far, each one different than the ones before, but all helping to raise funds and awareness for rare diseases.
In December 2013 the PTEN Hamartoma Tumor Syndrome Foundation was born, through the blood, sweat and tears of Kristin Anthony, and with a village, it is growing into a helpful, guiding light in our community. And, finally Meghan has found the focal point for the fundraising!
(check out some of the links below for some of our journeys)
Through the years my girl has been honored as a New York State Woman of Distinction, the youngest ever, in 2016.
She was awarded the “Humanitarian Award” at the Teddy Atlas Dinner in November of 2018. She has racked up close to 20 surgeries in her young life, and yet she has managed to remain a scholar and an athlete.
Celebrating Rare Disease Day is sometimes like going to the worst party ever. Or, maybe it’s the best. I guess it depends on how you look at it. We’re here… stronger. The community is growing. Support exists. Hope exists.
Last summer we were contacted by Aldo Soligno on behalf of the “Rare Lives Project.” He had worked on this project in Europe and had had much success raising awareness to the government about the lives of people with rare diseases. We were touched to be asked to be part of his American pilot of this project. And, while it has not received the funding he had hoped, the release of this summer’s photos on social media has been therapeutic for both of us.
Here are some of the picture released to date. Photo credit Aldo Soligno.
Please follow “Rare Lives” on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter to help them raise awareness of all rare diseases.
Please follow the PTEN Foundation
on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. Follow their community work, their fundraising, and their efforts to unify with PATIENT FIRST.
This neat initiative is taking place right now, among others!
We are perched in exciting times. It is a time to reflect, to gather strength and resolve and press forward.
This year I know more people with Cowden’s Syndrome, and more people with other rare diseases. We are allies and advocates. We are parents, sisters, brothers and friends.
This year I hold close in my heart a friend’s little one, waiting on her diagnosis. My heart feels their anguish. My faith tells me their help will come.
There are still struggles. Plenty. But, before telling those stories it was time to remember from where we came.
One thing will not, and has not changed. We remain forever
I’m aware of Breast Cancer. As a survivor now of 6 years and the daughter of a 21 year survivor, I am aware as I dry from my shower facing my mastectomy scars every morning, that breast cancer is reality. As my Facebook feed and my memory are both too full of those we have lost and those who still face this disease, we are aware. What I wonder, is how much help is the awareness? It is a topic that could be debated forever, but I’ll change gears first.
Something else I am very aware of is the PTEN gene located on chromosome 10q23, and the perils its associated mutations can cause. So when the PTEN Foundation let us know that 10/23 was designated PTEN Awareness Day, we were all in.
This blog has, for years been designated to the ups and downs of this mother- daughter duo dealing with Cowden’s Syndrome, the diagnosis we both received in late 2011 after a PTEN mutation was first diagnosed in Meghan, and weeks later in me.
The few years following were an absolute whirlwind of appointments, scans, screenings and surgeries. We worked to keep our heads above water and just exist. We considered keeping my job, and maintaining honors status in her school quite the accomplishment.
We were told things over and over, like “don’t let it define you…”
I’ve got some news for you. You can only walk so far into the fire without retaining the scars.
True awareness of PTEN for us comes with comprehension of the gravity that you have to remain in a vigilant stance of preparation, awaiting attack from your own body at all times. PTEN patients have ridiculous cancer risks pretty much all throughout, and the VIGILANCE required to stay ahead is utterly grueling.
We are faced with choices to keep the most high risk organs, or remove them prophylactic ally. We are asked to play the odds. With our bodies. All the time.
With Meghan the AVM (Arteriovenous Malformation) in her right knee, though quiet now, has caused damage she will deal with forever. She is 15. God willing she will walk on those legs another 80 years, each day aware of the pain, and of the symmetry removed from her body forever.
When you have to be vigilant, you have to plan. There are trades. You have to decide if you’ll miss school with friends and fall behind in classes or give up the breaks designed to recharge you.
There are no breaks. February – months away has 3/5 of its break and 2 other days devoted to appointments. Martin Luther King Jr. Day in January. Yep – that one too. Don’t worry, the brain MRI is scheduled for April break….
