The Eggnog Chronicles by Carly Alexander Page A

cherry lips move I wondered about this organ in my body that I’d never even been aware of before. Consider the thyroid, a flat little nob in the neck. My cancer was not related to cigarette smoke, not related to any known factors in my environment. So why had it betrayed me after all these years? Why me? Why now? Et tu, thyroid?
    Dr. Parson cut off his lecture to take a pompous I’man-important-doctor call, and Emma leaned over to me and reviewed his lecture. “On a scale of one to ten? I’d give him three wormy apples. Thyroid for Preschoolers,” she whispered. “Do you like this guy?”
    â€œI find him humorless,” I answered, “but is comedy really a prerequisite for a suitable surgeon? I mean, do I want a successful surgery, or someone who can kill at Caroline’s on a Saturday night.”
    â€œPoint well taken,” she said as Dr. Parson returned to us.
    â€œSo let’s talk about the treatment,” he said. “We recommend a total thyroidectomy. After the surgery you’ll follow up with an endocrinologist who will determine your daily dose of Synthroid. And then there’ll be treatment with radioactive iodine. Let me explain how the thyroid responds to iodine—”
    â€œWe know all about the magic bullet,” Emma interrupted. “How thyroid tissue sucks up iodine, so you give the patient a small pill containing radioactive iodine. Any remaining or metastasizing thyroid tissue absorbs the iodine and gets nuked in the process. I was concerned about damage to other organs from the radiation, but I’ve read that the procedure has proven relatively safe. Jane will need to stay out of public places for forty-eight hours while the radioiodine is working through her body since it could harm children and pregnant women. Oh, and I also read that she should suck lemons or tart candies to maintain salivation during that time.”
    Dr. Parson was staring at Emma as if she’d just voted him off Celebrity Mole. “I see you’ve done your research,” he said, turning to me. “Any other questions?”
    â€œActually, we have a list,” Emma said. “How many times have you done the surgery before, and what’s your success rate?”
    Dr. Parson frowned. “I’ve done the procedure many times, and I’ve never lost a patient on a thyroidectomy.”
    Emma nodded. “We’ll want a second opinion. Who would you say is the grand master of thyroid surgery in New York City?”
    â€œThere’s no such person.” Dr. Parson was clearly annoyed with Emma and her list of questions. “It’s a simple procedure. No controversy here, but you can get your second opinion. Just don’t delay too long. In fact, you might want to book a date with my receptionist. I do surgeries on Thursday mornings at Murray Hill Hospital.”
    As we were dismissed, Dr. Parson tried to soften the blow with a warm smile and words of encouragement about the longevity of patients with my disease. Emma smiled back, but I could see the truth in her eyes. Dr. Parson had not made the team.
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    Working off a list of participating providers from my insurance company, Emma and I called upon three ENT docs. I was disappointed that there wasn’t a single female doctor on the list, but Emma scolded that I must leave sexism out of this and search for a skilled surgeon.
    A week later, I realized we’d met our match when Dr. Ken Scotto walked into the exam room and welcomed Emma’s list of questions. He wanted to examine me, but I held up my hands to ward him off. “Don’t even think about plunging one of those probes up my nostril,” I told him.
    Dr. Scotto smiled. “You don’t enjoy our distinctive brand of torture?” he teased as he pressed his fingers to my thyroid. “Yep, there it is.”
    As Emma handed him the pathology report from the biopsy, I studied his long, somewhat