Writing Prompts

#1


#1 start a story with:  And it was at that exact moment the power came back on.

And it was at that exact moment that the power came back on. The electricity that just moments before had coursed between them was gone, now transferred to the appliances humming around them. How stark things looked in the blinding fluorescence of the artificial light. What once had been muted and mysterious was now obvious and mundane.

She cleared her throat and looked away. He rose from the threadbare couch, knees popping and busied himself resetting the clock on the microwave on the counter. Squinting at the digital readout, mouth slightly open trying to focus on the numbers, he hit each button slowly, drawing out the task as long as possible to salve his frayed nerves.

“….What..,” trying to start the beginning of a question, his voice caught in his throat and upon trying again, his voice creaked like a rusty hinge. Embarrassed, he tried once more and was successful. “What time is it?”

No answer came. He swiveled and saw she was gone. Only a slightly concave spot on the worn couch, a rumpled crease of fabric where she had sat proved that she had ever been there at all.

Sh*t I gotta do

The Proverbial Bucket List
In no particular order

1.  Finish Bachelor's Degree
2.  If that doesn't kill me, finish Master's
3.  Be an even 150
4.  Find a legitimate hobby
5.  Find a couple more legitimate friends
6.  Write one original short story.  Just one.  A short one.  Why is this so difficult?
7.  Go to a really amazing New Year's/Christmas/Whatever party in an equally amazing dress
8.  Visit all 50 states, 40 more to go!
9.  Go to a Broadway play (not necessarily on Broadway, but a "BIG DEAL" play)
10.  Debate someone and win
11.  Do something aggressive, on purpose
12.  Go to a jazz club
13.  Take another Spanish class
14.  Travel around Europe
15.  Home exchange!
16.  Visit NYC
17.  Get a really nice camera
18.  Have an incredibly meaningful conversation with a total stranger
19.  Tell someone exactly what I think
20.  Dance

Older, Wiser, Cynical-er

It's been a long while since I posted.  Not a lot has changed externally in my world.  A lot has changed internally though.  It seemed like the change from 30 to 31 was a big (dare I say it) paradigm shift for me.  I am beginning to understand why people say that they'd never want to relive their 20's and prefer their 30's and beyond.  Now, mind you, my entire 20's were spent married, working and having babies, so it's not like I have this huge, embarrassing adolescence to look back on while cringing.  No, in fact I'm damn proud of everything I did in my 20's, but it wasn't until now, until 31 that I fully realize what I am capable of achieving.  I'm doing pretty good, working in a career, not just a job, having two incredible boys, a nice house, etc, etc.  But I'm missing something.  I'm not sure what it is yet, or maybe I do and I don't want to know.  I'm not sure.  I do know that I'm going back to school to finish my bachelor's degree in psychology and no amount of shit from my husband will stop me.  I think what might quell this weird void is to make out a list of what it is that I still want to do in life and accomplish some.  See if that makes the ache stop. 

Death and Taxes

Death is the only certainty, the only true constant in life. So why is it then, that the most constant thing in the universe, shoud be the one we seldom speak of? The control freaks try to plan for it. Cheat sheets are left for a spouse, funerals are prepaid, but can you ever really plan for it? The disadvantage is its success can never be measured, nor can lessons learned be brought back to the surviving. You can plan for a Caribbean cruise because it's been done before and advice can be given on what to expect. Except for a few John Edwards and Sylvia Browne types, there is no Frommers or Fodor's for death and its after effects.

Neither can you prepare the surviving for what it feels like when a heartbeat you loved is no longer with you. It's different in every situation. Why do we get so attached to others in the first place? It seems like a flawed system. We know every person we love will leave us at some point, or we will leave them. Wouldn't it be safer to keep all at an arm's length?

The human heart, for most of us, doesn't operate like that, flawed as it may seem to the logical. Maybe this is the meaning of life or maybe it's our cross to bear. Perhaps the meaning of life is that even though we intrinsically know that each person we love will leave us, still we love. Still we entangle our lives and our hearts with others, knowing that it will end sadly. I find this fascinating.

If we are logical enough to guard ourselves from ever truly loving another person, it is seen by others as a failure, a life wasted. Wouldn't it be more convenient for the populous if we died alone without a soul to mourn our passing? We would not have caused anyone any grief and in our life, we would not have had cause to grieve. It would seem that this would be the most effective way to live and die, the greatest use of time and resource.

