One in One Hundred and Eighty Million

Them's are the odds my surgeon quoted to me as I sat in his office, an alarmingly thick tube up my (now proven) broken nose. That's how incredibly unlikely it was that I would come to him to remove a benign parotid tumor, and he would diagnose me with thyroid cancer.

One in one hundred and eighty million.

His suggestion? Start buying lottery tickets, honey, because winner winner, chicken dinner.

Are there better ways to tell people you love that you have cancer than write a blog post? Most assuredly. So please, all of you who are reading this and wondering Why didn't she tell me?, accept my apology. It's not because you don't matter; it's because I haven't figured out the protocol yet. There's never a right place to drop it into conversation.

You: Yeah, work was really lame this week. I was in early and stayed late every day. And now they want me to work on Saturday!
Me: Man, that sucks. I have cancer.

You: I'm going to get a bikini wax for Valentine's Day. Should I go Brazilian? Do guys like that?
Me: I'm getting one too! Just in case anyone at the hospital has occasion to see me naked. I hope the surgeon removing my thyroid doesn't expect a Brazilian, though.

See? If I'd wanted to tell to you about it, I'd have really had to reach.  

Worst of all, Hallmark won't touch it. Would you believe there is not a single cancer announcement in the Safeway card selection? Not one! I'm no graphic designer, but I think something like this would go a long way with this under-served market whose ranks I have now joined:

Or maybe one that looks like this on the outside:

And then says something like: To be cancer free by summer! on the inside. Admittedly, that one's a little unfair. Especially when you've adopted a child and many people secretly hold out hope you'll have a bio kid too some day. (BTW: that's a weird thing to hope for someone else. And, no. We're totally not doing that.)

What I'm trying to say is, this is some heavy stuff to just drop on your pals. And no one seems to have written a pamphlet on the right way to do it. As writer and cancer survivor Kelly Corrigan puts it: "It's a big job, being the first person your age to get cancer."

Ain't that the truth.

When I went in for my biopsy (see fabulous picture, below), they made me watch over an hour of eLearning garbage about advanced directives and living wills. And silly me, so confident because "Over 90 percent of these thyroid nodules are benign," was all: This is ridiculous. No one has ever died getting a damn biopsy.

Shit got real just a few weeks later when there I sat, looking up advanced directives and living wills on my computer, wondering what would happen to Ayana if the surgeon slipped near that second tumor. The one that's like a hair's breadth from my carotid artery. Is there any way possible that the universe could see fit to rob her of not one, but two mothers?

My therapist tells me not to dress rehearse tragedy, and I'm doing my best to avoid those kinds of thoughts. But when your doctor tells you he did the math, and you're one in one hundred and eighty million, it's a little hard not to think that the enormity of your unluckiness knows no bounds.

They say thyroid cancer is a good one. That I'm actually lucky. That even though it hasn't behaved and stayed put in my thyroid, my survival is more of a guarantee than a chance. If the man with the knife keeps a steady hand, I'm going to make it. Even if this cancer decides to come back (why is that possible when they've removed the whole organ it originates from?!), I'm still relatively safe.

So as crazy as the odds were of me getting this cancer, the odds of it getting me are even worse. Phew.

Now here's the deal, friends. Here's the reason for the post. I had to tell you this because there's no hiding a slashed throat. Stomach cancer I may have been able to pull off; but not this. It's painfully visible. Even if I don't see you or post a picture of myself for a year, you're going to see that scar eventually. And then you'd ask me if I got mugged on the subway. And then I'd have to remind you that I live in Erie, CO, seventeen states away from the nearest subway that doesn't sell sandwiches. And then I'd have to tell you about that ridiculous time I had cancer, and totally forgot to tell you about it because it was like NBD.

And then you'd be like, Kimberly, you're such an ass.

And I'd be like, Yeah, but did you really want to see me like this?

And then you'd be like, That was a pretty decent call. You look rough.

So you see, it's the right thing to do to tell you about this now. Because it means that whole conversation never has to take place.  

Here's a short list of NOT the reason I'm writing this blog post:

1. Because we need to talk about it. I'm even more awkward talking about it in person than I am on this blog. Trust me. 
2. Because I need you to feel bad for me. You'd be surprise how not good that actually feels. 
3. Because I relish the thought of you telling other people that you heard the saddest thing today. This is decidedly not the saddest thing about today. Today, about 5,600 people world wide contracted HIV. Most of them do not live here, in the US, where they can receive and afford lifesaving treatment. That is sad. No, that's infuriating. If you feel any desire to wring your hands after reading this post, please wring your hands for the 5,600, not the one in one hundred and eight million. 
4. Because I need soup. But to be fair, my family might need soup. The offers to deliver meals while I wait for my head to no longer feel like a bowling ball on top of my neck are incredibly generous and received with boatloads of gratefulness.

I'm sure there are more reasons, but right now I'm tired. Which I now know I'm allowed to be, because I have cancer. I'm going to go wallow in that knowledge for a few months, OK? But just a few months. Because as the cancer announcement says, I'm expecting to be cancer free by summer!