Thyroid Profile Blood Test Kit at home – £68

Do you feel alone? My Story for you…

Today, I decided to tell you about myself.

This is about an experience that marked me, scared me and represented for me the first truly great worry I had ever faced. So, I decided to write here to be able, in my small way, to support all those who have lived or are living the same experience as me. I am referring to the hemithyroidectomy operation (removal of half of it after having a Thyroid Blood test) undergone in 2018. Furthermore, one of the most frequent questions friends and acquaintances ask me is:

“But how did you discover you had a problem?” absolutely by pure chance.

I usually carry out several annual check-ups (ultrasound, blood tests, etc.), but I’d like to know why I kept postponing the check-ups.

So, with strength and courage, the fateful day arrived when I had my first ultrasound after years. I remember that moment well and the doctor’s expression. “Benedetta, you have a 2 cm vascularised nodule“. Me? I didn’t know exactly what it meant. And I didn’t know what was waiting for me next.

I’ll let you imagine my mind then and in the following days!

In the same week, I managed to carry out the first needle aspiration… result: it was a “borderline” nodule that needed to be kept under control over time.

At that point, I breathed a sigh of relief and celebrated Easter (yes, everything happened close to that period). After turning to an endocrinologist, I began drug therapy to prevent the nodule from growing. (ah, I forgot to tell you that the values of hormones and antibodies have always been good)

After six months, I Performed the Second Needle.

Result: the dimensions were still the same, but the general condition had worsened slightly. After consulting several doctors, the possibility of proceeding with the operation was considered, given that, among other things, if the nodule had enlarged, it could have created swallowing problems.

Anxiety, worry, awareness and uncertainty were all sensations that accompanied me in those months.

So, I then turned to one of the hospitals in Naples best suited to my situation. They put me on the waiting list, they subjected me to all the tests, and after 4 months, the phone call finally arrived: “Next week, you will be operated on”.

And if whoever was close to me in those days survived, he could survive anything!

As was the recovery, the operation went well (the lump was benign). In the following days, I felt weak, but that was normal.

So, little by little, I resumed my habits. And I started going out again, wearing a scarf around my neck to protect the scar from the sun’s rays. Why yes? The only sign of that particular year that I continue to carry with me is a scar on the lower part of my neck. But do you know what? I have no problem showing it. I’m not ashamed of it, although I realise that the gaze of the people who talk to me often falls precisely on that sign.

So, I wanted to share this small part of my life with you.

Because, despite everything, I was lu ky. Mine was a simple situation because, to date, the only thing that has changed in my life is taking small quantities of replacement medication, but it doesn’t always go that way.

I had the opportunity to meet a young woman who had a thyroid blood test, and they were also in the studio because their thyroids were completely removed. She carries with them scars bigger than mine but is so strong and happy with life.

Undergo investigations and tests once a year, especially if you are familiar with them. There are no excuses. Do prevention; do it because it can change your life.

Story of Valentina

For about a year, I had been complaining of malaise, tiredness, anxiety and weakness. I was tired of that trend, which was sometimes disabling. And I was no longer energetic and vital, bringing me down even more. My doctor, who has never been too attentive to my symptoms, attributed them to the most varied seasonal ailments or tiredness due to the work and family routine with a small child.

Therefore, he usually prescribed rest, tachykinin, and blood tests, which revealed nothing normal. At the umpteenth “I feel sick, strange, down” that I reported to my cousin, a doctor in Sicily, I was advised to have an ultrasound on my thyroid; the symptoms made her think of a malfunctioning butterfly gland.

It was October 2017, and I went for an ultrasound.

As soon as he begins his work, the unforgettable doctor begins with a “Uh, mum, it’s great!” I lie down, helpless, with anxiety at full blast, and ask her: “What’s huge?” She perhaps realises that she was a little colourful and not at all professional, and she tells me that nothing; perhaps it’s inflammation.

But what are you talking about?

Once the ultrasound was over, she told me that there was a lump, large, very large and that she thought I should haven’t seen it. I leave the hospital in disbelief, without having understood anything, and I immediately call my cousin, my long-distance doctor.

She doesn’t put me down. Knowing me, she tells me that most people have thyroid nodules and to stay calm as much as possible. Then, she told me to go and have the needle aspirated, which exceeds the measurement of 1.50 cm.

