Dirty Bombshell: From Thyroid Cancer Back to Fabulous!

By Lorna J. Brunelle

A treasured read. I learned, laughed, and cried. I will pass on this remarkable resource. - Dawn Eger Rizzo, Thyroid Cancer Survivor

Unflappable, witty, honest, and inspirational describe Lorna’s exploration of her journey. As a survivor of kidney cancer, I was awed, captivated, and encouraged by the positive nature of Lorna’s personal philosophy. - Marsha E. Bergquist, Cancer Survivor

Having suffered much loss from this disease, Lorna's narrative about dealing with thyroid cancer is not only filled with useful and practical information, but was cathartic for my own repressed emotions. I laughed, I cried, and I healed. - Ellie Osborne

Lorna has the innate gift of bringing light, laughter, and hope while sharing her journey with readers. I was pulled in by her honesty and even laughed out loud at times. - Linda Joy, Publisher

Main Entry: dirty bomb-shell
Function: noun
Date: 2005
: a former bombshell beauty fighting thyroid cancer in the Nuclear Medicine Department of a hospital about to ingest a purple radioactive radiation pill that will make her a contagious toxic human dirty bomb.

Dirty Bombshell is the poignant and brave story of a 33 year old girl who is fighting her way back to wellness. Her triumphant story sheds light on a cancer most Americans are in the dark about. This story of faith, forgiveness, strength, hope, courage, tolerance, and self-discovery will change the way you tackle hardship, leaving you with the power to survive and thrive. Dirty Bombshell will help you find your way back to FABULOUS!

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. Lorna lives with her husband Roger in Massachusetts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9781456711467

Lorna J. Brunelle

Lorna J. Brunelle is a graduate of the Boston Conservatory. In 2010, she released the Amazon bestseller Dirty Bombshell: From Thyroid Cancer Back to Fabulous. A cancer survivor, Lorna has collaborated with the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary and has been featured in several publications and documentaries. She is a recipient of the Massachusetts General Hospital the One Hundred award for her effort to eradicate cancer. The Boston City Council proclaimed October 22 as Lorna J. Brunelle Day for her tireless work in the cancer community. Lorna has been a patient advocate for many years and dedicates her time to a number of organizations. She owns the Burt Wood School of Performing Arts and the Alley Theatre and works at Boston Casting Inc. Lorna resides with her husband, Roger, in Massachusetts.

Book preview

Dirty Bomb

Shell

From Thyroid Cancer Back to Fabulous!

Lorna J. Brunelle

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

Lorna J. Brunelle has respectfully omitted the names of a few medical professionals and friends in this book. Conversations quoted in this book have been reconstructed from memory.

© 2010 Lorna J. Brunelle. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/28/2020

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1145-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1146-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010917525

Cover Design/Book Jacket: Rachel Dunham of Hummingbird Creative Concepts

Cover Model: Valerie J. Amaral

Photographer for Lorna J. Brunelle: Kim Kennedy

Hair and Make Up Artist for Lorna J. Brunelle: Mariolga Pantazopoulos

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

The Ides of March

Ave Maria

Don’t Move

Retail Therapy

The Bow Tie Bastard

Canceristmas

Hope and Hypothesis

You Gotta Have Friends

Handshakes

Ducks in a Row

Untouchable

The Little People

Unhappy Birthday

The Wonder of Words

Helplessly Hypo

Dirty Bombshell

Darkness

Bidet the Bush

Tigress

The Bad Cancer

Forgiving God

Cancer Made Me Selfish

More

Hardly Recognizable

Part of the Human Heart

Saying Goodbye Again

Discovering Why

Nineteen Months

My Catholic Bat Mitzvah

Osmani

Or As Happy As You Can Be

Afterword

For my grandfather

Raymond L. Stairs, Jr.

And for his son, my uncle,

Raymond Stairs

Two sweet men taken too soon by cancer.

May their souls swim in the disease-free oceans of heaven.

nov002.jpg

My grandfather Raymond Stairs playing on the beach

with his sister Alice in Hull, Massachusetts, in 1927.

Through her book Dirty Bombshell-From Thyroid Cancer Back

to Fabulous" and her tireless work with the Massachusetts Eye and

Ear Infirmary, my patient Lorna J. Brunelle has

heightened thyroid cancer awareness and advocacy and the

importance of the

physician patient relationship."

Gregory Randolph, M.D., F.A.C.S.

