Getting out of bed in the morning is a part-time job. My knees ache, my neck is stiff, my back hurts, I’m snappish and lethargic and useless. Um, is that news?
Only to me; I’m not decrepit. I ride a bike, walk, choose stairs over elevators, heck, I tote that barge and lift that bale. But lately I’ve been a tired, run-down mess, it’s a struggle just putting one foot in front of the other. I’m constantly on the lookout for a comfortable chair and someone to yell at. Then it dawned on me: I’m not falling apart. I need thyroid medication.
It’s been a month since the prescription ran out and my doctor refused to renew it without tests and office visits I can’t afford. The month also brought an unexpected death in my family, so I’ve been distracted and heartbroken and otherwise engaged. The thyroid deal wasn’t even on the radar until it popped up alongside the myriad complaints. So I finally decided to suck it up, raise the white flag, and call the doctor.
I made the first call around 10 Friday morning, but was shot to voicemail and told to leave a message. So I tried again at 10:30; again leave a message. 11:00, leave a message. 11:30, leave a message. I left a message, all right. It wasn’t pretty, it was pointed and concise and got results.
Long story short, my prescription’s been renewed and I feel better already. A blood test is scheduled for late December, to allow time for my thyroid levels to readjust, and will be followed by an office visit in mid-February. Which is what I’d asked for originally, spreading things out, doing it in stages instead of one inordinately expensive clump. Suddenly, that’s fine, perfectly acceptable. Sure, after a pointless month of anxiety, enfeeblement, and general pissiness. Oy.
My naturally sunny disposition will return forthwith. Please stand by.
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