Carly Flumer

A scar on my neck, twice slit to remove the disease within my body — a disease I never thought I’d have. I didn’t know what to expect during or after my multiple surgeries and radioactive iodine therapy. I had considered myself lucky not having any symptoms before going into all of this. After all, my tumor was found on an ultrasound for another lump my doctor had felt – a diagnosis made by “mistake.”

However, working in health care (specifically in a hospital), seeing and talking to patients with cancer showed me just how strong they were in a time where their livelihood was being torn down. I witnessed their agonizing pain, felt their weakness as their bodies fought with every ache. I could only hope to continue to feel okay, to feel myself, as I took this journey on the road to my “new normal.”

But wait… I was told I had the “good cancer,” so I should be okay, right? As I approached each hurdle, it was not physical pain or anguish that I felt, but anxiety. I had already been diagnosed with 

 when I was young, and the degrading thoughts and sadness grew a little bit stronger. “Why me?” I thought, “What did I do to deserve this diagnosis?”

However, I had a strong support system, including family and co-workers who reached out to help in any way they could. I learned who my true friends are. I also tried to remain active by going to the gym, which truly helped me mentally. At times though, I would say, “It never ends,” and I came to accept whatever came my way, and I still do.

Cancer doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care what race, gender, ethnicity, sexuality or even age you are. It takes no prisoners. And it certainly did not take me. I continue to remain resilient despite what I’ve been through and despite what still may be on the horizon. I see what it’s like for others; I attend a variety of support groups to share my story and provide support for other fighters. Having cancer is probably one of the worst things that can happen in someone’s lifetime, but I believe half the battle is the mentality one embraces. I chose to embrace a positive mentality, even though I was and still am very sad at times. But I’ve given myself the 

I continue to have survivor’s guilt, wondering why I was given the chance to live, why I was given an “easier” cancer journey. However, I realize my journey isn’t over. Cancer is something I will face for the rest of my life, even though I’m a survivor. My body continues to remind me of that, especially since I had 

). My body temperature can be at opposite extremes, my metabolism can become slower or faster. My libido is absent, and I consistently lose hair, spending a good amount of my showers pulling it out and watch it go slowly down the drain. I don’t expect my life to ever be the same, but I know I can try and make the best of it.

If I could give any advice to other cancer warriors, I would say to remain headstrong. Find something positive every day, even if it’s something small. Have a support system and fall back on them when you need to. Ask for help — you 

 a burden. Find groups on Facebook where you can freely and openly talk about your experiences and ask questions. You’ll feel a sense of belonging, knowing that you’re not going through all of this alone. Do research on your diagnosis in order to become more self-informed and so that you may bring questions to your doctors.

Trusted sites that I used and still use include:

Any organization specific to your type of cancer

Above all, remain strong and keep fighting. Self-care is 

Articles

Cancer doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care what race, gender, ethnicity, sexuality or even age you are. It takes no prisoners. And it certainly did not take me. I continue to remain resilient despite what I’ve been through and despite what still may be on the horizon.

Cancer: It's Never An Easy Journey

I never felt any symptoms. I mean, I was tired but what young 20-something who had just started graduate school while maintaining a full-time job wouldn’t be? It happened during a physical. My doctor felt a lump towards the top of my throat.

“I would go and have that scanned,” he said. I wasn’t worried; he had never mentioned cancer. So, I went and had the ultrasound. “Well, we see what your doctor was talking about, and it appears to just be a cyst,” the doctor said, “but there’s another spot on the right side of your 

. You have two options. You can wait to see if the spot grows or we can perform a biopsy to see if it’s cancer,” he explained. “Now, the chance of it being cancer is anywhere between 10-15 %, a very, very low chance,” he reassured me.

“I want the biopsy,” I said, not wanting to take any chances. The biopsy was performed, and within minutes, the doctor returned saying he had bad news. “Unfortunately, it’s cancer, but the good news is that it’s very treatable. I recommend you having surgery.” And that was it; although, it hadn’t hit me, at least not as hard as I thought it should have — at least not immediately. I went to my car, called my mom, and asked her if she was sitting down. I told her the news, still shocked by the ordeal I was just handed. In an instant, my life had changed forever. I heard those three words no one ever wants to hear, “You have cancer.”

