: a happy ending :

happy danceGetting 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.

happy sun

copyright © 2015 the whirly girl

10 responses to “: a happy ending :”

  1. Anyone who uses the word “Oy” is alright in my book. Glad you got the thyroid meds – not having them when you need them is no joke. Condolences on your loss – expected or unexpected, losing a loved one hurts like hell. Take care.


    1. Oy is a great word, isn’t it? Versatile and expressive. I’d hoped I would rebound quicker with the thyroid meds, but nope. Your condolences still brought me to tears. Maybe another week or two. Thanks, nugget :o)

      Liked by 1 person

    2. I know what you mean. When my mummy died, about a year ago, I was completely shocked. Also, Oy is a great word.


      1. I hate admitting this, but death kind of freaks me out. Always has. I’d say oy here, but I don’t want to wear it out. So, sheesh — a lesser substitute.


    1. You might want to have a seat. This could take a while :o/


  2. You mean there is a pill I can take for my crankiness?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. If only, right? This pill only halts you at full-blown tantrums. You can still make a good run at hissy fits, though.


  3. First, I am very sorry for your loss. Please accept my heartfelt condolences and know you and yours are in my thoughts when I lift my friends and family to the light for healing.

    I am so glad your doctor finally provided you with what you needed. I was worried for you!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks, I appreciate your concern and thoughtfulness. It’s been an awful month, so having meds is a relief. I’m hoping they kick in soon. Really, really soon. In the meantime, one foot in front of the other.


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