I was in the stairwell close to the 5th floor of the nursing home where my grandmother resides when the phone rang. I paused, startled by the ring, and trying to suppress my slightly out of shape panting before I … Continue reading
** Finding the balance has been a real struggle of late. This has been in my drafts for 10 days…**
I’m writing from the floor in the hallway of the college gym. Meghan’s swim team practices below. For hours. One day I will be able to drop her off and get a few things done. But, not yet. Not now.
I sit in the hall, out of view of my girl underneath. Out of view of her coaches who undoubtedly must think me paranoid. There isn’t another parent here. These are the big kids- 8th through 12th grade. And I’m not here because I don’t trust her. Quite the opposite. I sit here for the unpredictable. For the moments that take us from 0 to 180 in the blink of an eye. And even as I recognize that emergencies happen to anyone. At any time. I am here. Because history, track record, can not be erased or forgotten. I will pull away, slowly.
In the mean time I FINALLY got all my classes together, up and running, and pretty organized. Formative assessment is in place. Lessons are polished up, and I can take the 50 minutes each week that I see the 575 or so chilren as seriously as I like to.
Which is timely because it fell right into High School application season. Yes, season. 30 years ago this was not even a process. Now it’s an ordeal. These are tests to take for every type of school one is interested in. There are then scholarship tests to try to pay for the non- public ones. Open houses, “shadowing” appointments, where she goes to the school for the day to “see.”
This all seems to culminate by some time in December and then be followed by 2 months of waiting. It’s amazing how much “hurry up and wait” there really is.
And I am left to sit here. Quietly. I will her body to do as she wants. I that the right high school for her, is the one she attends. And, I watch as 8th grade starts to pass by.
Your experiences shape you. Your disease doesn’t define you. But, in our case it provides, stamina, endurance. tenacity, grit, and a tendency to want to over-achieve. Not a terrible list of negatives.
“Normal” is a relative term, constantly changing. When we are on the brink of better health, we sometimes find ourselves guilty of waiting for the other shoe to drop. We are often guarded and on the defensive. It’s hard not to be.
This past month a former student buried his mother and father 2 weeks apart. He is Meghan’s age, and while he had step-siblings, he was the only child of his parents. I haven’t had him out of my mind much.
These warnings, these screenings, these appointments, these surgeries, at times leave me down. But, not for long. We’ve been ordered to be vigilant.
There are no promises.
Today bleeds into tomorrow. September just about swallowed up October. And October seems hungry for November.
Stop. Or at least pause. Enjoy the process, no matter how tedious or taunting it may seem.
Hug your family. Call your friends. Even if it’s only for 5 minutes. Send a text. Stay in touch.
And I, I will be working on taking my own advice!
So, the night I was recovering from my breast surgery on August 19th, I haphazardly checked my Email.
There sat an Email from Meghan’s endocrinologist that shook me out of my anesthesia recovery pretty quickly. There is no time “in between” because there is usually SOMETHING going on. Overlap is a way of life.
Meghan had had lab work drawn the 3rd of August. Routine thyroid labs, and some tests from the gyn worked in. On the 18th the EMail from the gyn told me she was suspicious of a few lingering “issues” and we would address them at her late fall appointment.
The endocrinologist’s EMail said he was concerned about the resurgence of her “thyroglobulin” levels. He wanted to now treat her as a “high risk” thyroid cancer patient.
I almost dropped the phone, alone in my dark room. The last paragraph said he’d be on vacation for two weeks, and we could talk when he returned. I read. And I reread.
Decoding step by step – “thyroglobulin” is created solely by thyroid tissue. Someone with a complete thryoidectomy would have non-detectable levels about 3 or so months post operatively. Only thyroid tissue generates thyroglobulin. If some was left behind after her surgery a small number would have stabilized early. But for it to be gone, and then show up… This meant there had to be regrowth. And yes, it happens. Maybe to everyone, but definitely people with Cowden’s Syndrome. We regrow lymphoid tissue.
It’s a superpower of sorts. Except instead of being a really fun, save the world, or generate sunshine and happiness, superpower, it’s more of the – hey let’s add some more worry to your life superpower.
While the pathology on the thyroidectomy was totally benign, the mind can play lots of tricks. Lots of tricks.
