papillary thyroid carcinoma

Cancer. What a scary word, huh?

Hearing it at 28. Surprising, ya know?

Lucky. What a thankful word. Why?

Cause that’s me.

I have cancer at 28 years old and

I’m still so fucking lucky.

About 5 years ago, I noticed how at 23 years old that the growing pains in my limbs were a little strange. The ways my hands throb. The way my feet ache. The way my bones beg for a break.

Dramatic. Dramatic. Dramatic. Huh?

Growing pains at 28? Unlikely. Ya know?

Neglect. What a terrible way to treat my body. Why?

Cause that’s all I was made to believe I was by many of the people closest to me. Hell, even doctors. Just suck it up, Meghan. You’re fine. You’re just stressed out about nothing and it’s your sensitive emotional personality that’s causing this pain. The doctors said so. What a mystery, they say. Best friends* gave up or walked out. A boyfriend* tiptoed right behind them.

This is why people leave, Meghan. You are too much. You are not in pain. You’ve made it up. You are totally insane. That’s what I’d say to myself. How could I not listen? The same body screaming at me for Tylenol PMs and ice packs to numb limbs had a brain scoffing at the embarrassing weakness I was giving into.

A few years passed. Sure, I went to routine physicals and normal therapy but I never mentioned any of the pain again. Why would I? This was all in my head.

Then January of this year, for the first time, I was actually given accurate information about my bloodwork after a routine physical. (Something previous bloodwork also showed—prior to being severe—but doctors failed to acknowledge). It didn’t look right. It looked like, maybe I should do more.

Thyroid. Fucked up. Okay okay. That’s fine. Doctors forgot to actually call to diagnose me so, realizing these bloodwork numbers were a little bit off the charts (as I viewed on my own online), I make my own way to a specialist. Autoimmune disease. Hashimoto’s. Thyroid tripled in size (called a goiter). Okay okay. That’s fine.

Relief, huh? 5 years in the making and at least maybe this explains a little bit. I hear myself thinking maybe it wasn’t in your head. But ya know, still doesn’t mean I wasn’t dramatic or milking it.

Finally. A word I said with happiness I now knew what was wrong.

28 years old. Not so bad, only a few years not knowing. It’s fine.

Beginning. The real word I should have said

cause now I Couldn’t swallow anymore. Voice, a little raspy. Singing (and rapping) in the car, not as easy. Specialist says, let’s check out the goiter. See what’s going on. Ultrasound.

A standard ultrasound takes approximately 10 photos at most. Two radiologists and a doctor at Brigham & Women’s spent an hour taking 99 on me. Sympathy reeked from the eyes of the pretty, young, chestnut colored haired doctor.

I know somethings wrong but what, maybe I need to up medication? I said “So am I all set?,” pretty cheery. I prefer speaking like I’m sure sunshine would. I knew, though, her voice spoke like a heavy rain, a downpour—the kind that might or might not start a flood.

Still, with compassion, she said, “I’m worried about a few nodules.” She didn’t have to say what it looked like. Her eyes said it all. How could she hold that back? I’m 28 years old, seemingly healthy, and joking with radiologist when she came in. I don’t get cancer.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. But it’s okay. Huh? Yes. I promise.

A biopsy showed two very large malignant nodules on my thyroid. Perhaps a year or two of growing. So now I set up for surgery. I mean, I’ll really be fine. Totally. Sure, maybe there’s more. The end result last time was just the beginning. So we will see what’s next but I’m up to live and I’ll fight to get to do it. See, the difference now is: my heart is not angry with my mind anymore and my mind has asked my body for forgiveness. Without hesitation, my body accepts.

So, yes. I have cancer. A very curable kind. Should it have spread, I’ll know soon enough and I’ll beat that too. Cause I will live a normal life. Cancer-free. And I’ll do it with the people that never left and the new ones that want so much to stay and for me to stay too.

Pity party? Maybe. Woe is me? If that’s what you wanna call it. Release. That’s what I call it.

Because besides the physical lumps, I have trapped my voice and my feelings for years—it’s time I let the devastated, heartbroken endured lump in my throat heal. It’s time I remember I never deserved to be neglected: by anyone, by friends, by doctors, and even by my own mind.

So please, if you don’t feel right—you’re not wrong. You know your body. Do you know exactly what’s wrong? Not always. But get checked. Please. If you’re written off as a mystery or chalked up to your mental state? Time for a second opinion. Then a third. And, hell, a fourth. Cause I’ve been there. And look? Now I’m here.

I don’t know what will happen. Not technically. But I know what has. And I know how I am now. For the first time. And even if it’s a cancer patient, it’s a young lady with a much longer, fulfilling life left to live.

It’s Meghan. It always has been.

Thank you to my family, friends, coworkers, and few others that stayed by my side and continue to. I love you. Endlessly. Don’t worry, I got this.

*None of which ever left.

P.S. Dayo, Kairos, and Halia too.