I wasn’t sure how to proceed. How advanced is my cancer? What doctor(s) do I go to? How quickly do I need surgery? I just started school — do I need to drop-out already? What about my job? All of these thoughts raced through my mind. However, the support of my family and luckily, not having any symptoms, kept me going. I was working in a hospital at the time, and I spoke with a few of the doctors I worked with. “Oh, the good type of cancer. You’ll be just fine,” one said. “‘Good type?’” I thought. What is good about having cancer? He gave me the name of a surgeon who specialized in thyroidectomies. It was a five-month wait to get in.

When I eventually saw my surgeon, he gave me two options. The first, he explained, was a partial thyroidectomy. “We’ll only remove the lobe of the thyroid where your tumor is. The benefit of that is that the other lobe will continue producing enough of the hormones that your body needs so you don’t have to take a medication for the rest of your life. The second was a total thyroidectomy, rendering me to that medication, literally, for a lifetime. I went with the former and had a successful surgery. Of course, it didn’t end there.

Two days after my surgery, my doctor called. “We performed pathology on some of the lymph nodes that we removed from your neck, and unfortunately, almost all of them had cancer. What this means is that we need to have you come back and perform another surgery to remove the rest of your thyroid. Then after, you’ll have to undergo radioactive iodine to rid your body of any residual thyroid tissue.” My heart sank. My world was crushed yet again. Another surgery? What was radioactive iodine? I didn’t how to process the emotions that I was feeling as tears streamed down my face. “It never ends,” I thought.

After my second surgery, I was thyroid-free. Later, I went through the radioactive iodine procedure where I had to follow a specific diet for approximately three weeks. I could consume very little to no iodine, or salt, which was essentially in every product. As I went up and down the grocery store aisles reading every nutrition label, I found myself frustrated finding almost nothing that I could eat. Don’t get me wrong, this was a very healthy diet, as I was essentially restricted to meats (without seasonings), fruits, and vegetables. But it wasn’t my favorite.

I went to a nuclear medicine center where I consumed a pill that would make me radioactive. I was to stay physically away from people for approximately one week, slowly decreasing the amount of feet I could be within others as each day passed. I then had a whole-body scan that showed that the cancer hadn’t spread, or metastasized, to any other place in my body, but there was still some residual thyroid tissue that the radioactivity would hopefully kill.

The journey continued. I would need to be on a medication for the rest of my life. I would need to see a specialist, an endocrinologist, for the rest of my life. They would decide the dosage of my medication based on a variety of factors, including how I was feeling emotionally and physically. It wasn’t until after I had my thyroid removed that I realized how much it does for our bodies. “It will take some time before we find the right dosage for you,” my endocrinologist explained. In other words, sometimes I would be hyperthyroid, other times, hypothyroid. My symptoms may be all over the place, including my metabolism rate, my body temperature and even my mood. As a patient with chronic depression and anxiety, I could only hope that the “right” dosage would be found quickly.

Fast forward two years after my diagnosis, and I have been deemed “cancer-free,” with no more thyroid tissue. While I am incredibly thankful for this result, I can’t help but feel survivor’s guilt. I often think, “Why me? Why did I get to survive and others don’t? How did I get by so easily?” Despite this guilt, I have used my cancer diagnosis and journey to become stronger both mentally and emotionally. I have unashamedly shared images on social media and written stories that have been published in the hopes to inspire others and to be an advocate for those who don’t feel like they have a voice. Yet, I don’t pretend to know everything. I still have questions that remain unanswered. How likely is my cancer to come back? Why do I keep losing so much hair? Why am I always so tired? Despite having the “good” type of cancer, there is nothing that great about it. Although I never had symptoms, I still went through two surgeries and a radioactive iodine procedure, which had its own side effects.

As a result of what I went through and my never-ending passion for helping others, I believe that my diagnosis happened for a reason — to lead me to a career in patient advocacy. I have a background in health administration, policy and communication. I have worked at doctor’s offices and hospitals. I feel I had an advantage in having the knowledge that I have and access to physicians. However, I still get confused when I ask my doctor a question, and I receive an answer that’s in medical jargon. I think, “I can’t be the only one who feels lost, who feels confused.” Plus, I know that there are patients who are going through worse situations than I did.