In my black and white way of reasoning, you might think I would subscribe to this school of thought. Sometimes I think I do, but my body makes decisions for my brain without ever asking its opinion on the matter. My body responds to my spouse and my children without my brain's approval. My brain would like to keep them at a distance. To observe and admire them like paintings in a museum. I would appreciate their beauty and marvel at their detail, but certainly not become a part of them.

My body, my heart, I suppose is immutable. My body hugs and snuggles and kisses, it cries at the very thought of my family all before my brain has a chance to send a warning signal. My body wins over my brain almost every time and for that I am grateful.

Evil Begins with Candy Land

At what point in a life does one develop the capacity for evil? Or maybe not evil so much, but at least the capacity for doing something that you know to be wrong, but you really don't care. We are all born selfish, simply on an evolutionary level, because we had to be to survive. Of course, we are all born with the capacity for love, sympathy and cooperation, again purely for survival. But at what point do we consciously learn to channel those attributes to gain an edge over the competition? For me anyway, it was around the age of 4.

This is when I figured out, of my own volition, that I could subtly mark cards and stack the deck in order to win at Candy Land. No one suspected me, I was unstoppable and mad with power. Eventually my mom caught onto me and told me I was cheating. So, it was that day that I learned what I was doing had a title, but other than that, I failed to see how it was a problem.

I further honed my cheating skills by mercilessly beating my elderly neighbor at UNO. Little did she know I could see the reflection of her cards in her giant trifocals. I was on a power trip of Kim Jong Il proportions. I was a good kid with good grades, the rules of the world didn’t actually apply to me. Rules were created to keep the “others” in line. I felt a kinship with the rulemakers, the teachers, the grownups. I imagined we had kind of a secret society relationship. A nod-in-hallway type camaraderie.

I don’t think that cheating at Candy Land or UNO actually made me any different than any other kid, but it was the way I went about it and how good I was at it that makes me a little worried about my capacity for sociopathic tendencies. That and this little stunt that I pulled in first grade: the neighbor girls were a year older and a year younger than me. They had some doll toys that I felt were very important for me to have. Namely a small baby bottle that had pretend milk in it that disappeared when you turned it up (amazing!) and a pink and white rattle. Rather than steal them, demand they give them to me or beg my parents to buy them like most first graders, I decided to hold a birthday party for my stuffed cat instead.

It’s not that my stuffed cat was that important to me, but this particular stuffed cat was a baby cat. No, not a kitten. A cat-baby with a diaper, a pacifier and a bib. What this cat lacked was a bottle with magical disappearing liquid and a sweet-ass pink rattle.

How could I market this so it was a win-win situation? A birthday bash for said cat was the perfect solution. Everyone wins, especially me! I created birthday invitations with a hand drawn picture of the cat in question. Inside I wrote the time and location of the party (tomorrow afternoon, my bedroom) and just a general list of what the cat might like for a present, just something little, maybe a bottle or a rattle or something, nothing major.

My mom helped me make Kool-Aid and we had some Little Debbie snacks for treats. The girls came over at the proper time clutching small presents. We adjourned to the party suite. The stuffed cat was very excited to receive such thoughtful presents, namely one magic bottle and one rattle. The cat displayed the proper amount of enthusiasm and gratitude and a wonderful time was had by all. My diabolical scheme had been successful.

Subsequently I bent the rules on many occasions and never once got called on it. I plagiarized reports, made up books and authors for a bibliography, even going so far as to make up fake Library of Congress numbers. That scored me another A in 5th grade.

I am the worst kind of person. A terrible person wearing the face of a completely normal one. If you fully acknowledge the awful facets of your personality, does that make them ok? I’m inclined to think it does not. It’s like those heinous bumper stickers that fill me with rage, you know the ones “100% Bitch” or “I’m not a bitch, I’m THE bitch” etc. If you are fully accepting that you are a difficult person, that doesn’t necessarily make that behavior fully acceptable. I fully acknowledge that I’m a snarky, pretentious and judgmental know it all, but I don’t expect other people to think it’s ok and I sure as hell don’t welcome those traits in others (which is awful, I know) It’s ok for me of course, but not for anyone else.

Can you ever really know another person? I don’t think so.

Differences Between Elvis and Me

Elvis once said, "I never thought I'd be anybody important." I, on the other hand, had no doubt that I would grow up to be a big deal. I had no reasons for these delusions of grandeur. I was not an attractive child, had no talent for music or sports, lacked basic social skills and wasn't a genius by any stretch of the imagination. What I did have going for me was an encyclopedic knowledge of television, movies and books, year-round allergies, scoliosis and bifocal glasses in the classic style of Sally Jessy Raphael, all by the age of 10. Houston, we have a nerd.

