Thymenirella, Hypothyroid, And So Over Your Ass
So, I’m in the midst of menopause, enjoying the “power surges” as they are a part of life (RIGHT?), working 2 jobs, raising 2 teenagers without the help of the sperm provider who contributed to the other half of their gene pool (I believe he was on girlfriend #4 or 5 at the time) and losing weight. Could I actually be one of “The lucky ones” whose hormones decided to right their wrong in the midst of my incredible stress and help me finally achieve the body I’d always wanted? Life was good and I was enjoying the ride.
Then, strange things began to happen. You played your game brilliantly, at first, with just enough hints to let me know something was up; but you were subtle enough to stay below the radar while you prepared your full frontal attack. It never dawned on me that my short term memory problem (loss) was your doing. Since I couldn’t personally hear my slurred speech (and my family and co-workers were “kind” enough not to point it out) and, ALL thought I was drinking on the job, it didn’t matter. And the too numerous to mention “Shampoo in the fridge, milk in the pantry” episodes were just silly menopausal moments; life continued. Even when my hoarse voice and sore throat prevented me from speaking every night, we still found that silver lining—I was no longer adding incessant commentary during baseball and football games and my husband liked this.
It was easy to ignore the symptoms: The hair loss was taken in stride because I’d been given a head full, and the thinning brows didn’t bother me because I never paid that much attention to them anyway. I was a little concerned at the 4 pubic hairs left on my nether regions, but it worked in my favor because I finally had the bikini body I hadn’t had in ,oh, say, 30 yrs.
Life went on until the day it almost didn’t. Not getting that yet? Let me refresh your memoryÃ¢â‚¬”
Remember the day I got to work, but wasn’t sure how I MADE IT THERE? I do remember running that curb and almost T-boning that car on the drive in. And Oh, I do remember that my eyelids had been swollen shut that morning (as they had for many, many previous mornings, blamed salt on that problem). When my husband of 1 yr. got me to the doctor, everyone was sure I was having a stroke. My BP 195/110 on meds. I had that glazed, dazed and totally confused look on my face when someone was speaking. “Dr. is that you?” I tried to speak, but, alas, only Dr. Spock would’ve understood as it all sounded like Vulcan. Short version: TSH of 40, severe hypothyroidism. Guess you forgot to consult my heart when you decided to run rampant through my innards, you know, you both could’ve possibly worked out a better game to play TOGETHER as you were sharing the same body. Remember those two valves we had to replace in the “Main engine’ (my heart) back in ’00? You, my new nemesis, couldn’t have brought heart palpitations to a worse patient.
So, no driving for 2 weeks, which meant no work, no paycheck. Take this pill and your world will be A-OK. Are you kiddin’ me? I dutifully took “The pill” and watched in amazement as my body began morphing into someone I had yet to meet. As the weight began piling on, you forgot to tell my pancreas and liver to just relax and give the body some time to adjust.
Here’s a hint, you all need some better internal communication. By the time you inflated me to 60 pounds in 4 months, my liver was a quiverin’ and my pancreas was a kickin’ my ample ass. I had no idea how freaked out doctors could get when they had to deal with one patients out-of-whack lab results every time they were reviewed.
One month, it was the cardiac labs askew, then the liver decided to get cranky, pancreas comes and goes. Not wanting to be left out, the bowels enlarge and return to normal. They had to take their turn, too. I am hoping that we can come to some kind of resolution soon where we learn to get along.
In the interim, you may want to review your own role in giving a patient his/her symptoms. My research has informed me that hypothyroidism should cause weight gain, fatigue, dry skin, you, know the, drill. And hyperthyroidism should do just the opposite. I don’t mean to be telling you how to do your job or anything, but since you’ve already screwed around with me like the ultimate science experiment, I’m here to inform you that you’ve also given me ALL the hypothyroid symptoms when my TSH was in the hyperthyroid range, along with some of the hyperthyroid symptoms as well.
Geez, no offense or anything, but you must’ve been standing in the back of the line when they were passing out instructions to you thyroid glands on how to fuck up a person’s life. You’re an embarrassment to your gland!!! You, my gland, seem to want to play the “Dumber” role in the “Dumb and Dumber” game of life.
So, even though I am presently in the way low hyper TSH range, I’m bloated and gassy and as irritable as a hooker on a nickel night. I’m also getting a very strong urge to howl at the moon; possibly because I find it intriguing to wake at 2:14 am, SHARP.
And thanks for that great moustache you’ve given me; I’m a girl, by the way. Maybe you could ask your hair follicle friends to send a little love to the pubic region. And since we’re discussing strange symptoms and your active role in them; what’s with the sweating? Could you possibly tell the sweat glands to try spewing juice from the arm pits instead of my head, neck, chest and ass? I would find it much easier to explain to the concerned citizens in my circle about armpit sweat instead of the sweat pouring buckets down my face. They all want to rush my ass to the ER and I’ve seen enough of doctors to last a lifetime. Thanks but no thanks.
I’d really love to say – “See you later, sucka”, but knowing your inability to comprehend the normal order of life’s events-and realizing that I’ve been given the only thyroid gland with bipolar disorder and ADHD, I’ll sign off by saying: See ya sooner AND later!
PS- Maybe you could talk it over with some of my skin cells and have them put a big welt across my forehead that reads; “I’ve got a glandular condition”. It would save me a lot of energy trying to explain my present appearance.
(Bio) 57 y/o female with a zest for life when I’m not zesting for a nap or retirement or a trim figure or a large disposable income; also, a 57 y/o female who abhors people feeling sorry for me, but adores people who want to rub my feet.