It is a mandatory practice. And mine was 3 cm.

Thus began one of the darkest periods of my life, in which moments of anxiety, fear and tears followed one another without stopping, which I had to hold back when my daughter, only 3 years old, was next to me.

On December 5, 2017, I went for needle aspiration, which was not a very pleasant test, but the fear I had was far worse; it went beyond the fear of the pain of that day. A simple Thyroid check is so simple in comparison. I asked the doctor if I would have to wait 15 days for the result and if, in his opinion.

There was something strange or abnormal.

n short, if, in his opinion, it could be a tumour, my greatest fear. He doesn’t comment; we await the outcome. If I am not contacted before 15 days, it is just a lump to be evaluated, and I got a report and a batch of others.

The days pass, and so do the nights, albeit with difficulty because I begin to sleep no longer, a nerve-racking waiting period. I continue to work, and I pretend nothing is happening. There is a Christmas atmosphere all around. With every phone call that comes to my cell phone, I panic.

The days pass, and we are on December 20, and I still haven’t been contacted.

I think I’m out of danger, and instead, around 11 in the morning, while exchanging gifts between panettone and pandoro with colleagues, the call arrives from an anonymous number. “Good morning, Mrs Valentina. I am the endocrinologist, and the result of the needle aspiration is positive;

It was confirmed that I have a disease”.

I will remember his sentence for my whole life, which I hope will be as long as possible. And I find myself on the phone in a small, isolated room; my legs give out. I sit down and ask what I should do. And I feel like I’m melting with that tumour inside me. The doctor reassured me that the solution was an operation and that I could spend the holidays peacefully.

Thyroid cancer is one of the slowest, and therefore, in January, I will be operated on with peace of mind. I call my husband, and I start to cry. Also, I am afraid, more afraid than before, afraid of dying, afraid of the tumour, afraid of leaving everything that life has given me so far.

I ran to my doctor to communicate the outcome and write the prescriptions

And they were demanding, and all the bureaucracy was involved in these cases. I am incredulous, “why me?” “What did I do wrong?”. “How could this happen?” and “I was happy” are the thoughts that bounce around in my head non-stop.

The hard part is communicating it to my family, with whom we can spend the Christmas holidays, my daughter’s birthday, and the happiest time of the year together. With them, I minimise it. I try to give the impression that it’s small, but inside, I’m wearing myself out.

Still, I’m so good that the word tumour never comes out of my mouth to the point that even my mother, until after the operation, doesn’t understand exactly what’s happening to me.

The days pass

Today, I see the photos of that Christmas in which my husband and I smiled from ear to ear, pretending to be happy, but the dark circles under our eyes are so deep that you can see all our fear in them.

Finally, the day of the operation arrives, preceded by the usual routine tests and interviews with doctors, surgeons and anaesthetists. With every visit to the waiting room, I feel like I’m going crazy; now, an itty always reigns supreme.

I enter the operating room on February 6, cold and raining. The surgery went well. I have a huge plaster on my neck, but I start talking straight away. One of the risks related to this type of surgery is that the vocal cords are damaged by losing your voice.

The surgeon who operates on me is one of the best.

They call him the best, and I must say that I can only confirm what is said about him. Upon resigning, I was told that, as per practice, I would have to undergo a cycle of radiotherapy. This doesn’t excite me, but the surgery went well. And I feel more positive, and I will also face the forced withdrawal of radioiodine.

I do radioiodine therapy in mid-April at the Institute.

The first time I entered there, the reaction was one of immense sadness, a liberating cry welcomed with warmth by the head nurse, a person who, like all the staff of the cancer institute, I carry in my heart.

The place is bad, and being isolated for five days is unpleasant.

Still, I sincerely thank all the people around me in those days, from a distance, obviously because they know how to make everything more pleasant and familiar.

At the Cancer Institute, despite being in a bunker, in a single room, without knowing what happens outside, whether it rains or sunny.

I never really perceive being abandoned.

The nurses are all very precious, with their jokes, explanations, chats, and some hugs they make these days pass almost without hearing them.

And I will never stop thanking them for what they did for me and for what they do for all the patients who pass through that bunker every day. We returned home after 15 days without seeing my daughter, who, given my superpowers, as I defined radioactivity, was on holiday with her grandparents.

Since then, my life has been made up of checks every year, not without anxiety and apprehension.