I always felt an unnecessary superiority to others, even in pre-school. The silly games and songs were always beneath me, as were the dummies that I was forced to sit with and nap next to. I was offended by Red Rover and children's menus.

I was told I'd be taller

When I was in Kindergarten I was the "tallest girl." Labels and categories are very, very important to a kindergartner. When you don't really understand life yet, everything is black and white, good guy and bad guy, Ken and Barbie, right and wrong. Anyone who has ever been around a kindergarten-age child will tell you there is no such thing as subtlety, sarcasm or gray areas for this age group.
In the hierarchy of Kindergarten there was the oldest, the youngest, the tallest, the shortest, the loudest, the quietest, etc. Being the tallest girl was a BIG DEAL, pretty much VIP-level stuff.
It became even a bigger deal at our Kindergarten graduation in the spring of 1987. My hair was freshly crimped, my gray and neon green sweater dress was clean and my cable-knit tights were not yet bunching around my knees. I had my pink, construction paper graduation cap with the "Class of 2000" tassel (this is also when it first occurred to me that I would graduate in 2000, another REALLY BIG DEAL since obviously I'd attend high school on the moon and drive there in my flying car--natch!). As our class stood up to sing "Down By the Bay," I scanned the crowd for my parents and grandparents. I found my grandpa videotaping me with his giant (and super modern) camcorder. As soon as the pomp and circumstance had died down my grandparents rushed over with flowers to congratulate my stellar achievements. "You're the tallest girl!" my grandma gushed. I humbly acknowledged this fact. "She'll grow up to be a basketball player," my grandpa exclaimed, "lots of colleges will want her!" "Or a model!" my grandma predicted. Yes, yes, the world was my oyster, I'd be a basketball playing model, accepting positions at top colleges on the moon. But soon the glory faded and by the time the leaves began to change and I became a card-carrying first grader--to my horror I discovered I no longer wore the coveted "tallest girl" crown. How could this be? I was somewhere in the middle. I was mediocre. No longer special. This was bullshit! Not only was this bullshit, this was only the first of many times I was told I'd be something that I didn't turn out to be.
Looking back now, with all the fluff my head was filled with by family members, I should be a 6 foot blonde model, who went to college on an athletic scholarship and eventually cure cancer. They failed to tell me that blonde hair turns mousy, skinny bodies turn curvy, school gets harder and just because you get good grades, doesn't mean you're smart.
I didn't go to high school on the moon, I was a completely inept at basketball and never again did I don the crown of tallest girl. If 6 year old me saw adult me's statistics on paper, she would have dubbed me a complete failure. But then again 6 year olds don't appreciate gray areas and life is pretty much a total gray area.

Exquisite

I'm sitting on my bed staring at the baby. I should be putting away laundry, doing the dishes, organizing the mess in the computer room, cleaning the living room....but I can't stop staring at the gorgeous, drooling bundle in my bed. I'll never have the chance again to just let the world stop and enjoy my baby. I can't imagine this beautiful, perfect baby will one day scream that he hates me, will one day leave me and will someday break my heart. What could possibly be more heart-wrenching than a child? I sometimes wonder why we become parents in the first place. I know, biologically we must repopulate, but on a purely emotional level, why would we choose this? That sounds cold, but I don't mean it like that. I mean that, especially with my older son, any hurt of his becomes my hurt. The thought of him being scared or sad becomes my pain, on top of any other pain I already had. My love for him and for the new baby is so all consuming that it makes my heart feel stretched and thin. I used to get so annoyed by women who would cry at tragic stories about children in the news. I didn't understand the problem, it wasn't their child that was hurt or killed, sure it's sad, but nothing to cry over. Something inside you breaks when you become a mother, every child becomes your child. Maybe it doesn't break, maybe it becomes complete, maybe that's how it was supposed to be all along.

The Plan

So the plan, as it stands now, is to remove the gargantuan tumor on my thyroid as well as half of the thyroid itself. This is a much better prospect than the other option that I was facing. With only taking half the thyroid, I get to keep the other half which will likely mean I don't have to take synthetic thyroid replacements (fun fact, thyroid replacement meds are made out of pig thyroid...) I also will not have to be subjected to 4 days of radioactive iodine and the subsequent banishment from civilization that mess entails. I guess they will take out the diseased half and test it one more time and if it passes the benign test, they will close me up and let me go. If they find that it was malignant after all...well, we'll deal with that later.