I’m not slow. I am pretty well read. I’m equipped with the knowledge that having faith and worry are counterintuitive. Except I’m honest. And with matter of my girl, worry sometimes overwhelms. I never claimed to be perfect.
So I spent the last 6 or 7 weeks retreating. I barely spoke of this fear, this nagging thought that not only could the thyroid be growing again, but what if… what if all those precancerous things that we took out with it were somehow festering.
I made it my job to access the lab work. And it was a JOB. You would have thought what I was asking for just to see a list of messed up thyroid numbers. We live in a pretty crazy society. But, finally, after 2 weeks of labor, and getting increasingly vocal, I received 4 copies. All on different days. All from different people. But, I got to look at the numbers.
I am a numbers person, so I took some relief in the thyroglobulin being only 3. Undetectable was better, but 3 was on the better end of things. It was clearly well under that “10” I had found. So I took to waiting and ticking away the days until the next blood test. There was a thyroid dose change, and 6 weeks.
I broke my toe while recovering from the implant exchange, a few weeks after learning I was suffering not only from a single vocal cord lesion, but vocal atrophy secondary to premature aging, the latter which was likely due to the hysterectomy that became necessary after the breast cancer diagnosis in 2012.
And yes, I meant that to be a run-on.
It all kept me as occupied as I could while I hid in the start up chaos of September. I hate September. But, when you’re suffering personal angst and need cover under which to hide – it’s September for the win. I poured myself into setting up 25 classes, and over 550 students, logistically, and academically. It took some time.
And I kind of just ducked. Phone calls, texts… I played along.
“High Risk” thyroid cancer patient… like a recurring nightmare.
One of the reasons I was afraid to talk was the fear that someone would talk to be about thryoid cancer being the “best” cancer. Please, no one ever do that. When it comes to my child, a survival rate in the 90%s doesn’t soothe me. When it comes to my child, I, like every other parent want 100%. Nothing less.
I was scared.
We got the labs drawn at the hospital on Weds. the 28th.
On the 30th I was exploding. Every second seemed like an hour. Every scenario was playing through my head. So when I got the call that the test wouldn’t be ready till Monday I dissolved into a tiny puddle.
And then I did what every other mother does. I put on my big girl pants and got through the weekend.
Then Monday there was a brief phone call.
The thyroglobulin has returned to undetectable.
WHAT? How does that even happen? I sent out a million questions rapid fire. Most of them had no answer.
Crisis averted. Prayers answered.
I explained to Meghan why her Mom had been a bit extra on edge. She’s really growing up because she was grateful to have not traveled that mental journey with me, and appreciated me letting her in when it mattered.
Next blood test November 11. And we’re going with the theory that the thyroglobulin was a one time deal. An error. A miracle. Whatever. A win.
We’ve got 6 weeks. Some Mommy doctors. Some swim meets. 6 weeks. Sometimes that feels short. Right now it’s blissfully long.
On my knees in gratitude, we remain…
September is a marathon of sorts. Although all the training in the world can never quite prepare you for the twists and turns needed to navigate it through to completion.
September is establishing new routines, in my own classroom, and in our lives. September is learning new students, and new teachers.
Each year, it is about pushing our bodies farther than we have ever been able to. It is not just about surgical recoveries, or broken toes, it is about swim. So much swim. It’s about swim before sun-up, and afternoons too. It is about drama and singing and doctors in between. It’s about finding the inner strength to press on.
It’s about balancing it all. Work, school, after school, meetings, and the like. It’s about stopping to find the beauty, and the sunrise, and the simple pleasures along the way.
This life, this chronically ill life is lonely. I’m not going to lie, or even try to sugar coat it. It is lonely. But, we three in this house embrace and press on. Because, really, there is no alternative.
There is no fault, no anger, no resentment. Reality is that every moment is spent using all the “spoons” we have to get through. At this moment there are no extras. Family and friends who comprehend will still be there with open arms when there is a “spoon” or two to spare. The rest will have found their own way, and that is a loss we will have to take in stride.
Everyone has something. All lives are busy. All lives have joy, and angst. All we can do is take what is in front of us and do the best we can with what we have where we are.
The worry in my heart runs deep. There is reason for it, yet I battle it all the time. It can not, nor will it, define me, or our lives. Regardless, it lingers always, lurking in the shadows.
