Just sharing a brief update… or let’s hope it’s brief, because otherwise y’all might just get a wee bit bored, or a lot bored. *sigh*
In the saga that is the medical establishment, my doctor has been unable to procure a PET scan approval from my insurance company in order to begin pursuing why my vocal cord is paralyzed. (I waited for two weeks for this?)
I am liking my doctor more and more. When he called late last week and said, “I’ve been fighting for you, dear,” I decided he was a keeper. Basically, the PET scan is too expensive and our insurance company won’t approve it. So instead I will be having two CT scans (one of my throat and one of my chest) and a radioactive iodine scan, because the CT scan won’t pick up any thyroid cancer.
They scheduled a consult with the nuclear med doctor and both my CTs for tomorrow.
As of this afternoon, the consult has been canceled and the CT scans have been postponed for two more weeks.
I have felt like a gerbil running in a wheel these past two weeks, but I think we finally have a direction we’re moving in.
The contrast dye from the CT scans could interfere with the radioactive iodine scan, so they’re doing that one first and as soon as possible. Next week is the week… Monday–injection. Tuesday–injection. Wednesday–blood work and dosing, then sequestering from the kiddos. Thursday–day off, still sequestered. Friday–scan. Last time I had this I was sequestered for a full five days. With the kids being older, that could shorten; however, they still have growing cells that could be damaged by the radioactive material I’ll be emitting.
Does anyone else find this incredibly hard to wrap their minds around?
I’ll be a danger to my kids? And I’m choosing to do this?
I’ve had three of these before, so I know what’s coming. I’m not concerned about the procedures; however, I’d so much rather not do any of this. I’m sick of being stuck and scanned and feeling like a guinea pig. It’s big and overwhelming, and the stress level in our home is skyrocketing.
I sat with my Ash tonight. We were the only two home for a while, and we chatted. He looked at me with those big ol’ eyes of his. (Have you seen his eyes, y’all? Huge. And beautiful.)
“I think about you all the time, Mom. You and Mr. S (a man from our church who Ash loves dearly and is facing a bone marrow transplant for leukemia).” Those beautiful eyes filled. “It’s hard not to worry. It’s hard to remember that you’re in God’s hands.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t have planned it this way.”
My eyes filled like his, “Oh, buddy,” I whispered, then we sat in silence for a few minutes. He reached over and took my hand. He knows what’s coming. He knows why we’re having the scans. He’s heard the word cancer too many times. He’s afraid he’ll hear it again.
“No matter what,” he said, “We’re loved.”
Oh. that. boy.
Yes, y’all. There is a lot coming down the pipeline these next three weeks for us (and who knows what’s beyond that). I am exhausted in every way. I am scrambling to figure out all the pieces of making these next few weeks happen. I am awake at nights wondering if there is cancer in my body again. I am tired of the constant physical pain. I am sapped of all emotional and spiritual strength. Unable to really sing, I listen to music and tears flow through almost every song. Weary is an understatement.
But in the midst of it all, like my boy, I take a hand.
My Father’s hand.
And I cling.
Because I know that what I need preached to me from the lips of my own son is true…
No matter what.
All of my life, I’ve held on to this fear.
These thistles and vines, ensnare and entwine
What flowers appeared.
It’s the fear that I’ll fall one too many times;
It’s the fear that His love is no better than mine.
But He tells me that
Just as I am and just as I was,
Just as I will be He loves me, He does.
He showed me the day that
He shed His own blood;
He loves me, oh, He loves me, He does.