Future Jen has Arrived

Well, apparently I did deal with it just fine. I had yet another biopsy done and, again, it came back benign. The doctor told me the results with the caveat that we will only know for sure when the actual tumor is removed and dissected in February. Why do so many things need to be removed from my body and dissected? I'm sure it has something to do with eating lead-based paint in all the various rental properties I was raised in. At any rate, it's been an incredibly long time since I posted so here's what's new...I had something else removed from my body, but not dissected. Lane Thomas made his arrival on October 14th at 8:16 a.m. as scheduled. He is healthy and beautiful and I am so blessed to be his mother! I had a great pregnancy, for all my physical failings, I'm actually really good at being pregnant. I had a tubal ligation, so, sadly, this baby factory is closed. I felt confident in the choice to shut down production, my husband and I agreed a long time ago that we did not want more than two children. Well, he didn't want more than zero for a long time...But anyway, I had no reservations about the decision until about an hour ago when I started packing up my maternity clothes. Not being a crier, I was surprised when I started sobbing unexpectedly while folding up the shirts I'd been wearing for the past few months. I don't want to be pregnant again, I certainly don't want anymore kids, but there was such a sense of finality in that gesture. Shutting a door on an exciting and special time of my life, I guess. I will never again be pregnant. Why is this so sad? I'm not great at being a mother, kids in general stress me out. I think it's more the ending of a time period, rather than actual sadness about not having more kids. This was the last big thing, you know. I've graduated high school and college. I've had the wedding, the grown up job, bought a house, built a house and had my kids. The next milestones, the next "big things" won't be mine now, they will be my children's. Is that a selfish viewpoint? Am I sad because there won't be anymore parties or presents for me? Yeah, kinda. Being on the cusp of 30 is a strange plateau, at least in my situation. I did all the big stuff so early that there's this long expanse of horizon ahead that's just nothing but existing. But that's not so bad, there's not much chaos or uncertainty in existing. I think I'll just find comfort in that.

Winner Take Nothing

A few days after the confusion of the last visit, I received a call from the second surgeon. She informed me she had sent the pathology reports to her pathologist whose diagnosis differed a great deal from the first report. It appeared that the second pathologist did not feel that the tumor, though unusually large, was malignant. This changed everything.

When I met with the second doctor again she felt confident that her pathologist's findings of a benign tumor were solid. This meant that, even though the tumor had to come out because of its size, I could postpone it for awhile, have only the diseased half removed, not have to take synthetic thyroid replacement and, best of all, avoid radiation treatment altogether. I was cautiously optimistic. After a lifetime of having metaphorical rugs pulled out from under me, I knew enough to keep my relief to a minimum. Again, my inherently cynical nature proved correct and saved me from extreme disappointment.

A few days after receiving that news, my original surgeon called. He said that he received the new pathology reports and did not agree with them. He said that he felt very strongly that the tumor was malignant and needed to be removed in its entirety with follow up of radiation. He personally wanted to make sure that I was going to follow up on it and not just take the benign diagnosis at face value. Well, crap.

Now at an impasse, I am confused to the point where I have dissociated completely from the situation. I will have another lymph node scan in August and pending the results, will plan for another biopsy after baby comes. I prefer to think of it as future Jen's problem and I have confidence that she will deal with it just fine. As for present Jen, I'm going to enjoy my pregnancy to the best of my ability because I know that it will be my last.

Lymphatic Overachiever

After nearly an hour of scanning my lymph nodes and making disconcerting sounds, the ultrasound tech said that a doctor would be in to talk with me. Super. My husband and I sat fretting in the dark, stifling room wondering what fresh hell the doctor might be looking at. After a few minutes a J-Crew-esque man strode in with a clipboard. He asked me when I had my thyroid surgery. While my mind said a string of expletives that may still be hanging in space over the hospital, my mouth said, "I have not had any thyroid surgery. Do you have the correct chart?" I could not believe that so many people could get such seemingly simple information so astoundingly incorrect.