My girl continues to amaze and impress with wisdom beyond her years.
For her birthday Meghan had a very specific request this year. One of her gifts was, “The Unabridged Poetry of Robert Frost.” I was familiar only with one of his most famous poems. Meghan read this book fervently for most of August. I think I understand why now.
Lab work tomorrow to keep those thyroid hormones in check. We need our strength to remain
Calm down. Relax. It’ll get done. Take a breath. Why do you get so worked up?
These words could be spoken in several alternate languages for all the good they do for me. They make no sense. I mean, on a cognitive level I understand the words. And even the context. But, they hold little practical application for my life.
I am Type A. Yep. For it’s highs and lows, positives and negatives, I am a Type A personality. Although like everything in life, the transition between Type A and Type B is a spectrum, I’m still honest with myself.
Go with the flow.
I have a dear friend who has promised to make a t-shirt that says,”I am Flo,” to guide me. She has 4 boys. (She used to be full on Type A. Now she shoves that in a drawer for most of the year, but the chaos sometimes still makes her cringe.)
I am high-strung. I am focused. I am task oriented. I am all about getting it done and getting it done well. I get pissed when other people fall behind on their jobs. I want order, structure, and routine. I make lists on top of my lists, while putting alerts in my phone to avoid missing anything. I have a hard time forgiving myself when I do.
I am a work in progress.
But to some extent, regardless of your personality type, I guess that’s true of all of us.
September is chaos. True, unequivocable chaos. Here, in this house. Here, in my mind. September is the toughest month of the year.
And apparently I’m not alone, because this article really cracked me up. September Is The Worst
If I could jump from August to October, it would be smoother. And I’m not a big fan of wishing my life away. But, transitions are especially tough on the Type A among us.
And, when you’re a teacher – well. That’s just a whole other story. But, for the sake of brevity simply organizing class lists for 25 classes and 500+ students while they are going through new admits, discharges, and interclass transfers is a feat not to be taken lightly. With the knowledge that 9/11 took place just a few days into the school year, I am always filled with a super sense of urgency to try to know who I have, and what their needs are as quickly as I can. Figuring out who has allergies, and who has an IEP is another struggle. Establishing rituals and routines for the classroom of a Type A teacher in one period a week is a bit taxing. Not as tough for the bigger kids, but those tiny kindergarten faces are still in shock. There’s no way they even remember my name, let alone where they should sit in my room. Substitute plans must be prepared, because emergencies don’t have the courtesy of always waiting till October. Copies of the schedule, printed, Emailed, and hung everywhere. Supplies, traffic patterns, expectations, all need establishing and reminding. That’s after the room is set up, and the bulletin boards are complete, and evening back to school night is squeezed into the agenda.
The agenda that is busting at the seams. Because, I know all you moms of multiple children may laugh at me, and whisper about how easy I have it, but that’s ok. Setting up the school and after school schedule for the child(ren) is a full-time job on its own. August looks so nice. The calendar lulls you into a false sense of security, as one by one the activities start-up again. And then all of a sudden you are trying to figure out when you will shower, or fill up the car with gas, or eat, or grocery shop. Never mind hair cuts! There’s the one time deals, like back to school night, and “returning parents swim meeting,” Every minute of every day seems to hold something. I know I have only one kid, but that doesn’t mean she can take herself to swim practice. Or pick herself up. Or that most of the time I can even leave her there, as lingering fears about her health are always present. And on the days she stays late at school for Drama, that’s a little easier, except when it crashes into a meeting at school. And there’s morning study, set up for the intense schedule for the 8th graders, as well as Friday night Youth Group for stress release. I think there’s a few minutes on Wednesday between 3 and 4 for sunshine. Oh, wait… groceries…
And to the left of me sits the Open House Schedule for High School. Still shaking my head as to how THAT happened, I am trying to figure out their days of the week. Because, I think we can make the Staten Island Borough Fair AFTER the swim meet that morning in October. There is the TACHS test, and the Specialized High School Test. Although I’m not really sure when there would be time to prepare. Unless, maybe there’s and app for that?
I haven’t even mentioned our health. Isn’t that just funny? It hasn’t rested one bit. And the most ironic thing, is people don’t realize you shouldn’t mess with a chronically ill Type A. Chances are good they like to excel at EVERYTHING. And in my case, I am willing to throw it at them. Hard.
