So I go to what we women like to pretend doesn't happen once a year: THE ANNUAL EXAM. Those three words tend to carry with them a general pall. It's like this inevitability that sits on your shoulder once the one year mark passes. You try to ignore it, but it gets rather heavy as it gets comfortable sitting there, kicking its feet up, just waiting for you to bite the bullet. And then you hear all the stories about how you may die if you don't get your exam, so you flick Inevitability off your shoulder and make the appointment.
Except at this one the nurse practitioner gives my neck a feel (that sounds so awkward, when really it's the least awkward part of this whole operation), and informs me that while my person is generally alive, MY THYROID IS DYING.
Super.
I thought she was nuts but agreed to have some blood tests and an ultrasound to verify. (By the way, an ultrasound on your neck is way less exciting than the one when you see a baby for the first time. Side note.) And then the tests came back, which more than confirmed that despite the fact I exhibit virtually no symptoms of an underactive thyroid, indeed. Mine is closed for business. Plug has been pulled. Might as well sell it a headstone.
The good news? There's a magic pill that will fix this. The bad news? It's a hereditary auto immune DISEASE (I have a disease), so my sweet Belle might have a lazy thyroid just like me. And when she goes to the doctor in a few decades and the doc gives her neck a feel and pronounces her proximity to death, I'll be all, "Thank your grandpa."
Except at this one the nurse practitioner gives my neck a feel (that sounds so awkward, when really it's the least awkward part of this whole operation), and informs me that while my person is generally alive, MY THYROID IS DYING.
Super.
I thought she was nuts but agreed to have some blood tests and an ultrasound to verify. (By the way, an ultrasound on your neck is way less exciting than the one when you see a baby for the first time. Side note.) And then the tests came back, which more than confirmed that despite the fact I exhibit virtually no symptoms of an underactive thyroid, indeed. Mine is closed for business. Plug has been pulled. Might as well sell it a headstone.
The good news? There's a magic pill that will fix this. The bad news? It's a hereditary auto immune DISEASE (I have a disease), so my sweet Belle might have a lazy thyroid just like me. And when she goes to the doctor in a few decades and the doc gives her neck a feel and pronounces her proximity to death, I'll be all, "Thank your grandpa."
The picture? It was her or my thyroid. You choose.
1 comment:
so what does a dead thyroid mean?
life threatening? hope not.
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