Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

As an actor, singer, writer, producer, and teacher, Lorna J. Brunelle has always had a passion for the arts. A tireless volunteer, with an indelible commitment to bring positive change, she is dedicated to a range of causes.

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Dirty Bomb Shell

AuthorHouse

Contents

The Ides of March.............................1Ave Maria.....................................9Don't Move....................................5Retail Therapy................................5The Bow Tie Bastard...........................9Canceristmas..................................5Hope and Hypothesis...........................1You Gotta Have Friends........................1Handshakes....................................61Ducks in a Row................................7Untouchable...................................77The Little People.............................91Unhappy Birthday..............................107The Wonder of Words...........................123Helplessly Hypo...............................133Dirty Bombshell...............................147Darkness......................................165Bidet the Bush................................173Tigress.......................................181The Bad Cancer................................195Forgiving God.................................207Cancer Made Me Selfish........................213More..........................................221Hardly Recognizable...........................227Part of the Human Heart.......................241Saying Goodbye Again..........................255Discovering Why...............................259Nineteen Months...............................269My Catholic Bat Mitzvah.......................279Osmani........................................289Or As Happy As You Can Be.....................299Afterword.....................................311

Chapter One

He strapped my feet and wrists to the sides of the bed, wrapped a blanket around me and said, "Remember, don't move. I'll see you in forty-five minutes." The full body scan would prove to be a crucial tool used to mark the effectiveness of my radioactive iodine radiation treatment. The results would serve as the tracking system to monitor recurring malignant cells.

I had been in the entertainment industry for over fifteen years. This was the first time my performance was upstaged by fear and panic. This was my first time sharing the set with claustrophobia. Up until my thyroid cancer diagnosis, I considered myself to be one of the toughest and most self sufficient girls on the block. I was rugged in a girly girl power way. The clout of a rockin' lipstick and potency of implausible hair products helped me weather life's storms. Somewhere between a cancer diagnosis and a complete thyroidectomy, all of that changed. The girl who could conquer anything in a great pair of shoes was being ruled by a fear of small spaces.

I should have been more mindful of my dislike of being enclosed. I sleep with my feet outside of the covers at night. I bathe with the shower curtain only three quarters of the way closed with the bathroom door ajar. I keep the passage ways to each room in my house open. The French doors in my living room and the pocket doors leading to my bedroom are purely decorative. They have never been closed shut. Most days I have a hard time wearing a turtle neck.

Somehow the fright I felt in the body scan was new to me. I've been performing for years and have never experienced stage jitters. I walked out onto the field at Fenway Park to sing our national anthem without so much as an elevated heart rate. As an on camera acting coach and casting associate for the largest casting company in Boston, I have spent a decent amount of time in front of the camera. My time on the scanning bed waiting for my pictures to be taken was rapidly turning into the nastiest shoot of my life. Unlike all other gigs in my career, my future literally depended on how I did in front of the camera that day. Cast and crew on set were in search of a clear take, free of hot spots and leftover cancer.

Within seconds in my locked-down, imprisoned coffin-like state, all judicious thoughts vanished. My mind kept repeating the same thought: I have to get out of here! As I tried to settle my limbs on the bed, I couldn't help but question why I was strapped in so tightly. While waiting for the procedure to begin, I found it increasingly more difficult to, in the words of the tech, "relax." I kept telling myself you have to do this test. This is the first stage of the before and after shots taken to mark the progress of the treatment. Skipping this step is not an option. The cancer can come back. We have to kill the leftover cells.

Just then, the tech explained how the bed was going to move very slowly under the photo canopy of the scanning table. Again, he asked me not to move or talk and reiterated checking back on me in three quarters of an hour.

Before the machine began to move, my heart began to pound. Just when it seemed as if my insides were under ambush, an earsplitting reverberation engulfed my head. All at once, every street artist I had ever heard banging on five gallon buckets was inside of my body bashing on my lungs, ribs and heart. My mind was screaming I have to get out of here! As the deafening noise permeated throughout my chest cavity, the pounding inside became more than I could stand.

"Remove the straps from my legs and hands, please! I need to sit up, now! I need you to tell me exactly what is going to happen." The artist in me craved a dress rehearsal or technical run through before the actual show. "Is it possible for you to quickly bring me under the canopy so I, free of restraints, can get a sense of precisely what I am in for?" The tech agreed to my hysterical request.

I took a deep breath and tried to prepare my psyche for the ride into the scanning machine. I heard the motor of the bed kick on. I was going in head first. While my seemingly boiling breath fogged the frigid top lid of scanning camera, my body (trapped beneath equipment) tried to float away to a place of serenity and peace. Your mind is strong enough to block out your fear, Lorna ... focus on the ocean ... take your body to the sea and allow it to drift down the shore ... you can do this. Despite my efforts to psychologically regain control, once again the imaginary street musicians struck their drums sticks on my body. The rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat beats were so consuming I began to weep.