Some time towards the end of August I had surgery to replace my implants. Far earlier than the 10-15 year life expectancy they had been given, one had moved, and it was time. That night as I lay recovering I picked up an Email from Meghan’s endocrinologist that we should raise her thyroid meds. Her levels were off again. Now raising the meds in and of itself every once in a while is not a huge deal I guess, but Meghan struggles with synthetic ANYTHING, and the fact that we were now 2.5 years post op from her thyroidectomy and she has had more dose changes than I have had in over 20 years can be unsettling. More unsettling was when I read to the bottom of the letter that he would be on vacation for over 2 weeks. So, here I was left to make a dose adjustment without clearing my list of “Type A mother of a chronically ill kid” questions, which, in case you wondered, are far more intense than the typical questions I ask. I scraped together the new dose from the closet, because I think we have Synthroid in EVERY dose known to man, and started her on it the next morning. My local pharmacy informed me that the insurance wouldn’t cover the new script even though it was a dose adjustment and we would have to mail order it. But mail order takes 2 weeks. And there was no telling whether she’d be on the dose for more than 6 weeks. But, whatever. I set my sights on getting a copy of the lab report to learn the magic thyroid numbers.
And then the real battle ensued. I tried to get it from one doctor. They couldn’t release it because they weren’t the “ordering” doctor, even though she had added labs to the order. I called the office of the endocrinologist. Twice that Monday. And again on Tuesday. I got a call back late Tuesday while I was on the phone complaining that I couldn’t see her labs through the “MyChart” system set up at the facility. The ‘ office said they’d send them. The MyChart people said they’d look into it. I waited.
Exactly a week. There were no labs in my mailbox. I called the endocrinology office again. I got someone who promised to send them and did. I called the MyChart people again. No answers, except that some one told me it was hospital policy not to allow parents access to records of their children ages 12-17.
Listen, while I may not like it, or even agree with it, I can almost understand that there are SOME situations where teens have the right to keep their records. But, this, this is THYROID blood work. She doesn’t want it. TRUST ME. She just wants me to give her what she needs to feel well. That’s it.
I processed all I could about this at the same time that I got ANOTHER bill from this hospital. The date of service looked familiar. I keep copious records. (Type A… :-)) And I was able to see that a bill for the DOCTOR, the PHYSICIAN Group, and the HOSPITAL FACILITY all billed, and were ALL paid to the tune of over $1000 for a 15 minute visit. And NOW, they were asking me for 2 additional Co-Pays. Notwithstanding the fact that we have 2 insurances, so our secondary picks up the co-pay at many of our visits. I called the primary carrier. They reversed the charges, but told me the billing practice was not illegal. Ok, then its immoral. And it preys on people who are sick, or who have sick kids. The insurance company also told me it was ON ME to call them when this happens. ONLY when I call them will they reverse the charges because as per my plan I am to pay one co-pay per visit.
Good, cause I needed something else to do.
By the first Friday in September I had had it. I found the CEO and Head of Patient Relations. I fired off a 14 page Email, 7 page letter, and 7 attachments about everything wrong at their facility.
I have since received 4 copies of the blood work by mail, and 2 phone calls asking it I needed it. One mail even came second day express. Of course it was addressed to my minor child, whose signature means nothing, and who is not legal to vote, or to drive, but who apparently in some alternate universe should be making health care decisions.
I received a letter from Patient Relations that they were reviewing my concerns. I’m not holding my breath.
That same Friday I tripped and fell and did some number on the pinkie toe of my right foot. A clear fracture, although there is some debate as to whether it is displaced, and it will warrant another opinion. The 3 hours I spent visiting the last podiatrist was a waste of my time. So, I am in a post op shoe for some infinite amount of time going forward. Because there is little chance in heck the right foot is getting into a sneaker any time soon. Good thing it’s the perfect month to “take it easy on the foot.” (Insert sarcastic grin here.)
Last Saturday the vocal therapist told me that I have one irregular shaped nodule on my left vocal fold. It still gets to be called “benign appearing.” I was also told I have “significant vocal fold atrophy secondary to premature aging.” Well, that sucks. Because I thought atrophy took place when you didn’t use something. And oh, I use my voice. And the premature aging, well, that’s likely thanks to the 2012 hysterectomy that was a necessary preventative move. It all comes back to Cowden’s somehow.
