I spent Monday afternoon at the doctor. Is there anyone who enjoys doing this? Visiting a doctor? I don’t, I’d rather go to prison or wrestle alligators, anything.
So what happened there? Nothing. Well, not nothing, but nothing new. I learned my heart rate was back up to 140 and my blood pressure was high. So they doubled the dosage on the beta blockers.
Plus I found out the endocrinologist they’re supposed to be consulting with isn’t returning phone calls, which means I’m still at square one. Then they drained another quart of blood from my arm and told me to come back in two weeks. (What are they doing with all the blood? Have I stumbled into a secret nest of vampires? I’ve got bruises on top of bruises on top of bruises from the needles.)
Later, at the pharmacy, the pharmacist asked if I’d noticed any changes yet from the thyroid medicine. The only thing I’ve noticed is the way I walk — it’s a more natural, easier gait these days — does my thyroid impact the way I walk? She said the thyroid affects everything — hair, eyes, fingernails, skin, metabolism, energy, moods, memory, the whole shebang.
This news interested me, so I investigated. And I discovered stuff I’d blamed on getting older was really Graves’ disease or hyperthyroidism: it causes fatigue and forgetfulness and muscle weakness, depression, the racing heart, all kinds of weird things. I don’t have every symptom, like panic attacks and skin anomalies, but I have a bunch.
I can’t imagine it all going away and feeling like I used to, but I guess it’s a good possibility. Oh my gosh, that would be a miracle, wouldn’t it? And if the endocrinologist would get off his fat, lazy bum and make a couple phone calls, why, that’d be super, too, really.