Thank y’all for asking.

Honestly?

I’m tired. 

I have a really fucking ugly scar. 

But, I think, I’m gonna be okay.

Or, at least, that’s what they say. 

For now.

I’ll know more next week.

Ya know.

As to whether or not I’m going to need to “rinse and repeat.”

Meanwhile, she’s got it much worse than me.  So, go say hi, send her some much needed support, and even see Miss Ann to donate some $$ to her “Send Lisa to Disneyland raffle.”

My ugly scar seems pretty small next to that.

Defining moment of the evening?

After dropping chocolate pudding (which was literally jello pudding - don’t even get me started on the restaurant!) on his jacket lapel…

He LICKED it off.

No.

Just no.

In so many ways.

No.

And, if I may go off on a related tangent…

Please, I beseech those I may go out with next.  Post a REPRESENTATIVE photo of yourself!  Mine are completely representative.  Do not be airbrushed, 40 pounds heavier, or any other multitude of sins.

Though, you do make for good blog fodder in retrospect.

Ya know, that they put me out before the tube goes down my throat.

It’s more the thought of all my organs being put to sleep, and being on a respirator for the surgery that’s totally freaking me out.

I’m pretty much a wreck.  My brain seems to have left my body for the time being.

I’ll give you a PRIME example.

I left my frikkin’ WALLET out on the desk by the elevators today.  On the OTHER SIDE of the locked door from my office.  Thank G-d the person that found it was a friend, not some random delivery dude.

Okay, so, you see.  My brain, not really with me these days.  But.  Who can blame it?  It’s had enough!

So, it’s probably a BRILLIANT time to go on a first date, right?

‘Cause that’s what I’m doing tomorrow night.

Hopefully I won’t break my leg or something.

Big Guy is doing good.  We’ve got a follow up appointment with his physician tomorrow.  He’s been out of school because the steroid they put him on to reduce the risk of rebound reactions lowers his immunity, and makes him susceptible to infection.  He can’t be around anyone that might transfer anything to him, because he won’t be able to fight it off.

Isn’t modern medicine fun?

As for me, surgery is scheduled.  April 14th, 10:30am.  They say I should be able to go home the same day.  The P’s are coming up on the 12th, so they can take me to and fro.

Honestly, I’m pretty freaked out.  This isn’t anethesia like, put a thing over your nose and count backwards from ten, and you’re out. 

No. 

A tube goes down my throat.  All my body organs are put to sleep.  I’m on a respirator the entire surgery.  I’m not breathing on my own.

Fuck.

That shit is bloody scary.

When I got to afterschool yesterday, the teachers informed me that Big Guy wasn’t quite himself.  They thought he might be coming down with something.  As I grabbed his ice cold hand to walk him out to the car, I agreed that he probably had a fever.

Fast forward to our house, Big Guy in tears, having a breakdown, before even getting through the door, further reinforcing the fact that, yes, he was most likely sick.  I told him to change into his jammies, grab his blankie and DS, and meet me at the couch. 

(’Cause, while I love him, I didn’t want his germies in my bed!)

We got the thermometer under his tongue, and waited out the beeps.  Big Guy can have a little trouble holding it there, because of the Apraxia, so when it hit 103.1 without it’s final three beeps, I decided we could quit there.

I walked into the kitchen, grabbed the Children’s Motrin, and poured out 4 teaspoons into the little cup.

(Big Guy is truly a BIG GUY, and, even at 10 years old, this is his dosage.)

“C’mon, Big Guy.  It’s bubble gum flavor.  You’ve got to drink this.”  I finally got him to drink it down, told him he could play his DS while I got Little Dude working on his homework, lunch started for tomorrow (Little Dude’s) and dinners going round. 

About a half an hour later, I had Big Guy’s english muffin good to go, so he came over to the table to eat.  It was at about this point that he started to complain that he felt like something was in his eyes, and began to rub at them.

He quickly finished his muffin and headed back over to the couch and his DS. 

It was not five minutes later that I spotted him rubbing desperately at his eyes.  I walked over to see what the problem was, and noticed that the skin around his lips also appeared to be swelling.  Not comprehending what was going on, I initially thought that the high fever was causing some swelling in his face and went to start a cool bath for him.

As Big Guy sat in the bath, increasingly uncomfortable with the swelling in his eyes and mouth, I started to panic.  I called the doctor’s office, got a nurse on the phone, and explained the symptoms.

She advised me that he was probably having an allergic reaction, dose him with Benadryl, and possibly take him to South Shore Hospital.  As Big Guy started to scream in pain in the background, she suggested calling 911.