Over the weekend I noticed that the knots from the implant exchange were getting irritated. This doctor like all the others had been warned, I don’t dissolve stitches. But, as wonderful as he was, he also needed to be shown. I clipped one of the knots myself and there was immediate relief. Then I second guessed myself. By Monday the site I hadn’t touched was red and warm, while the other was healed. I took a photo and sent it to the PA. Come in tomorrow she said. So Tuesday afternoon, my surgical shoe and I trekked into Manhattan. She pulled the stitches, read a low-grade fever, and marked the redness. She scripted me with 5 days of antibiotics but told me to wait 12 hours. Wednesday morning I sent her a photo. “Looks better, right?” I said. “Start the antibiotics,” was the reply. So, I did.
Friday, Meghan made it to morning swim practice. 5:15-6:30AM. I dropped her off, and headed home to shower. I met her with breakfast. We stopped off to drop her bag, and were at her school by 7:22. I picked her up at 2:20 and she made afternoon practice. I was tired. She made it to youth group too. I was in bed by 10.
Friday I spoke to the endocrinologist – finally. I really do like him, but I think we’ve established now that I can’t wait 4 weeks for communication. I don’t think it will happen again. We talked it through. Wednesday the 28th we’ll head to the hospital lab to repeat. We are going there because then there is no chance for anyone to blame a variation on a different lab. But, that’s ok cause there is that free hour on Wednesday… He will call me on the 30th with the results. I believe him.
I also believe that when I take his call on the 30th I will have a tall glass of wine celebrating the END of September.
This morning Meghan woke up with a sore throat. She had to skip practice. That’s always a tough call for her, but the right one. She’s beating Cowdens like a champ, but part of winning is knowing when to slow it down.
Slow it down.
I am so wrapped up in the have-tos, and the just getting by, that so much life is just on hold. We have to gather enough spoons to save for something fun. Anything. But there are no spares. Especially not in September. (If that last paragraph confuses you – you can Google The Spoon Theory)
Sometimes, when I have a minute, I think about calling some of the friends I miss a lot. But, I don’t. They have crazy wild lives of their own. My fears and anxieties and worries exist, and so do theirs. But for some reason right now, they largely exist separately. I miss them. And I am forever grateful for Social Media and the few minutes I can take, at swim practice or the doctor to catch up, at least on the surface.
I am super-blessed with a husband who not only tolerates my Type A, but works with me. He cleans, and cooks, and remembers to make me laugh. A lot. Often at myself.
I am three years deep into nutritional cleansing that I have no doubt is keeping me fueled for this crazy life. One day soon I intend to find a way to shout from the rooftops and share this secret arsenal of nutritious fuel with the world. Because without it, I’m not sure exactly where this Type A, broken toe, infected boob, woman, who needs a tour guide microphone to teach her classes would be hiding.
Instead of hiding, we remain,
Friday, I tripped over something in my hallway. I wasn’t looking. I ended up against the wall, screaming all sorts of words that I am sure were inappropriate for my daughter to hear. But, for about 60 seconds I let … Continue reading
It took me over a week to actually wrap my head around this one.
The summer is not just time for Meghan to get checked and cleaned up, it’s time for me too. And this summer I tracked down a new doctor.
Sometime around the end of April my voice started to bother me. I was getting hoarse easily. I explained it away as allergies, season change, dust, “I must be getting sick,” and everything else I could think of. Except it bothered me. And that creepy voice that sneaks in sometimes to remind me that my body has already betrayed itself once, started to take hold.
After almost 20 years of teaching, and never ever struggling to use my “teacher voice,” I couldn’t project. Simultaneously with the pain in my right implant, and the nodule being watched on the remnants of my thyroid, it started to get in my head.
I went to my primary doctor, and wasted several hours to get nothing that resembled an answer. They suggested a thyroid sonogram. I never went back.
I started researching ENTs locally. I found very few who took my insurance, and fewer who seemed to have any voice experience.
I turned to the internet and found a voice specialist at a facility I trust in NYC.
I don’t really know what I expected from the exam. I filled out the preliminary papers, and gave the basic Cowden’s rundown. They did a few tests externally with a microphone, and another with a camera in my nose. Not pleasant, but incredibly informative.