He frowned at his chart and and mumbled something. I told him the whole sordid affair and we eventually ended up on the same page, figuratively. He said that all of my lymph nodes were clear of any malignancies (yay!), but interestingly, I had several more lymph nodes than normal people possess. How could I be surprised at this, given all my other medical abnormalities? I asked him if this was a problem or if it somehow led to me being in this particular situation. He said that while having so many nodes was unusual, it wasn't to blame for any of my problems. I then questioned how I came to have so many lymph nodes. "You are just an overachiever," he informed me. Oh dude, if you only knew.

This lack of concrete answers to my various bizarre organ issues led me to think up several scenarios of my own. I asked around my family to see if I ever lived near a nuclear reactor, lived under power lines or ingested a large amount of paint chips, though no one could confirm any of these. I prefer to think that, in-utero, I had a twin and I ate him/her to retain my supremacy and will eventually rule the galaxy with my superpowers. We'll see how that works out for me.

OMG, Get Bill!

So, after the previous occupant was shuffled hastily from the ultrasound room, I was plopped in the chair. The doctor lubed up my neck with ultrasound jelly and took at gander at the beast within. She mumbled some things to herself and then called for her nurse. "Hey, where's Bill? Get him in here, he needs to see this!" I couldn't move my neck, so I couldn't share a bewildered glance with my husband. The nurse returned with the Bill in question and also the aforementioned Dr. Christian Brooks-Brothers-Izod. The doctor again called out for someone else to be brought in to view whatever the hell is lurking in my neck.

I was reminded of an In Living Color sketch with David Alan Grier--the gist of which revolved around giant hemorrhoids, his ass exposed, and a clueless nurse that kept calling people in to look at them, including the janitor. I honestly had to fight the urge to crack up and probably looked like a mental case at that moment. The doc was talking in doctor-ese and pointing out all kinds of things about my apparently giant and fascinating tumor. As quickly as I was pulled into the room, I was shuttled out and told to go to the 4th floor to have a scan of all my lymph nodes. The 4th floor is where I met Daniella, who so eerily resembled Tangina from Poltergeist that I was momentarily speechless when she called out my name (thank God my name isn't Carol Anne). She had a thick French accent and a matching thick French attitude.

"Why are you here?" she barked at me. I told her that my doctor had sent me up to have a scan of my lymph nodes. "I know that. What are we scanning?" "Ummm...my lymph nodes?" She asked again what we were scanning and why I was there. I asked her if perhaps I was in the wrong place and she assured me that I was not. The conversation stalled from there....

She had what I assumed was my chart in front of her and after being called Robin earlier in the morning, I was hesitant to trust anything anyone said. She took me back to the scanning room and asked me when I had my thyroid removed. Are you freaking kidding me? "I haven't had it removed. I have a tumor on it and was told to come here and have my lymph nodes scanned. That is all I know. I don't know what else to tell you." She made a harrumph-ish noise told me to lie down on the bed. I stood there debating whether to leave or do as she commanded. I thought French people were supposed to sound sexy, she sounded decidedly unsexy and pretty much terrifying. I decided to go ahead and lie down, if nothing more, just to see what the hell could possibly happen next.

I'm a Stranger Here Myself....

The surgeon at the first hospital sent my records to the second hospital for my second opinion. In a completely unprecedented move, they called me a few hours later and got me in the next day. I wasn't sure whether to be glad or terrified. I was now going to a specialist who worked on nothing but thyroid problems and specialized in thyroid cancer. I felt comfortable with her level of expertise and was curious to see what they had to say.

My husband was able to accompany me to this visit, which was nice since it not only was an hour away in a sprawling, mega-hospital, but would entail an entire day of tests, scans and prodding. We arrived at the appointment on time and waited for my name to be called. When I was finally called back we were put in a room with very off-putting machinery and equipment designed to go up your nose or down your throat. I felt I would politely decline either option if asked.

A young, blonde frat-boy looking resident came in clutching a clipboard and chewing gum. I know I shouldn't judge someone on how they look, but the kid reeked of elitism and expensive hair product. Also, his first name was Christian, which also made me dislike him. I know. I'm a jerk, but he was poster child for an Ivy league upbringing and looked like he loved nothing more than abusing the staff at the country club. I may be judgmental, but I'm often correct. He strode into the room, looked at me and said, "Robin?" Um. No. Not even close.

He looked perplexed, glanced at his clipboard, the room number and back to me. He mumbled an apology and left. My husband and I knew that this was the precursor for a bizarre and stressful day. Another 15 minutes passed and Dr. Christian ShoeTassels returned after, I'm guessing, taking care of Robin.

