Ephesians & Radioactive

RAI

It hasn’t been great.

Life is full of commercials that list side effects like they're trying to win a contest. Sometimes they even follow up with another commercial—for a different medication to help combat the side effects of the first. Neat, right?

And then… there's thyroid cancer.

If you're new here, welcome to the dizzying, downplayed, disorienting world of thyroid cancer. Somehow, despite it being cancer, it's often treated like the cupcake of diagnoses.

Those practicing medicine say things like, “If I had to choose a cancer, this is the one I’d pick.”
Cool. Great for you.

But when you’re the one living it? That kind of minimization can mess with your head.

You're going through something.
You feel some type of way.
But hey—it’s all supposed to be fine, right?

Don’t get me twisted, I’m not here for doom and gloom but it is almost as if there isn’t any recognition that you are working through a cancer diagnosis.

It’s weird to feel like you’re fighting a thing everyone else acts like isn’t really a fight.

We are in the (additional) treatment phase. Yay.

The low iodine diet started 7 july, and hasn’t been great.

It isn’t difficult only frustrating. I haven’t felt well for the duration but, is it stress?

Either way, sucksville.

Thyrogen injections were 14 and 15 july— don’t let them tell you people feel normal.
Has the medical field gone all-in on the power of suggestion?

Like, “If we tell them it’s no big deal, maybe they’ll walk out smiling and forget to notice they feel like roadkill when they get home.”

They said I’d maybe be sleepy. Might even enjoy naps.

Wrong.

What actually happened felt more like a high school flashback—days of sucking up blow through the honker. Over twenty five years ago, stick your judgment in a sock.

It has been miserable at best.

Then came the RAI pill.

Ah yes. Radioactive iodine.

“You won’t feel any different,” they said.
Lies.

Now on thirty hours in and I can confidently say: bupkis.

There is something incredible going on inside this flesh, and it sure as snot idn’t (business as usual).

Not only am I isolated, and my dogs are crying at the bottom of the stairs— I feel like twice-warmed-up gas station sushi.

And for the record? The medical profession can go kick rocks.

The procedure report? Wild.

They claimed I had been on the low iodine diet for four weeks (false—I gave them the 7 july start date myself per doctor’s orders).

They said they discussed specific certain things with me (nope).

They included instructions to take a nausea medication they never prescribed. Luckily, I had something different left from a surgery. Otherwise? Just good luck.

At this point, I genuinely ask: What is the ruckus modern medicine has become? When did it become okay to just make stuff up and slap it in your chart?

Because this isn’t the first time, not even a little bit.

But even in the frustration and the nausea and the loneliness…
While many a human has let me down— God however is always faithful to his promise.

God still shows up. He who is keeping me company.

In every miserable moment, He leaves little love notes. Like the kind you’d scribble on the mirror for your husband.

On the way to the iodine treatment, there was a semi that had Ephesians 2:8 printed on the side of the trailer— so naturally I looked it up.

8 “For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God” Ephesians 2:8

Indeed.

And that, two (x) eight would happen to be sixteen. The date of my appointment.

When we arrive at radiology for the third day in a row, the waiting room was packed so we stood in the hustle bustle hall to wait.

Of all the trips to Vanderbilt children or otherwise, we have never seen a pinwheel on any patient transportation.

Yet here came a staff member pushing a chair, no patient in it and a flying spinning pinwheel up top the back pole.

If we’d have been sitting in that waiting room we wouldn’t have seen this.

But from the old lady who reached out of her driver window to beat on the side of our truck to ask us to move, while we were waiting to get out of valet same as everyone else— everything has been less than desirable and I’ll not pretend otherwise.

This. Sucks.

I feel like hot garbage. Nauseated seven twenty four. Sleep is a joke. Headaches. My body feels like it’s locked from the inside, and not feeling remotely yourself.

Can’t—

get my daily hugs from the kids,

be near my dogs,

sleep in my own bed,

eat much,

just hang out with my husband who took off so many days to care for everything while I’m out of commission.

I’m trying to sit with the grace.
Trying to feel the gifts through the grit.
But I won’t lie and pretend this part isn’t awful.

Because it is.

And that honesty matters too.

Though let’s be clear—there will be no tears.
Not because I’m not struggling. But because if I have to triple-flush every time I pee,
I’m not risking what radioactive crying might do to this face I’ve worked hard to keep intact.

Next week will be a full body scan, prayerfully entering that with His promise of healing that nothing will be left to see.

And through all of this, I’ve been especially grateful that our daughter didn’t have to go through this step.

Her surgery was enough—and praise God, it was enough.
I wouldn’t wish this process on anyone, especially not your child.

What I do know—

fear is only false evidence appearing real,

His word doesn’t need rewriting.

It’s stood through pandemics, radiation, paperwork errors, and sleepless nights.

It was true yesterday.

It’s holding me today.

And it’ll still be true tomorrow.
“For ever, O Lord, thy word is settled in heaven.” — Psalm 119:89

Take good care and travel safe,

Sami