There has to be a way to mend the physician-patient relationship that is currently suffering. There’s not enough time dedicated to each patient to hear what they’re going through each day. Physicians also need to make sure that what they’re saying/explaining makes sense to the patient, especially when it comes to taking medication(s), as patients with chronic conditions usually have many prescriptions which can be hard to keep track of. There are solutions coming to the forefront, such as pill packs, patient portals and support groups. But I believe this is just the beginning. Every cancer is different. No two patients are the same — indifference is ignorance. It’s time to combine research, health literacy and ultimately compassion for a patient’s story to provide the best care and create better health outcomes.

As a result of what I went through and my never-ending passion for helping others, I believe that my diagnosis happened for a reason – to lead me to a career in patient advocacy.

Diagnosed, Not Defeated

Editor’s Note: This piece was submitted by a contributing writer and does not represent the views of CURE Media Group.

 I put on a brave smile when the radiologist told me that I had cancer, a diagnosis he reassuringly stated that less than 15 percent of his patients had a chance of receiving

just a week prior when he had done my ultrasound. As he went over my next steps, I held back tears knowing that my life had changed forever. I walked out of the office, tears streaming down my face. I sat in my car wondering who I should call first. It had to be my mom. I asked her if she was sitting down, and her voice immediately changed tone. I said, "I have cancer," for the first time in my life. I couldn't believe the words that were escaping my mouth, but my mom, being the strong-willed woman that she is, reassured me that we were going to get through it.

I continued to share my diagnosis with my dad, my brothers, and a few close friends, each time uttering the words, "I have cancer," bringing my mental state down with it. I hesitated sharing on social media, even though I knew relatives would find out eventually. As a chronic sufferer of depression and anxiety, my main focus had not been on my cancer diagnosis but feeling like a burden on others once they found out. I felt like I already had so many other problems that I consistently "bothered" people with. I didn't want me having cancer to be the icing on the cake knowing that they now 

I continued living my life as normal, seeing that I had no side effects. I did basic research on thyroid cancer, but questions normally asked when receiving such a serious diagnosis, such as, "What stage do I have?" "What's my prognosis?" and, "How did I even get cancer in the first place with no family history?" never crossed my mind. I was too focused on going through my next steps, including a partial thyroidectomy, to remove the side of my thyroid that had cancer. I was too focused on reaching the finish line where I could declare myself a cancer survivor.

After my first surgery in May of 2017, I knew I was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. That all changed two days after later when I received a phone call from my surgeon. He said that after getting the results back from the pathology lab, it turned out my cancer had spread to approximately 90 percent of my lymph nodes. The best route, then, would be to remove the other side of my thyroid and undergo radioactive iodine treatment. As he spoke to me on the phone, I quietly cried, my voice quivering. I hung up, knowing that the light was far from being seen. I was in a tunnel that just kept going.

Two months later, I had my second surgery. It almost looked as if I had tried to commit suicide twice without succeeding, which is how I sometimes felt. I scheduled the radioactive iodine procedure a few months later, knowing that after the radiation hit my cells, my cancer would be gone and I could finally declare myself a survivor.

It has been a year since I was first diagnosed. My bloodwork has been showing improvements, and my scar is almost invisible. However, a recent conversation with a physician opened my eyes a little from the rose-colored, or in this case, foggy, glasses I had been wearing. She reminded me that once you are diagnosed with a disease such as cancer, it is forever a part of your life. Of course, one can enter the stage of "remission," which the National Cancer Institute 

 as, "A decrease in or disappearance of signs and symptoms of cancer." While I realized this, what I hadn't realized, or perhaps forgotten, was that the cancer could always come back once I'm cleared.

This changed my recent outlook. As a cancer patient, I often hear stories across the news and social media of how people have survived cancer. However, is one ever truly a "survivor?" I suppose it depends on how you look at it. From my perspective, I was able to take a potentially fatal disease and make it a positive aspect in my life. I think that is the true and pure definition of “survivalism.” I am a cancer survivor.

Carly Flumer

Cancer: It's Never An Easy Journey

Diagnosed, Not Defeated

What Does it Mean to be a Cancer Survivor?

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