He got my name correct and began asking me about my previous pancreatic surgery, interrupting every sentence with medical jargon questions to which I did not have the answers. He then described my current tumor and asked what my plans were. Um, that's what I'm here to discuss. He said that it looked like the tumor was not a big deal, very common and I might not even need to have it removed.

All of this was news to me, but it made me feel a little relieved, albeit skeptical. Dr. Christian Fancyslacks didn't seem terribly trustworthy, so I reserved a full-fledged sigh of relief. He said that the surgeon would be in to see me in a few minutes and left.

The surgeon came in a few seconds later and began questioning me in rapid-fire succession. She was a tiny little thing, with a slightly clipped Asian accent. I actually really liked her right off the bat. She took one look at my neck and said that she wanted to do an ultrasound now, as in this very second. She yelled at the nurse to get the current patient out of the ultrasound room and get her equipment ready. A confused patient was yanked out of the darkened ultrasound room and my husband and I were herded in. This was all very strange indeed....

That Sinking Feeling

The day finally came for me to meet with the surgeon again. Even though I was sure of what he was going to say, I still had a glimmer of hope that he'd say everything is cool, go back to your previously scheduled life. No such luck. I sneaked a peek at the chart where I could barely make out the word "carcinoma." This is not my first rodeo, so I know what that means. He explained the results and what they meant for me. He felt that this growth had been malignant since I first learned about it five years ago, but the technology wasn't there to give an accurate diagnosis. He said since there was no ultrasound done as they did the biopsy, they just jabbed randomly and came up with benign results. I didn't care to ruminate on that, all I cared about knowing whether or not they'd have to remove the thyroid while I was still pregnant.

Everyone thinks that pregnancy is a beautiful time where you live your life, not for yourself, but for the health of the beautiful being that is growing within you. Rainbows, kittens, unicorns, all that jazz. Bullshit. Maybe it's like this for better people than me, but I found this to be an extremely difficult position to be in. I hadn't really felt the baby move yet, didn't know the gender and still didn't really, really believe I was actually pregnant. It's hard to be selfless and benevolent for someone that you have never met. If I had a malignant growth, I sure as shit wanted it out of my body as quickly as possible, I didn't want to wait until after the baby was born.

Of course, I'd never put my baby in danger, but the claustrophobia of slowly dying to keep someone else healthy is hard to live with. It wasn't really that dire of a situation, but when it's YOUR health, it's hard not to be a little bit overdramatic. The doctor assured me that the cancer was not fast moving and waiting until baby comes is really the best course of action. I agreed, but still decided to take a trip back to the teaching hospital in the big city where I had never thought I'd have to return.

I stayed calm in the office and asked all the right questions. The doctor must have thought I either didn't get it or didn't care. I calmly got in my car and drove away from the hospital. Then I freaked out. I went through all the stages of grief in about 10 minutes, from "this cannot be happening again" to "why is it always me" winding my way through bargaining, depression and then to "well, here we go again, I did it once, I can do it again." I've always been a bit accelerated when it comes to emotions.

I wasn't sure how I was going to handle the total removal of my thyroid, working out the right dosage of synthetic thyroid hormones, radiation treatment, a conspicuous scar that looks like a murder attempt and a brand new baby, but I guessed I'd cross that bridge when I got there.

I Meet The Needle Again

I had one thyroid ultrasound at one doctor's office and was then told I'd have to have another one at the surgeon's office. The first ultrasound was no big deal. The second came with the threat of another fine needle aspiration. I met with the surgeon who looked over my medical records (which are now the thickness of a Tolstoy novel). "You're only 28?" he asked. Yeah, I know. I've heard it all before. I'm a medical freak.

He said that the first ultrasound showed a very sizable growth on my thyroid, so large that it was creating a bulge on my neck that I hadn't noticed until a few weeks ago. He said that he needed to take a look for himself and then would need to do a biopsy. I must have turned several shades of gray at the mention of the biopsy. I said that I had a really bad experience with the first one, but that I'd do the best I can not to pass out. He asked me to explain my first experience. I edited out my terrorist theory and gave him the short version. He was appalled that I wasn't given a numbing shot and that the procedure hadn't been done using an ultrasound in order to get a precise reading. He assured me that this one would be different. I was not swayed.

The numbing really did make a difference and I was proud to stay conscious the entire time. He got several slides of nasty looking goo. He said that (shocker!) my growth was unusual in that there was a large, solid mass surrounded by a more gelatinous mass. He said would meet back with me in a week to discuss the results. Great, a week to fret.