You have to pick and choose. And the decisions are hard. You want to give it all to everything, but HOURS of your world are wasted in bumper to bumper traffic, waiting for the hopeful news that you have another 6 months before you come back. And if, in fact you don’t get that news the schedule is tossed and it’s game on for scans, analysis and biopsies.
The pain. No one can really tell us yet from why, but it seems to exist throughout. The fatigue. Maybe the thyroid issues, maybe some immunological stuff. Maybe some connection yet to be determined. But it’s real.
It’s as real as the number of times we had to decline invitations before most people stopped asking.
We’re not blowing you off. We’re holding it together – by a shoestring.
Chronic Illness is hard to live, and we get that it’s difficult to watch. But, it’s real. And short of a cure, it will never “run it’s course.” It will not BE us, but it will be PART of us – FOREVER.
“You don’t look sick…”
“You don’t look anxious…”
No, as a matter of fact she looks strong and determined. She’s been practicing for quite some time.
Sometimes I have to bite my tongue to keep from replying, “You don’t LOOK ignorant either – but at least you can fix that if you WANT to…”
Our rare disease journey has opened our eyes to not only PTEN disorders, but “Lhermitte-Duclos disease,” “Nail-Patella Syndrome,” “Lynch Syndrome,” “Spinal Muscular Atrophy,” “Muscular Dystrophy,” “Neimann- Pic Disease,” ” Neurofibromatosis,” “Acute Myeloid Leukemia” to name just the very tip of the iceberg. I am more aware than every that everyone struggles.
I’m also a big fan of real pure awareness, for the sake of learning something about other humans I share the planet with.
One of the humans I share my home with has grown up in a totally different direction courtesy of this disease. And while I am grateful for her diagnosis, as it surely saved my own life, I am sad that she has had to see so much, and manage so much already in her life.
So today, on 10/23, if you’re not living with it yourself, direct yourself to http://www.PTENFoundation.org, or the PTEN Facebook Page and learn an little more about PTEN.
My own girl is working every day to make herself better, physically, mentally and emotionally. When I have down days, or I just don’t feel well, she reminds me to forgive myself. “You have it too Mom.” Indeed I do, and it’s quite a ride…
Together we prepare for the climb each day – and seek out that ‘One Perfect Moment’
For as much as this disease has taken, I am grateful that she is starting to take back control, and is finding her voice as an advocate for herself and others. (And I love listening to her sing too…)
|Bring It On the Musical – One Perfect Moment Lyrics|
Bring It On the Musical – One Perfect Moment LyricsI’m not freaking out, I’m really okay
I’m totally chill or I will be someday
‘Cause I’m so near the top but there’s so many mountains to climb
There are plans to be planned, drills to be drilled
‘Cause this dream that I’ve dreamed is becoming fulfilled
And I plan to enjoy it but right now, I don’t have the timeFade in on Campbell, an average teenager almost grown
Close-up on average grades from the average life she’s known
Now zoom in the lens on the rest of her friends as she stay alone
Doing the work, getting it right
‘Cause I know we’ll have to be practically perfect
I’m seventeen, there are so many things that I can’t control
I know that if I can just stick the landing
So often this is easier said than done.
Last weekend I stayed up all night Saturday digging out from under a pile of nonsense on my desk. It was regular stuff that I had let pile up. It was junk. And it was medical bills.
There were 7. Not explanations of benefits, but actual bills.
I am fortunate to be fully capable of paying my medical bills. The part that is so often a struggle is sorting out WHICH bills NEED to be paid. Between Meghan and I we are at at LEAST 2 appointments a week. And that is a really good week. Some are close, and some are far, but they are still blocks in our daily calendar.
I try to remain very organized about where we were on which day – but it is a formidable task that sometimes gets away from me. Both of our insurance companies have moved to electronic storage of claim status, which is really helpful. Except for my husband’s, my secondary, which won’t allow me access to my records, in some twisted HIPPA attempt to protect me.
But, I digress. It was about 5 AM on Sunday and I was tired but pleased. I had pared down the pile and was left staring at these bills. I sorted, cross referenced the bills to processed claims, and printed what was necessary. Only one of the 7 was for something I actually owed. The others were clipped with notes to assist me when I got around to teaching people how to do their job billing when there are two insurances. When I could combine the energy with time to spend on the phone, during business hours, while working a full-time job.
