So, tomorrow--surgery. I'm ready. As far as surgeries go, a lumpectomy and sentinel node dissection is usually uneventful. (Dare I even say hilarious? I'll talk about my pending smurf makeover in the next blog.) But it took some gargantuan effort of my willpower to get there. In the immortal words of Inigo Montoya, let me sum up:
Most people who are dancing with Lucille will tell you that it is a hellish roller coaster of ups and downs and in betweens. The ups (and there are ups, believe it or not) are welcome glimpses of sunshine and daisies, often in the form of good news or family and friends. Other parts of the ride are long and flat, usually periods of exhaustion or waiting. (I have my least favorite waiting rooms ranked by the level of human body odor. 1=Wow, is that air freshener I smell?; 10=Holy Armpits, Batman!)
And the lows. Oh my goodness the lows. Last night, the cart actually derailed. Both my surgeon and oncologist had noticed that my thyroid glands were enlarged, but because there was so much else to talk about, neither followed up directly with me about a course of action. So whammo! Yesterday I get a call telling me to come in today (my day off from anything Lucille-ish, mind you) and get (yet another) ultrasound (ultrasound waiting room=8).
It might help to hop in at this point and explain the mind game I play with Lucille. I focus all my energy on the task at hand and she promises not to rock the boat: "What is next? Okay...I can do this. Okay, I did it. What's next? Okay, I can do this. Okay, I did it. What's next?"...and so on. But an ultrasound of my thyroid glands? A day before surgery? That is not the plan! Bad Lucille! My mind went straight to metastasis, and the roller coaster dipped farther than Dante ever dared to describe.
However, after a reassuring phone call from my oncologist (only half a day late) that the abnormality was not related to the cancer (I'll take thyroid disease anyday over cancer, thank you!), we breathed a sigh of relief. The glands still need to be biopsied (oh, yeah), but in a streak of good luck, they can do that for me while I sleep in blissful ignorance tomorrow.
So, back to the plan. Surgery. Tomorrow. Check. Time to look and feel our best. Nothing brings the train back in line than a good hairdo. Check. Buckled in. Check. Keep your grubby hands in the car, Lucille.
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