I spent the next few days assuring everyone that this was not a big deal, everything would be fine, while completely freaking out on the inside. I knew that, once again, my body was trying to do me in and that the growth would most definitely turn out to be cancer.

Pardon the Interruption

Jet back to 2005 with me, won't you? I forgot to add the thyroid biopsy which occurred after the scan. After my adventures with radioactivity and passing out on bathroom floors, I was told that I needed to have a biopsy of the growth. This would not be a surgical procedure, but a "fine needle aspiration." That didn't sound so bad, aspirations are a good thing and using fine needles sounds...well, sounds fine, I guess. I had been worried that some manner of robot would be sent down my throat to cut out pieces of my thyroid, so this procedure sounded like a cake-walk. I brought my husband with me for moral support anyway.

I should have known better. We were called back and a doctor who kind of resembled Saddam Hussein came in. I'm not trying to be racist or call him a terrorist, I'm just stating the facts. I would later feel that he was an absolute terrorist of my neck region, but honestly he really did look like 90's era Hussein, not spider-hole, prison Hussein. There was no small talk or explaination of what would be happening. He sat me down on a stool and pulled out a syringe best used for horses, or maybe rhinos. He jabbed it all the way in my neck not once, not twice, but three times. No numbing, no nothing. I don't do well with people touching my neck. I really don't do well with giant needles being stabbed in on three occasions. As the last needle plunged in, I passed out. I fell backwards off the stool and was grabbed by my husband and the nurse. The doctor seemed to take personal offense to the passing out and pinched the bridge of my nose with completely unnecessary force. He said it was to get me to come to, but I'm pretty sure it was just to be a jackass.

I wrenched away from him as my eyes teared up. He glared at me and told me that he'd never had anyone pass out from this simple procedure before. I thought my husband was going to punch him and I wasn't going to stop him. The terrorist, I mean doctor, said that I might experience some bruising and then he stalked out of the room. My husband and I looked at each other with the same message on our face, "What. The. Fuck?"

The next day my neck was black and blue and the bridge of my nose didn't feel much better. I was pretty convinced by then that I was going to die, if not of thyroid cancer, then probably of PTSD from the biopsy horror. Yeah, I know, I was kind of a sissy back in 2005.

Good for Today, Bad for Tomorrow

I finally got a call that the growth on my thyroid was benign and would likely go away over time. I was prescribed a beta-blocker for my heart palpitations and sent on my way. I was relieved that nothing was wrong and my life could continue as previously scheduled (well, for awhile anyway). I never got a second opinion or did any follow up on the growth because it was good news, nothing to worry about. I wish now that I had gone elsewhere for one more check.

Let's fast forward several years to May 2010. In the meantime I went through a miscarriage, a difficult time getting pregnant again, a long-ass labor, the appendix and pancreatic adventure, a diagnosis of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome and miraculously another pregnancy! I hadn't intended to get pregnant, I figured that it just wasn't going to happen for me again. Plus, I have a foot long scar down my abdomen, a boat-load of internal scar tissue and an abdominal wall that will never be the same. This pregnancy, while ultimately a gift, is also terrifying for all of the unknowns. No one can really tell me what my abdomen will do as it expands. I've been told that the scar will expand with my belly, but will never contract. I suppose after the pregnancy I can go windsurfing and not need a sail. I've also been told that the scar tissue will break apart toward the end of the pregnancy and will not feel good. But no one knows for sure. "For sure" That is what I want to hear. I want to hear that my body will do what it is made to do, for sure.

I finally felt relieved when I heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time. Since the pregnancy caught me off guard, I really didn't want to believe it was real until I heard it for my own ears. Even 4 pregnancy tests didn't convince me. The doctor said everything sounded great, but wanted to know why my neck was so swollen.

My what? Who cares? I told her that I had problems with my thyroid in the past and she set me up an appointment for a thyroid ultrasound. Not this debacle again....

I Feel Bad About My Neck

The doctor's office called and said that I indeed had several heart palpitations (duh). After doing further bloodwork, it was decided that my thyroid was acting up. I was referred to the Nuclear Medicine department of our local hospital. I didn't like the name of the place or pretty much anything else about it. I was told that I would be doing a thyroid scan involving radioactive materials. Pretty much all I know about radioactivity is that exposure to it is most often bad, unless you are Peter Parker. I would rather take the Peter Parker option and become a superhero. Unfortunately, I was not given the option. I was given, however, FREAKING radioactive pills to swallow! AAAHHHHH! I dutifully took my radiotracer pills 24 hours before the procedure, fully expecting to either be dead or glowing green by the next day.

