'My Promise to Be My Little Boy's Everything Got Even More Real'

Photo courtesy of Christine Coppa

I’m a solo single mom. My son’s dad is not involved in his life. When I was diagnosed with cancer — my promise to be my little boy’s everything got even more real. 

I found out I had thyroid cancer in July and had my entire gland removed over two surgeries. I thought I was in the clear, but recent blood tests showed a reoccurrence, so here I was, walking down “Radiology Ave,” following signs for Nuclear Medicine at Morristown Medical Center - my home away from home.

I got a PET scan to determine how much Radioactive Iodine, or I-131 I needed to ingest to kill what was festering in my neck. (I-131 is taken in pill or liquid form to destroy cancer cells that take up iodine, with little effect on the rest of your body.)

As I sat in the small waiting room, it occurred to me it was pizza and technology day at my kid’s school. My co-workers were probably ordering their lunch via Seamless Web at this point. Nothing stops or changes when you’re sick. It’s your battle.

Photo by Christine Coppa

I walked into the imaging room and the tech told me to lie down on the table. There was no need to change into a gown. There was a paper sheet covering the bed and a pillow. I looked up at the ceiling and startled when the tech put a warm blanket over me. “It’s a long test, just relax.” He told me I needed to stay still and that a plate was going to come very close to my face, but not touch it. I’m a claustrophobic person and my heart began to race.

I thought about my 7-year-old son Jack the entire time and how he wouldn’t be at home when I returned because I’d be radioactive and have to isolate for at least three days — then need time to clean. I made arrangements for him to miss two days of school and spend that time with my older brother, Carlo, on the Jersey Shore. Even though Jack is only seven, he’s a trooper and certainly knows his mom is sick-ish. In the months leading up to this treatment, he covered me with a blanket when I was cold, did the dishes, standing on a chair, and drew me beautiful bright pictures to cheer me up. A single mom, since his birth, the two of us operate as a team. Jack has an ability to just go with the flow. It’s such an important trait to have.

Photo courtesy of Christine Coppa

When the scan concluded, I was told to come back in three, long hours. I gathered my purse and jacket and went to the cafeteria. I passed the time eating egg whites and spinach (I was on a low iodine diet for a month now), drinking ginger ale, reading, listening to music on my phone and walking around the hospital, stopping to sit in overstuffed chairs, my legs dangling over the arm. My son’s day was racing through my head — he was in math class. My brother would pick up our puppy, Lucy and their things — talk to his teacher about his studies for the next two days — then drive down the shore. Did I pack his Batman robe!?

Back in Nuclear Medicine, sitting in a chair surrounded by things with biohazard signs, the radiologist entered in a mask, lead apron and wearing gloves. We’d gone over everything before. I signed the papers saying I would isolate, drink a lot of water, and not get pregnant for a year. The radiologist opened a steel container, removed a pill with little tongs and handed it to me in the kind of cup I gave Jack his liquid Tylenol in. I stared down at the white capsule, looked at the radiologist and said, “Bottoms Up.” He pointed to a big bottle of water on the counter and didn’t let me leave until I finished it and tossed it in a special wastebasket. His final words of advice: “Pee a lot! Good luck!”

I didn’t feel any different, except exhausted from the long day. I drove home and went directly into my bedroom — what I called Ground Zero for the next five days. I peeled off my clothes and put them in a plastic bag, knotted it and tossed it in the corner. My room was filled with water bottles, sour lemon drops (to protect my salivary glands) and ginger ale. I washed off quickly in the shower, scrubbing my hands, then slipping on a pair of hospital gloves before selecting fresh sweats to throw on.

Photo courtesy of Christine Coppa

I peed and flushed the toilet three times (the rules). I got under the covers and FaceTimed Jack. He was excited to tell me about his school day as usual and that Uncle Carlo was making steak for dinner. Our golden retriever Lucy’s ears perked up at the sound of my voice. After our call, I fell asleep for hours, waking up at 3 a.m.