Director Thyroid Center of Excellence

Director General Otolaryngology

Associate Professor of Otology and Laryngology

Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary

Harvard Medical School

_DSC2149.JPG

With my surgeon Dr. Gregory Randolph

Thank you

To my endocrinologist, Dr. Sol Jacobs, M.D.: This adventure began the day you discovered my lump. I am forever grateful for your dynamite detective work. To the finest surgeon in the world, Dr. Gregory Randolph, M.D.: Every time I use my voice to bring positive change I celebrate your craft. To all of the survivors across the globe: A standing ovation in honor of your fabulousness! To my family: If only pharmacies sold your type of medicine. Thanks for the laughter. To my mother Wanda: Thank you for taking care of me. You define family and love. To my husband Roger: Oxygen…Back at ’ya!

Here’s to Fifteen Years

Wise people say that only honesty will guide us through. In that spirit, the fifteen years since I wrote this book have been both remarkable and filled with the deepest sadness a person can endure. I share my story again with a few updates—because you deserve to know them. Everything you’re about to read about my experience with thyroid cancer is my honest recounting of the events. They mention precious people no longer with us. Please know how, to me, they were my world and hold them in your hearts as you get to know them here, in the pages of my life.

The Ides of March

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 slowly beneath 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 pounded. 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 screamed I have to get out of here as the deafening noise permeated my chest cavity. It was 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’s 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 that I can get out of these restraints and get a sense of precisely what I’m 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 the 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 regain control, once again the imaginary street musicians struck their drumsticks on my body. The rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat beats were so consuming, I began to weep.

The blanket swaddling my body locked in the rhythm of the drum core bashing around inside of me. The top of the machine was lowered closer to my nose as my body remained a prisoner under the canopy.

Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat.

My mind went to my strapped hands and feet. Was I being executed or cured?

Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat.

The drumsticks bashed my skull. Every inch of my body pulsed 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.

So, I am expected to be in here for nearly an hour? I asked loudly. I’d been anticipating 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.

"My mind isn’t my own these days, I said, even louder. I’m extremely hypothyroid and exhausted. I don’t think I can do this."

Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat.

Then, the tears came, gushing from my eyes as I barked out again.

I do not deserve to go through this today! I’ve already been through enough.

Rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat, rat-tit-tit-tat.

I was breaking down and desperate to be set free. I need you to get me out of here right now!

This snap in sanity, my ultimate state of panic and vulnerability all occurred in the cold, lonely, and uncaring environment I had become too familiar with—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.

Miss, did you bring anyone with you today? Is there someone I can get for you? Someone you’d like me to call? he asked me; his voice gentle and concerned.

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. Instead, I had just one thought: Roger.

Get my husband. He’s in the waiting room.

When Roger walked in, I was overcome by an 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.

It was my first real meltdown since the surgery. I had wanted to cry so many times. To really, really cry, but 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 tearing my healing skin with colicky baby-type wails.

Pre-cancer, I’d never been much of a crier, or a hugger. I rolled with life’s punches and emerged as 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 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. Ladylike and 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, spoke to me. A quiet yet 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 and 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 nodded.

"Okay. Let’s try this another way. We can put you in feet first rather than head-first. We’ll skip the foot and wrist straps but you still have to hold still. We can stop in between photos. You can get up, walk around, and even 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 okay to talk to him. How does that sound?"

Torture versus compassion. How do you think it sounds?

Great, I agreed. Let’s do this.

I’m sorry, Miss, he continued softly. I didn’t realize you were having such a hard time. I should have asked. Please accept my apology.

The pounding inside of me 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 was 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.

Not to whine, but being hypothyroid was unbearable, and the absolute worst time to be treated like a nameless, faceless number. No sugarcoating here, 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 re-energize. Our minds dulled and our bodies became lifeless, as days felt coated with a fuzzy film. The world moved at the speed of lightning as we hypos remained stuck in molasses. Hell, 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, everyone says. 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, and that façade was 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.

Ave Maria

WAVES DANCED ALONG 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, but for a singer with seasonal allergies, they’re the scent of potential trouble. 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, continued to sing, and refilled my allergy meds.

A month later, on October 21st, 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 Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. Each year he checked my thyroid by pressing his hands on my neck while I drink a cup of water, asking me to swallow as he felt 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?