Which I did; after I called B to find out where he was, and how quickly he could get over to my house.

Long story short? (Too late, I know!)

The police car was there in two minutes, the ambulance with the firefighters, one minute behind them (AWESOME!)

They got Big Guy into the ambulance, inserted the IV, oxygen, and administered an Epi Pen for the allergic reaction within 10 minutes.  B showed up to grab Little Dude; they followed us to the hospital, where they admitted Big Guy for the night within minutes (theory being that the reaction was WAY too severe for them to release him, and I was more than OK with this, knowing that I’d be staying the night.)

Now, the thing is.  Big Guy has definitely had ibupropen before.  With no reaction whatsoever. 

But.  Has he had this particular flavor? 

That is what I’m not sure; and THAT is what he could’ve reacted to.  The dyes and shit they put into the meds to make it “taste good.”

How fucked up is that?

We spent the night in the hospital.  I watched over him, and saw his fever break.  They came at 1AM to take his vitals and make him take a pill.  He doesn’t swallow those, give us something better was my reply.  Forty-five minutes later they were back with a syringe of medication instead.  Big Guy got back to sleep even after they woke him in the middle of the night. 

My boy is okay today.  He’s not supposed to go to school for the rest of the week, and we’re going to see the doctor on Friday. 

Mom has had about two hours sleep in the past 48 hours.

But.

Wait.

My boy’s okay.

Can G-d stop F’king with my life now?

Please!

I know, on occassion, I have a habit I’ve nicknamed “the ostrich.”  It’s when I stick my head in the sand, so that I don’t have to deal with potential problems, or that I can pretend (at least for a while) that the problems don’t exist.

That’s pretty much how I’ve been regarding my impending thyroid surgery.  If I’m not thinking about it, I can’t be scared, or freaked, so, until we can’t do otherwise, let’s pretend it doesn’t exist.

Well, the walls came crashing down today.  No, I didn’t have my consultation with my surgeon, yet.  But, someone I work with, happens to be going through the same thing; down to the “nodule” being on the same side as mine. 

And, she, did.  She came to share when it was all over.

So, if my surgeon, and her surgeon, are anything alike, this is what I’m going to hear about my surgery next week.

• The fact that I’ve had two biopsies, and they’ve been unable to actually get cells (which is what happened to both of us) her surgeon puts the chances of the nodule being malignant at 30%.
• The chance of dying, at our age, from this cancer, is Zero percent. (That’s the good part.)
• The scar is horrible looking for the first three months, then it fades and shrinks, and one would hardly notice it at all.
• If the nodule is malignant, the rest of the thyroid will need to be removed, so prepare for a possibility of round two. 
• They don’t take the whole thing if they don’t have to because one half will pick up the slack for the other, and no medication is necessary if only half is removed.
• If it turns out, both sides need to be removed, medication is necessary for the rest of our lives.
• Recovery time.  SUCKS.  I will not be able to drive for at least three days because you can’t turn your neck after surgery. 
• For one week, I’m not allowed to do much of anything, and definitely not allowed to go to work. 
• The second week, we can work a half day.  From what we can fathom, we’re going to be so wiped out by 1pm, we’re going to need to lie down.
• (How I’m going to be able to take care of my kids during all of this is really freaking me out.)
• (Also, I didn’t want to tell the boysies at all.  Now, I don’t think there’s any way around it, but WTF do I say so THEY don’t freak out?)
• (Thirdly, my p’s are going to come up for the surgery, which is good.  But I definitely don’t think I can handle them, here, in my small house, for TWO WEEKS after the surgery.)
• Just sayin’.
• I already spoke to B, to give him the heads up that I’m going to need his help.  If I can’t drive, that means no dropping off/picking up the boysies at school for at least three days - he’s gonna need to be around to help with that.
• Which he was fine with.

Honestly, I’m totally freaked out by the recovery time.  I didn’t think (hoped) that it was gonna be no big deal, and I’d be up and around like nothing happened in a day or two.  But, this surgery is, obviously NOW, a much bigger deal than I thought it was, and while it may be possible to get in and out the same day, the recovery can’t be rushed.

So, while I know that my coworker thought she was helping, by sharing the deets of what’s to come, I kinda wish I was still in the dark.

I want my ostrich back.

So, my boysies finally made it home, from eight long days (well, long for mommy - shut up!) in Florida.

I couldn’t be happier to see them (obviously!) and hugs and more hugs was all I wanted from them.

