What sparked the cancer diagnosis in December was thyrotoxicosis. A thyroid storm. A lil’ rave thrown by your thyroid, and your whole body is invited. That beautiful, butterfly-shaped organ wrapped around your trachea controls your metabolism, heart rate, body temperature, mood—among other things. Usually, it just does its job. But sometimes, it doesn’t. And when it doesn’t? Everything speeds up or shuts down. The end result is the same: you feel like shit.
So in addition to cancer, which was Low Risk™, I still had a battle at another front. That of hormones. Last week, the week of April 11th or something, I started feeling off again. I pooped six times a day. My resting heart rate was high. I was anxious. All the signs of my hormones being whack. Whenever this happens, I go to Hospital A since my endocrinologist is there.
I initially didn’t think much of it, until the reception told me my cancer surgeon wanted to talk to me. As you know, I’ve shunned Hospital A for my cancer treatment because they essentially did not get back to me, ever. I don’t know how they knew I was in the hospital when they cannot even call me back in time—but I suppose that’s a question for another day. I walked up the third floor again, into the office of my surgeon. “Hello Brian! How are you? You did not do the biopsy yet!”
I explained the situation. The doctor seemed as confused as I was about the whole thing. You did the biopsy at Hospital B? That’s a good hospital. Can I see the results? I showed him the results I got via email. “Hmm yes. As I explained, it’s hard to get good results. I would still recommend you do the thyroidectomy.” You are visiting today because of a thyroid storm, yes? Normally if it’s just thyroiditis, we recommend radiation therapy to kill off the thyroid. However, in your case, I would recommend we remove the thyroid. No more cancer. No more thyrotoxicosis. We can slot you in next Monday or Wednesday. Monday felt a little bit rushed. “Let’s do Wednesday.” OK. Here’s my contact details. My nurse will contact you later. When dealing with the doctor directly, communication was indeed much better and rapid. Insurance was of course an issue, but dealt with, and Wednesday came a lot quicker than I anticipated.
That morning I packed my bags. I kissed my wife and child goodbye, and got into a taxi on my way to the hospital. I was brought to the room in which I would be recovering and given a gown, mask, disposable underwear, and a hairnet. “Please wear this before the surgery.” OK sure. I specifically wore comfortable underwear because I knew I would be lying down for a while. I tried to wear them for as long as possible, until the last moment when the nurse caught a glimpse of my black boxer shorts. “Sir you have to change.” Fuck. OK fine.
We went through the pre-operating bay. Nurses were buzzing around. They all introduced themselves to me. My anesthesiologist was a wonderful woman. She took me through the procedure. I asked her if they were going to shove a tube down my throat. “Yes, to help you breathe. It’s OK. We’ve done this thousands of times.” It reassured me. I don’t know why I asked. I knew the procedure from watching tons of YouTube videos on the topic. Something I cannot recommend doing. “Brian, we’re going to the operating room.” My bed moved once again.
Two doors. Operation Theatre 1, Operation Theatre 2. A sign hung on both doors. “Theatre in Use” they both said. I was never a big fan of the theatre. They rolled me into Theatre 2. I wanted to say “The room seems to be in use” to prevent being rolled into an active operation but of course the theatre was in use for me. I wondered why it was painted this weird green-blue hue. There were draft flaps hanging on the ceiling around the operating bed. It seemed tiny. It was tiny. They rolled my bed against the gurney. “Hop on,” the nurse said. I moved myself over. They positioned my head at a slight angle. “Can you stretch your legs?” “I will kick the machines at the end of the gurney if I do.” I stretched my legs anyway and sure enough, I pushed the monitors out of the way.
The doctor came in. “Brian! How are you doing?” Everyone asked me this and my answer was always the same. “OK given the circumstances.” “Haha, good! You are moving back to Japan soon, right? My wife wants to go to Okasa. I want to go to Tokyo.” Okasa? What’s Okasa? Oh probably Osaka. “I think you mean Osaka? Both are cool cities but for your first time I would recommend Tokyo.” “Yes yes Osaka, that’s the one, you know—” Hey wait a minute, are you distracting me from the fact you’re putting me to sleep? “The mask is just giving you oxygen, it’s snug so it might…”
I opened my eyes. The room had changed. The feeling was very surreal. It’s like a hangover without the fun. I was hungry, very hungry. I hadn’t eaten anything since the night before. I tried to signal to the nurses walking around that I was awake. “Hello sir, how are you?” I wanted to call my wife to let her know I was awake. Because my phone was in the recovery ward, they handed me a telephone I could use. “I don’t know her number.” “Then she’ll have to wait.” Yes, I suppose so. “Are you in pain?” No, not really. “Do you want more morphine?” “Yes please,” because of course I do. One should never say no to controlled substances offered in a controlled environment.
I’m not sure how long I lay in the post-operating room. It felt like 15 minutes, but it could’ve just as easily been 2 hours. When I was brought back to my room it was 19:45. I told Chinatsu I’d probably contact her around 17:00. Whoops. She was anxiously waiting by the phone. I called her. Once. Twice. She didn’t pick up. Then a third time. “Sorry, I was changing Thomas.” Oh how good it felt to hear her voice. The ship I was sailing on finally anchored to something familiar.
Next up I messaged my friends and a quick shitpost to Famichiki. I can’t remember much else of that night. I have some pictures I took of myself where I look like total trash. I think I had half a tuna sandwich and some bread. That’s it. Since I was young, whenever I’d feel out of it I listened to talk show radio falling asleep. It makes me feel less lonely. That night I fell asleep listening to HBO’s show Silicon Valley.
I felt lonely, scared, confused, in no particular order. But mostly I felt supported by my wife, by my family, and of course by my friends. They offered a welcome distraction, and although I couldn’t, and still can’t, talk much—a voice or video call here and there, further anchoring my ship to the shores of reality.
The rest of my hospital stay was relatively uneventful. Nurses came and went. My vitals were taken multiple times. I was instructed to stay on a fat-free diet for a week. This week will end on Thursday the 24th. Then I can take low-fat products. Two weeks later, I will be able to resume my regular diet. They shove a tube down your throat to help you breathe during the general anesthetic. You’ll feel this tube being there for a while.
The cancer is gone from my thyroid. Although the biopsy showed my lymph nodes as clean, the malformation was a result of metastasis. So they razed those lymph nodes too. From “low-risk cancer” to “metastasis” in the span of a few weeks. Anyway, I’m now cancer-free. That’s good. I’m also thyroid-free, which means I’ll have to take synthetic hormones for the rest of my life. A life that hopefully just had a bunch more time added to it.