I was confused and in pain. The therapy had kicked in. I felt like I had strep throat and the flu. My mouth was so dry; my tongue was swollen. I sprung up in my bed and dashed to the bathroom, dry heaving until my stomach couldn’t take it anymore. The whole while I was waiting for someone to come in and hold my hair back or put a cold towel on my forehead, but I was alone. I splashed cold water on my face and when I looked in the mirror, I saw that my glands and jawline were swollen — twice their size. I took Advil and went back to bed. Laying there in the darkness, I was so happy Jack wasn’t witnessing this because it scared me.

As a single mom, I’m not afraid of being alone — I can do alone. Doing alone is important. I never want my son to be alone, but I don’t want him to fear confronting himself on dark days. This is life.

Photo courtesy of Christine Coppa

Since Jack is always so close to me, I often trip over him or find him in my shadow. It was weird not having to get up and make waffles, or take the dog out, but I was thankful to have my brother who was doing all of that at the shore. I tried to watch movies or type, but often times I experienced double vision or pounding headaches, making even passing the time a project. I spent the majority of my time — for five days — in my bed, sleeping, FaceTiming with Jack, texting with friends, listening to music and receiving the occasional pop up visits from my younger brother or father (with Cherry Coke, ice pops or fro yo). They knew the drill — gloves and a mask, no hugging, and maintain a distance, leave after 15 minutes. This is why it was so important for Jack and Lucy to leave the condo — they both live on me: cuddles, kisses, bed stealers. On normal days I wake up with both of their faces touching mine.

Friends left flowers, magazines, and hard candy at my door. You certainly learn who is on your side in times like this — I did. And I will never forget these people.

A lot of friends counted me lucky because I was getting a break from single motherhood. Only this wasn’t the kind of break I wanted. I was sick the entire time: chills, hot flashes, nausea, exhaustion, pain. I ate bland foods like brown rice, dry cereal and hydrated to the point where I felt bloated and full. There were self-pitying moments where I actually believed I would not come out of this — it was too much. My friend, Pete, a thyroid cancer survivor texted with me the entire time telling me the first few days are like the Hunger Games, but that it gets better. I didn’t believe him at the time. I kept hearing a flute and seeing weird shadows. The isolation was getting to me.

At the beach, my older brother made sure Jack did the packet of common core work his teacher assigned. They had spelling bees, went to the local library for story time and crafts (Jack made a boxcar!). Carlo also kept up with Jack’s religious studies, since he just started ccd class in prep for his Holy Communion next year. They took Lucy for long runs on the beach (off leash which worried me, but she had a ball!). I missed Jack’s squeaky voice, thump of his feet, crumbs on the couch. I missed Lucy, the 51-pound golden retriever who thinks she’s a lap dog — the girl who was with me when I recovered from surgeries. I missed her constant, perfect love — and company.

The days bled into each other. I woke up not knowing what the date or day was, just that I was feeling a little bit better than the day before so, time must have been moving on and for this I was grateful. I was eating more, fruit now, on paper plates and with plastic forks I could toss out. It tasted strange, but I picked my battles. I wasn’t dry heaving anymore. My headache was gone — the exhaustion remained. I fell asleep at 6 PM.

But, soon Jack would be coming home and I needed to find any strength left in me to scrub the bathroom, wipe down counters in the kitchen, dispose of radioactive waste. I treated the condo like a murder scene — not wanting to get caught for the bloody crime. But it was a huge undertaking for me, because I still wasn’t feeling well. I pushed a soapy mop on the kitchen tile floor. I used scrubbing bubbles in the bathroom. I washed the laundry two times and then ran the machine again with just hot water (my water bill should be fun this quarter).

Finally, the day came for Jack’s arrival home to me — only to get sidetracked by a blizzard set to unload on the East Coast where we live. My brother, aware of how weak I still am — refused to bring Jack and the puppy home, fearing it would be too much for me to handle. I was so angry and frustrated.

And relieved. I would never want to put Jack in a position where he needed to care for me, or be scared, or remember this horrible time. I’m glad his memory of my treatment will be of collecting seashells in the wintertime, watching movies with his uncle and going to Sky Zone to jump. This isn’t his burden. It was my problem.

Since I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, I’ve had no control over anything. Poked, prodded, medicated, sick — I’ve just been along for the ride. And I’ve learned I can’t control the things that happen to me — I can choose how to respond to them. With courage, pride and all the fight left in me. It’s making me a better a human.

I’m getting re-scanned on Thursday to see if this magic pill worked.

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