The blanket which swaddled my body locked in the rhythms of the drum core bashing around inside of me. The top of the machine was lowered closer to my nose as my body remained prisoner under the canopy. Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat. Just then my mind went to my strapped hands and feet. Am I being executed or cured? I have got to get out of these restraints. Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat.

The drum sticks were bashing all the way up to my skull. Every inch of my body was pulsating to the roar of my heart. I couldn't catch my breath, move, talk, cough, or clear my brain of all that was zipping through it. Everything became murky. In a loud voice I said, "So I am expected to be in here for nearly an hour? I anticipated an X-ray or CT scan. No one told me about this type of scan." Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat. In a louder voice I went on to say, "My mind isn't my own these days. I'm extremely hypothyroid. I'm exhausted. I don't think I can do this." Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat.

Suddenly tears began to gush out of my head as I barked, "I do not deserve to go though this today! I've already been through enough." Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat.

On the verge of a breakdown, I cried out to be set free. "I need you to get me out of here right now!" This snap in sanity, this ultimate state of panic and vulnerability occurred in the cold, lonely, and uncaring environment I had become all too familiar with&mdash:a hospital room.

The sound of the machine backing out of the chamber brought pause to my frenzy. At last, I was out of the tunnel! The tech walked over to my side and said, "Miss, did you bring anyone with you today? Is there someone I can get for you? Someone you'd like me to call?"

For the first time since our rancid scanning rendezvous ensued, I heard compassion in the tech's voice. In a tearful ramble, I told him that for thirty-five days I'd been exhausted, freezing, forgetful, itchy, achy, emotional, desperate and fragile. I wanted to say that I felt like a vacant shell. I wanted to say that I could feel my soul expiring. "Roger." is what came out of my mouth. "Get my husband. He's in the waiting room."

When Roger walked in, I was overcome with the urge to run. Not to him. Just to run. Sprinting wasn't an option, so I clutched on to him soaking his shirt with hypothyroid tears of anger, fear, exhaustion, and frustration. The harder I cried the louder the piercing tones of the street drummers rocked through my cranium. Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat.

It was my first real melt down since the surgery. I had wanted to cry so many times ... really, really cry. Bawling my eyes out invoked an intense amount of pain near my neck incision. On top of that, I knew I wouldn't be able to blow my nose adequately. I didn't want to engage all of the muscles in my throat associated with sobbing and snout honking. The Diva in me didn't want to risk making my scar ugly by tugging it while wailing like a colicky baby.

Pre-cancer I'd never been much of a crier, or hugger for that matter. I rolled with life's punches, and emerged one damn strong boxer. Since the moment my doctor suspiciously ran his fingers across my neck, that street-smart and savvy chick had been replaced by a sappy, sorry ass, cream puff of a girl. A girl I hardly knew.

I cried the day my doctor found the lump on October 21, 2004. The water works continued pretty consistently through December 15, 2004, when I got the news confirming my Papillary Thyroid Cancer diagnosis. Subsequent to hearing my diagnosis, I cried straight through February 2, 2005, when the disease was expelled from my body. From February 2, 2005, through the March 15, 2005, body scan, mild whimpers were all I could muster up. Ladylike non-taxing sniffles were my only catharsis.

The events that took place in the hospital that day released a deluge of unearthed post-surgical sentiment. I couldn't help but wonder if my claustrophobia was really my first panic attack or a case of misdirected anger. Deep down inside I was pissed off at God for giving me cancer. Every needle stabbed into my arm, every lab, test, scan, appointment, prescription, tear, and sleepless night reminded me of my unfinished business with my higher power. I will say this, in the maddening moments in the scanning room I took great comfort in being able to stand my ground. That one single decision to refuse to endure another moment of distress in the scan empowered the panties off of my pink, plus-sized ass. After months of feeling powerless, I was regaining control over my life.

March 15, The Ides of March, is the day Julius Caesar was slaughtered. As I sat on the scanning bed holding my husband, the ghost of my pre-cancer street savvy self whispered a poignant question in my ear; do you want to end up like Caesar today? Do you want cancer to slaughter you? Or do you want to slaughter your cancer? YOU ARE IN CONTROL HERE. The tech is not your Brutus. He isn't here to kill you. He is here to help you KILL CANCER. Have the scan your way ... take back your life.

In a determined voice I told the tech exactly what I needed in order to complete the scan. After listening, he said, "Let's try this whole thing another way. We can put you in feet first rather than head first. We'll skip the foot and wrist straps but you have to hold still. We can stop in between photos. You can get up, walk around ... go to the bathroom. Your husband can stay. Once we finish the head and neck photos, your head will be out of the scan. I'll let you know when it's OK to talk to him. How does that sound?" Torture verses compassion ... how do you think it sounds?