I was ready to leave for the grocery store by 6:30 AM. I am grateful for the stamina that allows me to pull that off every once in a while.
We seem to have a good handle on #beatingcowdens. But, really the day-to-day living with it is not for the faint of heart. It is that day-to-day that is wearing on me.
We are, my daughter and I, the “healthiest looking sick people” you’d ever want to meet. I am grateful. I am lonely. I am tired.
One thing blurs into another. Someone asked me how I was spending my weekend, and I replied, “trying to return to zero.” I think she thought I was nuts. I have long passed hope of relaxation or socialization. The schedule is so insane that the weekends are for getting it all re-set.
It’s not all bad. Some of it is swim practice and theater- normal teenage runs. I don’t mind those.
And even though our physical therapist, and our chiropractor are lovely, I would prefer to meet them for a social call than so often at their offices. The orthopedist is a delight. So smart, and so personable. Yet- visits every three months I could do without.
Every step seems hard. I have the unshakable sense that not many people do their job with integrity or pride. There is so much energy getting through each day, that the residual battles over copays and forms can sometimes be too much.
It seems that any variation to the tightly planned schedule which balances practice and appointments (often layering many things into one day at precise intervals) sets off a chain reaction that is hard to recover from.
Which brings me to the problem of when things go off track completely.
The ‘Lymphangiomas’ on my spleen were first found in 2012 after my diagnosis. They were an incidental finding during the many screenings I underwent during that time frame. They were to be monitored via ultrasound.
They grew. A bunch. And they keep right on growing. Annual ultrasound monitors their measurements. Currently there are at least 4 of them and they are bigger than the spleen itself.
You may not remember, but in November I drove myself to the Emergency Room when I was concerned about this very same spleen. November Post- “You Might Have Cowden’s Syndrome if…”
It held on then, and I was released.
The most recent ultrasound was in April. One of those lymphangiomas grew a centimeter in 2 of three directions. That’s quite a bit of growth.
They are benign. They are vascular. They are growing. I am not. We are battling for space. I am stalling on the inevitable.
I know exactly where my spleen is. I can trace it at all times. It is not painful, but really annoying. I’m trying not to let it bother me. Its kind of like a friend who will soon be moving away, forever. I will miss it when its gone.
I’m used to surgeries that send me on my way in hours. This one seems a little more dicey.
The oncologist said, “It’s not cancer, so we’ll deal with it when you’re symptomatic…”
This week I met a new primary care doctor. She was fine. I’ll need her for pre operative clearance. Lesson learned during the February surgery debacle was to have a “primary” available. I have a great deal to teach her. Maybe she will want to learn. At least she will be able to complete necessary paperwork so someone can check their boxes.
She examined me, and then the area where my spleen is housed. She was confused as to why it is still in my body.
She had a suggestion for a doctor. I asked if she knew a surgeon. Her plan was to send me to a gastroenterologist to see who he thought I should go see.
Like I said, she’s got a lot to learn, and we don’t have time for unnecessary stops.
I found the surgeon I want to meet. I read all about 15 surgeons from 4 hospitals. I want to try him first.
I sent an email to my oncologist to see who she recommends. Not only was I not thrilled, I was more sure that I want to meet the one I picked out.
Last week the hospital that manages my care wanted me to see a genetic oncologist. I called for an appointment. They wanted my genetic testing. Then they told me I would see a counselor first. I explained there was no way I was spending time with someone who knew less about my disease than me so they could tell me about the effects of the diagnosis.
Nope. Double mastectomy. Hysterectomy. About ready to lose my spleen. Kid with 18 surgeries. I’ve got this. It’s relentless. I know. And I have no time to be told again.
So, the appointment I was requesting was with the “director” and there are “steps”.
Not to sound too arrogant, but I don’t need anyone I have to jump through hoops for.
I sent an appointment request on-line to the surgeon I want to meet. He deals with abdominal tumors all the time. Of course, not splenic lymphangiomas, being that this article says there are only 189 cases from 1939-2010! But, he spends his life operating in that area. He’ll be my guy.