Well, until I moved my chin down, as Little Dude was coming up, and, well, he must’ve gotten taller in the last eight days, because something was definitely off, and then, well…

I bit through my damn tongue.

Blood EVERYWHERE.

Little Dude?  A little freaked out.

Me? In a wee bit of pain.

Ow, that hurts!

(But, yay!  My boysies are home!!)

“She’s a keeper!  Just keep her somewhere else.”

HA!

Okay, I got nothin.

And I can’t figure out how to post a trailer from utube.

:(

Which leaves me to post the link.

Pretty lame, I know.

But, still a good link.

I have a toothache.

And my dentist (daddy) is in NYC.

This makes me sad.

Thank goodness meds can be called into local pharmacies, whilst one searches for new doctors.

(Have I mentioned, I don’t really want a new dentist?)

(Oh, yeah.)

(That could be an issue.)

Thank goodness for Advil ,too.

I’m going to preempt this post with the disclaimer that I completely understand, based on my past dating life, and what I’ve wanted, I will probably get reamed for what I’m about to share. 

Grumpy, in fact, will probably top the list. 

My response is, I did what my gut told me to do.  Sue me.

So, it’s no secret that OM’s behavior has been a little over the top, and a bit much for me to get used to. 

We were supposed to have a date tonite, due to the fact that I cancelled on him last Wednesday, after receiving the initial results of my biopsy. 

So, at this point, I was already trying to deal with certain personality traits of his that were driving me nuts.

Honestly, I was trying to get over the fact that his “over the top” attitude about almost everything, irritated the everloving shit outta me. 

I’m sorry, I can’t help it. 

It’s not just the overly positive side of it, but, moreso, the “have to sell myself to you at every turn” side of it.

OM would take every opportunity to point out to me what a FANTASTIC guy he was.  What an INCREDIBLE catch he was.  What a GREAT father he was. 

Ya know what?  If you’re that fucking fabulous, well, I’m a smart girl.  I’m gonna figure it out myself. 

I DON’T NEED YOU TO TELL ME EVERY TWO SECONDS!

Also, he would throw the facts that he was extremely successful, had tons of money, had THREE cars, (a Mercedes, a Lincoln, and a Cadillac - okay… who the fuck needs that???) and was willing to do nice things for me, at me all the time. 

(Okay, rhetorical question time.)

(Do you want me to feel like I’m dating you for your money, dude?) 

(Because throwing that shit out there on a regular basis?  Well, that’s what it does, and since I’m not that girl - it makes me want to run and fucking hide.)

And then, (yes, there’s more that irritated the fuck out of me) something else he didn’t understand…

When you call me on my home phone at 9:40 at night, on a night that I’m home with the boysies, (and I’ve told you this), and I don’t pick up, because I’m SLEEPING, and you leave me a message…

DON’T then call my CELL phone and leave me a message there too!

It’s fucking overkill and, I’m sorry.  It’s fucking needy.

And I can’t deal with that shit.

And, on top of everything else?

It’s gonna make me kick your ass to the curb.

Which, is what I did today.

Which, is why, I’m here, at home, by myself, instead of out to dinner with you.

Because you, over the past week, have given me an attack of the crazies.

Crazy if I spend another fucking minute with you.

ETA: I was nice when I told him, but, this, is how I really feel.

The second opinions are in.

My dad’s cousin, Sheldon (only in a Jewish family, right?) who not only is a surgeon, but runs a hospital in NYC, asked that my results be faxed to him, so that he could show them to his head of Endocrinology.

After two days of trying to get the results faxed over (718 vs 781 CAN cause major issues, as it turns out) we have some answers.

The recommendation to remove my right thyroid nodule is right on.

The biggest difference is, the doctors in NYC found NO SIGNS of CANCER in my results, where my endocrinologist in Boston told me he was seeing “Suspicious Cells,” which, in his opinion, could be 20 to 25% cancerous.

Okay, ya know what?

I’m going with the NO CANCEROUS CELLS.

Ya think?

I’m obviously still going to have this removed, because, well, it’s huge, and everyone seems to agree upon that.

But.

If I can go into this surgery believing that, maybe, as is the case of 95% of ALL thyroid cysts, it’s NOT cancer?

That sounds good to me.

*Edited to add: Why is it that you can have a brain tumor, and remove the tumor without, obviously, removing the brain, BUT, you can have a cyst on your thyroid that needs to be removed, and the entire thyroid (or half nodule as the case may be) has to come with? 

Just sayin’.