I showed up to the Nuclear Medicine office ready to be detonated or whatever they were going to do. I had to put on a fashionable hospital gown and lie on a cold table with a bunch of intrusive looking camera equipment trained on me. It was much like how I imagined many alien abuctions end up. My instructions were to lie still for 30-45 minutes without swallowing. Among my other many superpowers is the gift of overproductive saliva glands. Basically....I drool like a St. Bernard. Sexy, right? I can assure you that not only is lying still for 45 minutes torturous for me, the not swallowing thing was akin to waterboarding. I ended up having to swallow at least once before I choked, making the test last even longer.

In that 45-60 minute span I was able to name all of the states alphabetically (except Pennsylvania, I always forget the Keystone State) and then hit a majority of the capitals. Of course, I had no way of telling if I was right or not, so I just assumed success. Chicago is totally the capital of Illinois, right?

Finally the nightmare ended and I was able to go back out to the waiting room. I was called back in and told my thyroid was enlarged a little and there was a nodule on the right side. It could be indicative of cancer or it could be a benign growth just hanging out. This was the first time EVER that anything like this had happened to me. Well, plenty of bad shit has happened to me, but it was the first time I felt like my body was trying to do me in. First of many....

I scheduled my biopsy and asked where the restroom was. This was also the first time that I passed out. I looked in the mirror at my gray face and black, hollow eyes. My hearing transitioned from the deafening sound of my blood rushing to quiet far away sounds to silence. My vision grayed and I crumpled down on the cold tile. (I actually don't remember how I got to the floor, but I like to think it was a graceful and dramatic crumple.) I was only out for a few seconds and then realized that I was on the floor. Not only was I on the floor, I was on the floor, in a doctor's office. Gross. I splashed water on my face because that's what I'd seen people do on TV and figured it must be the thing to do. I wandered out of the doctor's office and sat in my car. I was 23, these things don't happen to people my age. I had it all together, husband, good job, mortgage, dog....I couldn't have cancer, could I?

Weird Science

My recovery from the abdominal surgery was fairly routine, nothing much to write home about. I think I'll go a little further back in time to 2005 when I had my first health scare. I was a sickly kid pretty much from birth. I always had something weird: unusual skin disorders, faulty bladder valves, scarlet fever, etc. I also had all the geeky health problems that likely contributed to my lonely, friendless days in elementary school. I was the kid with post-nasal drip, astigmatism, hay fever and scoliosis. Factor those gems in with my unusually advanced vocabulary, penchant for correcting spelling and grammar and love for Nick-at-Nite, I wasn't asked to a lot of sleep-overs. My childhood, however, is a post for another day.

Once I hit 17 or so, I stopped getting sick all the time and was pretty much healthy as a horse until 2005. It was then that I started getting night sweats, vertigo and heart palpitations. My body is incredibly odd in its functioning and one of the weirder attributes is my heartbeat and blood pressure. I have tiny, infant sized veins that are prone to collapse when a needle is anywhere near them. I should have higher than normal blood pressure just due to the minuscule size of my veins. Not so. My blood pressure is always very low, even under the most extreme circumstances (stress, contractions, full on labor). My heartbeat is slow and hard to find. I'm convinced that I'm at least 1/4 dead, but this has yet to be medically proven. So, when my heart started racing and feeling...well, the only way I can describe it is effervescent, I was a more than a little concerned.

At this time I was a patient at a ancient doctor's office (by that I mean both the doctor and the office were ancient). The medical equipment looked to be out of an episode of Dr. Kildare. I was told that I needed to be hooked up to a Holter Monitor for 24 hours to check my heart beats. Ok, sounds fair. What I was hooked up to looked suspiciously like the Panasonic cassette player that I received from Santa in 1987. I was basically taped to a small boombox and had 10 sticky pads with wires on various points on my body. So many questions ran through my head. Not the least of which was wondering where the hell they found cassette tapes in 2005. I hadn't seen them in stores for years. They either had a whole stockpile of them or had a secret DeLorean making trips back to 1985.

Once I was hooked up and looking fully like an 8th grade science project, I was sent on my way. Somehow I survived my 24 hour torture and came back the next day to be unhooked, unstickered and de-taped.