From – http://www.archivesofpathology.org/doi/full/10.5858/arpa.2013-0656-RS?code=coap-site
And if he’s not – I’ll find another.
I’m not sure when, but I know in my heart it’s not if anymore. This has been the long goodbye for my spleen.
Now the plan is to get it all set up on my terms before it becomes a medical emergency.
I’ve got a really strong knot at the end of my rope. I’ll climb back up. Until then, I’ll just hang out right here…
Almost 15 years ago you entered this world kicking and screaming. You scared the heart out of us, the doctors, and the nurses. The NICU nurses called you “Miss Attitude”. Even in distress that August day you showed them all you were not to take anything without a fight. You made me a Mom under the craziest circumstances, and looking back, maybe they were fitting. How could we know back then, when we were discharged, a few days later, and all of NYC went black in the blackout that no one will forget, that was just the beginning of all things epic?
I look at you now, taller than me, beautiful and smart, athletic and talented, and I burst with pride. You are good in your core. You are pure in your heart. You hold yourself to a fiercely high standard, and you hold others there too.
We’ve long passed the point where summarizing your history is easy, or even practical. Truth is, most people’s heads would explode to hold inside the medical journeys we’ve taken, and the emotional bumps and bruises along the way.
You made a decision many years ago, that your struggles would be only part of you, and that they would NEVER define you. You want to achieve, and you do achieve, in spite of your struggles, and not because of them.
Facing your teen years with the cloud of Cowden’s Syndrome always hanging nearby is daunting, to say the least. You possess knowledge, statistics and realities about your own body that no one your age should have to try to understand. You have more memories of trips into and out of operating rooms than most people would ever know in a lifetime. You have been held down, poked, prodded and examined so many times, even I sometimes try to forget. You have been through Physical Therapy and rehabilitation so frequently that we have the numbers for multiple surgeons and the best PT in the world, saved into speed dial.
Before you were 11 the threat of cancer stole your thyroid, and as normal teenage hormones kicked in, yours were just a bit more complex. Precancerous cells in your uterus before the age of 12 necessitated more synthetic hormones, and your body… sigh. Beat up and abused, no wonder it gets annoyed.
The PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) diagnosis was not a shock, rather the exclamation point on the end of a very long sentence. Before the start of the next paragraph, in what will be a very long story…
The struggle to deal with it takes place mostly behind closed doors, and most people would have no idea.
You just keep going.
It’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon.
The longer, and harder the battle, the more determined you become.
You excel at school. You continue to make strides at swim. You are learning to use the beautiful voice you were gifted with.
You are my pride, my privilege, my daughter and my friend.
You have strengthened my resolve. You have helped me fine tune my “Mamma Bear”.
You have helped me learn self-restraint when I have had to allow you to handle things on your own.
You have helped me become a better human.
Sometimes, my dear, I want to scream, as your stubborn, rigid, principled self, clashes with my “I want to fix it” attitude. And yet, I count myself lucky in this day and age to have a daughter who is so sure of her principles that she will not bend to the whim of the crowd.
I wish for you the ability to find joy and laughter. I wish for you, to be able to smile among the good people you meet, and allow them into your world. I wish for that the kind souls you meet are able to understand that there is more to you than initially meets the eye.
I want you to know that you are good enough, and that you are enough. Yet, I want you to remain hungry and goal oriented and kind and compassionate too.
A wise woman (your grandma) once told me, you do more changing in your 20s than you ever do in your teens. You will continue to grow and learn and change, and develop your personality. Set your goals, meet them, exceed them, or rewrite them. Life is fluid, and full of change.
No matter how hard things get, never ever lose HOPE, and NEVER GIVE UP.
You gave me a beautiful necklace today. The compliment of being referred to as “Wonder Woman” is about as high praise as a mom of a teen could ask for.
If I possess those qualities they are because of you.
We will continue to take this long journey. The road will never be smooth. But I would take no other path if it meant traveling without you.
Together we remain #beatingcowdens.
Thank you my dear. Thank you for allowing me to be part of your world.
Thank God for selecting me as your mother.
Love you always,