And there on the screen was a “benign appearing” nodule on the side of my vocal cords, causing them to briefly lock together when I make certain sounds. Fascinating. But bothersome all the same.
They reassured me several times that the nodules were “benign appearing.” I appreciated that, but reminded them many of my scars are from “benign, and benign appearing” growths. I asked about the prevalence, and if it was linked to my Cowden’s Syndrome. I got a very definitive, “Maybe, or maybe not.” These nodules occur in the general population, they can be caused by overuse, but what had me perplexed was the problem seemed to start when I did the LEAST amount of teaching for the year. I was out of my program for quite an extended time between spring testing and other professional obligations. So, why now?
And, what to do? September is looming, and my life will be in the classroom many hours a day. I need my silly voice, my sing-song voice, my stern voice, my loud voice, my quiet voice, and my serious voice. Elementary school students expect, and deserve nothing less.
I was given a number for a “voice therapist.” And as of now my voice is getting a workout leaving messages for her. I asked the doctor what are the chances this “voice therapy” could control the nodules. He told me it “couldn’t hurt.” I asked if this was like giving me compression hose for my horrendous veins? Is it going to be a situation where voice therapy delays an inevitable surgery? Because any scar tissue on my vocal cords seems scarier than the painful legs I’ve contended with for years.
The answer is, there is none. I will persist and connect with this voice therapist. I will hear her out and try my best. And in 4 months or so I will follow-up with the doctor to evaluate. That is assuming the fall semester goes off without incident, and all my new students can hear me loudly and clearly.
For now, I’m using mostly the quiet voice. Often mumbling to myself. Because whether this is Cowden’s related or not, the whole “growing things” in my body is incredibly old.
Watch. Wait. Check. Recheck. Remove if necessary. That’s how we roll.
“Count your many blessings, name them one by one…” Grandma used to sing years ago when we would complain about nonsense. She was a little tough sometimes my Grandma, and maybe that’s where I got it from. But, many times she was right, whether we listened or not. (Maybe that’s where I got that from too? ;-))
I like numbers. They are logical. They are what they are. In a world that often makes no sense at all, I find order in numbers.
Except sometimes I’m faced with the question of what to do when numbers become overwhelming in and of themselves.
This marks the 400th post on this blog. While it’s by no means a masterpiece, when I sometimes poke through old posts I remember so much of where we’ve been. It’s a definite roadmap of our journey, and Meghan and I take great pleasure when people from around the world reach out to us and cite the blog as a source of comfort and strength.
Cowden’s Syndrome is rare enough that it can be a lonely diagnosis. Being able to reach people the world over has been a victory for us, and them.
With over 170,000 hits on various posts I know we are getting the word out. Slowly.
I might have wanted to celebrate this post. I might have wanted to make it really special. But, I’m counting something else today.
Today was the 17th time I’ve gotten off the phone with the nurse, giving me pre-operative directions for my daughter. Today, I listened as I always do, reciting the directions in my mind before she spoke. Really my only interest was the time. The rest is routine. I want to stop counting. I want to just go with it. I can’t give you an exact count on mine anymore – because once you’re a mom, well, you just focus more on what’s important. And you become less important. And that is a gift, denied to many, cherished and appreciated.
Somehow though, if I stop counting for her, it makes her struggle feel less valid. The numbers give her strength. A badge of courage. Something concrete in this world of abstract.
My post last night was about “Patience”
And as I poked around the blog this morning I was taken back years, through so many similar posts.
Their similarities are uncanny. I guess the story doesn’t change much. Hurry up, wait, surgery, wait, recovery, wait, follow up, wait…
So I’ll leave this 400th post as unremarkable. Nothing has changed. Nothing will change. And that’s the precise reason we keep counting, and keep telling our story.
Tomorrow, surgery number 17. 9:15 arrival. As usual, prayers always appreciated.
#beatingcowdens 400th post!
#beatingcowdens can be exhausting.
There was a post that showed up in my news feed this week from http://www.themighty.com. Read The Secrets of People with Chronic Illness here
I can’t seem to shake some of the thoughts from my head.
As I write, school ended for the summer 9 days ago. In those 9 days we have seen 4 doctors between us. There are 9 more SCHEDULED in the month of July, including a biopsy for Meghan on the 22nd.