"Great. Let's do this." was my response. Then with gentle eyes and a tender voice the tech said, "I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't realize you were having such a ... hard time. I should have asked. Please accept my apology." Just then I realized the pounding had subsided. My chest was still.

Turns out neither strapping my hands and feet down, nor putting my head under a canopy for nearly an hour is a medical necessity. Does the medical world just assume that we are incapable of remaining still during a scan? Do the higher ups train the techs to tie us down like cattle to save time and money? I have known cats and dogs that received better medical treatment than I did those first few horrifying minutes in the scanning room.

At the risk of sounding like a whiner: Being hypothyroid is unbearable. It is one of the worst times to be treated like a nameless, faceless number. As much as I love sweets, I'm not going to sugarcoat this, folks. To prepare for the radiation following thyroid cancer, patients need to become hypo. While hypo, our bodies try to function without the help of any thyroid meds to winch them up. Menial tasks (like hair brushing) require a post-resting period to muster up enough energy to make it through the day. While hypo, our minds are dull and our bodies are lifeless. Days are coated with a fuzzy film. The world seems to be moving around at the speed of lightning as the hypos remain stuck in molasses. Hell, when hypo even my libido was lounging in someone else's lingerie.

One can imagine how wearisome it is to dress, drive to the city, and trek through a mammoth, maze-like hospital, only to park your frozen buns in the chilliest room on the Nuclear Medicine floor. (Hypothyroidism brings new meaning to the word cold.) But until hypothyroidism sets up camp in your body, you have no idea how intense life can become. On the subject of intensity, who in God's name named the Nuc Med department? As a sick person the term Nuclear Medicine scared the power plant pants off of me!

As patients, our medical options should be clearly mapped out for us. It's our right to decide what route is best. Why did it take thirty minutes of personal agony before the tech decided to use a different method? Why aren't all of the scans done the easy way?

I am a full scholarship, conservatory-trained artist. Was my brave act the reason why the tech didn't notice my apprehension? To receive medical empathy, must we wear our emotions on our sleeves? The truth is, people who undergo diagnosis and treatment are encouraged to be strong. Be strong, be brave, you can do it, you can beat it, they say. I find it ironic that it's the very act of trying to be brave that keeps us from receiving the empathy and compassion we so desperately need. By trying to remain stoic about the scan, I ended up getting hurt. I sent the message that I was fine, but that was in part to keep myself composed. I wasn't fine&mdash:and that façade is why the tech spared me the immediate empathy I deserved.

The Ides of March, 2005, is the day I stopped being a voiceless victim of cancer and became a spoken woman fighting her way back to wellness.

Chapter Two

Waves were dancing on the shore of my favorite vacation spot in Dennisport, Massachusetts when I got the call from an old acquaintance. Her father had passed away. She wanted me to sing the funeral mass at our church. The morning of the service was sweltering. It was the last Saturday of August 2004. Humidity in New England can be brutal and this was one of the most oppressive days yet. As I entered the church, I was overwhelmed by the smell of lilies. Fragrant and powerful, lilies are lovely in a garden. For a singer with seasonal allergies, it can be tricky to sing along their side in an enclosed space. I was to the left of the altar with all of the flowers. Surprisingly enough, I seemed to be okay. No watery eyes or nose.

My first piece was "Ave Maria." I've sung the song for countless weddings and funerals without a problem. That hot August afternoon, during the more demanding section of the song, I noticed a strange sensation on the left side of my throat. It felt as if someone was pressing a finger on my neck. I had never felt that before. That feeling stayed with me for the duration of the mass. I left church blaming it on the lilies.

A few weeks later, I was in a voice lesson with a student. As we were warming up, I noticed the same feeling in my throat. Again, I assumed it was allergies. I had fallen out of my weekly allergy shot routine and ragweed was flourishing outside. Remembering my allergist's warning about how potent those weeds can be, I ignored the lump in my throat and continued to sing. Assuming all would be well once the golden-haired pests dried up, I refilled my allergy meds.

A month later, on October 21, 2004, I was in Boston at a routine exam with my endocrinologist whom I'll call Dr. Smith. Years prior, he had diagnosed me with Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome. Each year he checks my thyroid by pressing his hands on my neck while I drink a cup of water. He asks me to swallow as he feels around my neck. That day, he stayed in one spot longer than usual. He said, "Have you been having any trouble? Any neck pain? Anything different?"

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Dirty Bomb Shellby Lorna J. Brunelle Copyright © 2010 by Lorna J. Brunelle. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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