As I tried to recall how long the knot had been there, my doctor said, I’m sure it’s nothing, but do you have any history of cancer in your family? Instantly, my body went numb. On February 9, 2002 we lost my uncle Ray to pancreatic and liver cancer. Many of us assumed my uncle’s illness was a result of lifestyle rather than heredity. As a police officer, electrician, and father of three, he had a boatload of stress in his life. Diet and exercise were afterthoughts. The women in my family lived to be in their late eighties. My mother shared impressive stories about her 94-year-old great-grandmother from Sicily walking up and down the streets of Watertown, Massachusetts dressed in black and sharp as a tack. Most of the girls in my family only visited the hospital to have babies. None of us had a history of major surgeries or illnesses.

Like I said, it’s probably nothing to worry about, Dr. Smith said, adding that only a small percentage (less than 5%) of nodules or lumps end up being cancerous.

What if it is? I asked. What’s plan B?

He paused. We’ll start with a fine needle aspiration, or biopsy. He went on to describe the various methods of treatment for positive and negative nodules on the thyroid. "But, Lorna, I’m sure it’s nothing."

As I made my way to the parking lot, fear rushed in like a harsh New England storm. I called my husband from the car. As always, he was unruffled.

Babe, just make the appointment for the ultrasound. We’ll take it from there. It’s going to be alright.

My polar opposite, my husband is always calm and level-headed. I heard cancer. He heard that I needed to take some tests. An only child brought up in a quiet household, Roger’s life could not have been more different from mine. I am the oldest of three girls. My loud Sicilian household was filled with high emotion. Everyone spoke at full volume, all the time.

Most days, I thanked my lucky stars for my husband’s calming manner. As his wife, I never had to worry about his getting angry or yelling at the top of his lungs. I could rest knowing that threats or warnings would never fly out of his mouth. Whenever my husband was really upset, he was as silent as a stone. I admired that restraint and tried to emulate it.

The first available appointment for an ultrasound was close to Thanksgiving. Rather than wait that long, I decided to call in a favor. I had performed in a few shows with a technician who worked in radiology on the South Shore. He made a few calls and got me in on November 2nd. It was also the 2004 Election Day. I was working the polls for a state rep friend of mine running for re-election. I arrived at the polls at 10:00 AM, and spent the entire day talking about the Bush/Kerry race and local politics. No matter how heated the conversations became, my mind kept reverting to my ultrasound. Colleagues of mine implied that the radiation tech would be able to tell whether or not the screen looked good or bad. I expected all of my worries to subside once the ultrasound tech said, It looks fine. No need to stress.

Throughout the day, several of my friends showed up to hold election signs. Typically, I am open about my feelings. I talk about everything, from sex to nuts. That day, I said very little about my appointment. My unwillingness to chat about the ultrasound was my first indication that I was afraid. At the time, my husband was working evenings. He offered to skip work and accompany me to the hospital. My friends and family offered to take me, too. I declined all of the offers, brushing the appointment off as no big deal.

Although I’m an avid talk radio fan, I drove the whole way to the appointment in silence. I turned the heater in my Jeep Grand Cherokee on my toes and opened the sunroof to feel the crisp November air. The gentle scents of woodstove fires and autumn in Massachusetts swirled around me. The sunset was magnificent. I drove beneath a gazebo of shades of ginger, lavender, sapphire, and pink. A moment of serenity. Taking in all of the beauty, I stood in the parking lot of the hospital looking at the sky. On the pavement, I said a prayer to the Blessed Mother Mary for strength.

I walked into the radiation lab, said hello to a few familiar faces, and sat down to watch TV. George Bush was ahead in the polls and was being declared the winner. Despite our Democratic state, no one in the room had anything to say. I remember laughing to myself thinking another four years with a Republican in office and no one in this room has anything to say? As a registered undecided voter, with a totally right-wing father and left-wing mother, I normally love to debate. At that moment, I was trying to focus on staying calm. I’m guessing all of the people in the waiting area were in the same swift boat because no one was talking. (Couldn’t resist the John Kerry pun.)

A woman’s voice called out, Lorna Brunelle? She walked me to a small, dimly lit room. All business, she skipped the small talk and instructed me to remove all of my clothes from the waist up. I got on the table as she explained what was going to happen. She began by applying jelly to my neck area. From there she pressed a device on my throat. I was shocked by how deep and uncomfortable the pressure was.

Eagerly waiting for the proverbial, Everything looks good, I tried to make eye contact with the tech hoping for a sign. When she asked how I was doing. I replied, Okay, but it seems to be taking a lot longer than I expected. Is everything alright?

I am not authorized to say, she said back.

Well, you pretty much just said it all, I thought to myself. Refusing to walk away empty handed, I called upon my how-to-play-a-scene-to-win Conservatory training—a skill that had been drilled into me all four years of college. My acting teacher scared us into winning. His