And, while I did take some time over the weekend to reconnect with some dear friends, and I have accomplished a few mundane tasks like routine car maintenance, the vast majority of every moment of those 9 days has been spent justifying my existence.
Fortunately, I have enrolled Meghan in a theater camp where she is from 10-4, spending some time with kids her age. Of course, the wear and tear on her body, even after only 3 days is evident. She struggles with pain so badly. On her feet, determined to fit in. Determined for me not to say too much. Sometimes I have to let her go. I have to let her try. I have to let her decide. But, it hurts. It hurts her, and it destroys me to watch her battle with her body. I watch her put that game face on in the AM, and not take it off until after swim practice follows camp. No one will ever tell me she is anything but driven. But, no one would ever know to watch her…
Usually by this point in the summer my work bag is unpacked, washed and tucked away. Often my lesson plans for September are mostly framed out. I am yet to take the list I frantically formed as I packed my room the last day of school out of the bag.
Instead, the yellow legal pad sits near my computer. I write, and cross out, and rewrite, as I call, obtain records, set appointments, and clarify tests required by various doctors. I rearrange schedules to allow for coverage for Meghan as I trek to my own appointments at the most inconvenient times.
On the 18th I will meet a new plastic surgeon, as the old one no longer accepts our insurance. I never imagined needing a new plastic surgeon only 4and 1/2 years post op from the mastectomy, but it seems I do. I’ll wait until I meet him to elaborate on that… Sometimes, although not often, I do feel like this…
I can often count on 4 hours minimum round trip for the 10 mile trek. Never mind the cost. We just don’t even add it up. Instead, we thank God for our jobs and the insurance we do have.
I received a phone call yesterday from a lab that was running insurance information to obtain testing for Meghan requested by one of her doctors. Except it’s not covered at all. $16,000 they said. I, who denies my child nothing politely said, “we’ll find another way”. And we will. Because that is just insane.
I’ve sent 3 emails to the office manager of the office doing her procedure on the 22nd. I simply want to know what date to leave free for the follow-up. I know there will be one, and I want to plan a few summer adventures in the time that my fish will have to be out of water. I also asked for the pathology from her December procedure. For about the 8th time. Just keep adding checks and dates to the list.
When things get really bad, like with the bills I’m fighting in collections, they get a folder of their own. The SUPER troubling places, like the mail-order pharmacy, have a notebook.
We do our best to stay upbeat. We count our blessings regularly. We know it could be worse. We know the anguish others suffer far surpasses our daily struggles. But, no matter how much we focus on a positive attitude, and believe me we do, it does not decrease the pain, both physical and emotional. The struggle is real. Whether we like to admit it or not.
I reached out to our genetecist this week. Darling man said he would always help, and didn’t want us to waste a trip on him. I told him I was having trouble with my voice. I’ve been getting very hoarse for 8 weeks or so. No infection. Three allergy meds on board. But, I do have Cowden’s Syndrome, that tumor growing thing I sometimes forget belongs to me too. And I have a history in the neck. A 3.5 pound lipoma in 1988, and multinodular goiter on the thyroid in 1993. Both removed. Both benign. But…
He referred me to a head and neck surgeon. I finally mustered up the courage to block out at least one more day of summer, and call for an appointment. I was met with the inquisition on the phone. I never got past the receptionist.
“This doctor is a head and neck SURGEON.”
“Yes, I know he’s a surgeon, I was referred for consulation.”
“Well, he doesn’t just SEE people, you need a diagnosis and a referring doctor.”
“I have both. C-O-W-D-E-N Syndrome. A mutation on the PTEN gene that causes benign and malignant tumor growth. I was referred by my genetecist, also a doctor at your hospital.”
“Well, what tests do you have? He will want a report, a CD, something…”
Sigh. I just don’t have the fight in me today. “Ok, you win. I’ll find someone else.”
“Come back to him when you have a diagnosis.”
Whatever. Just whatever. Sometimes I get a little tired.
Thats when I shake it off with a quick walk.
I emailed the genetecist back. I’ll wait. Again.
I have this pool in my backyard. And plenty of people I’d like to reconnect with. And some lessons I’d like off my plate. And a book I’d like to read.
I’ll get there. In the mean time, I’ll be at my computer. Emailing. Arguing. Advocating. Communicating. Researching. Justifying my existence, and