My Body Is Trying To Kill Me
The last four months have felt like some existential fever dream, one I couldn’t wake up from. My emotions have been a roller coaster ranging from fatalism to nihilism. My brain has just been everywhere and nowhere, causing me anxiety, dread, and the occasional bout of ennui.
I can’t describe it other than just a weird period of my life where I may have listened to Chat Pile a little too much, and leaned way too hard into Ryuichi Sakamoto’s catalogue as I pondered daily how close I was to dying.
The scariest part of the journey was the CT scan. Maybe it was from my days of watching House, the only medical drama that seemed to capture my interest in the slightest, that made me feel as if I had something inside me that was ticking so loudly the doctors could hear it. Why else would my primary doctor order such an expensive test?
I figured if I did the test early in the morning, before I had to head into work, I could feel a sense of relief knowing it was out of the way. So off I went, 7 in the morning, to get a CT scan. My Lyft driver was talkative that morning, and I didn’t feel much like talking but usually when they’re friendly, I’ll engage. So I did, and he made me giggle as we headed closer to the hospital. He asked what I was doing, and I just told him I had a doctor’s appointment, withholding the part about “I’m going into a tube that looks like something out of 2001: A Space Odyssey to see if I’m riddled with tumors that could quite possibly kill me”. He reassured me everything was going to be okay, that I looked “healthy”, and I’ll get good news from the doctor. Despite me logically knowing looking healthy meant nothing, I felt so lonely and frightened I was willing to cling on to anything that gave me semblance that things would turn out okay.
Unfortunately when I input the directions into the app, I had the driver drop me off at the Emergency Room instead of the side where the doctor’s offices were located. There was a stern looking security guard at the entrance, and I was already skittish so I just leaned into that feeling and played stupid so he would be nice to me and help me get to the right side of the premises. His sweetness came through and he was very willing to help me get to where I needed to go and let me cut through the ER. Of course I caught him looking at my boobs as he was telling me where to go to get to the other side. Normally I’d be icked out, but that day was different. It provided a much needed sense of normalcy, a reassurance that even if there was a possibility of me dying that random dudes were still going to gawk at the goods. Later that day, I did notice the t-shirt I was wearing—it was my Blocked Party t-shirt. It was designed like a comic book, with one of the host’s cat in cartoon form. It was a bit chaotic looking so the guard may have tried to parse exactly what was going on in the midst of such a chaotic shirt design. I’m sure the tits were an added bonus.
As I made my way through the ER, to the other side of the hospital, I checked in, paid the ridiculous $350 co-pay for the damn test, which reverted my fear into anger that I live in a country where I have to pay that much money to take a test to see if I’m dying. It was a respite feeling. Anger is my default emotion.
Stewing in my seat, I heard my name called along with two other women. While I appreciate how fast everything is when I go to the doctor’s office, which is good for an anxious person like myself, there is something impersonal about being treated like a part on an assembly line.
Walking down the hallway to radiology, the gentleman guiding us to the scanner asked if we had any jewelry, hair ties or anything else on our person before doing the scan. All of us said no, with one woman saying, “This isn’t my first rodeo!”, and the other woman saying. “Same”. I came out and said I was a newbie, and the other two women reassured me there was nothing to the test, and I’ll be fine. I appreciated the comforting words, but I can’t imagine having to have multiple CT scans and what kind of issues these women had that required it so frequently.
As I waited for my name to be called to be scanned, I wondered what the results would show, and depending on the test results, how many more tests would follow. What treatments would be available. Would I be able to afford them? Would my life change drastically? For the two minutes I waited for my name to be called, I was at my loneliest.
The scan was quick, and simple. I was literally in and out within a few minutes. My Lyft to the office also had a talkative driver. He asked me what my plans were for Memorial Day weekend. I told him I was thinking about going to see a movie, and for the remainder of the ride we were talking movies, which put me at ease tremendously. I found out he didn’t like Everything, Everywhere All At Once—he didn’t get it. He watched it twice, which I commended him on since most people wouldn’t re-watch a movie they didn’t like the first time. I told him he gave it the old college try, and that’s pretty open minded of him.
The rest of the day at work I tried to keep my mind off of what the results could say, and put on a brave face in front of my co-workers as if all of this medical bullshit wasn’t happening in the background.
The next day I received the results and everything came up normal, which was a relief, but my doctor wanted to do an ultrasound to double check everything. While there was a sense of relief the CT scan was normal, I still felt like there was another hurdle to overcome. It was going on a month with a lot of uncertainty. It felt like torture having a diagnoses prolonged this long. It made death by a thousand paper cuts seem more pleasant than whatever the hell was going on. I scheduled an ultrasound the day after Memorial Day—I just needed an answer, and any one would do.
Tuesday I had to go into work early to decorate a co-worker’s desk for his birthday, and since he comes in very early, I had to be there really early to beat him. It worked out fine since my ultrasound was after work, but it made the waiting that much longer. Again, I had to put on a happy face and pretend I wasn’t nervous as all hell about another test that could turn my world upside down.
Back to the hospital, back to paying $75 for a test that should be free, back to the waiting room, and back to radiology. I got there 45 minutes early and thought I would have a bit of a wait but before I could even get comfortable, my name was called. The ultrasound tech was very nice, and the room was dim. It felt relaxing. The last time I had an ultrasound was when I was 18, and was trying to get on the pill. I had to drink a gallon of water so the imaging would show up. The tech said my ovaries were beautiful. I wonder if the tech would compliment the lump on my neck and say it was “cute”, or something reaffirming. I thought the gel would be cold. In the movies it gives the impression it’s always cold but I was surprised how warm it was. Between the lighting and the warmth, I weirdly felt relaxed, except for the feeling of the wand doing a chokehold on my trachea. The tech had the radio on low, and the click-clack of the keyboard keys created an ASMR experience I wasn’t expecting. After 20 minutes of her taking pictures of my neck, she gave me a towel to wipe off the warm goo and advised me I should hear something back from my doctor in a few days. I headed back home.
Ten minutes after I got home, I got the results back from the test. On one hand, there was relief I wouldn’t have to wait for three days on a response, which would have killed me, but on the other I thought it wasn’t good if I was getting the results so quickly. My doctor said they were thyroid nodules, and I was being referred to an endocrinologist. Immediately I thought, “That can’t be good if I’m being referred to a specialist”. I was just frustrated. I wanted someone to tell me what was happening. Is it the worst? Is it treatable? Do I need to make a GoFundMe now?
The following morning I felt raw and defeated, but I was trying to pep talk myself—I don’t have an answer, no one has said anything yet, thyroid nodules are common and usually benign, and if it is bad, what else can I do? It’s done. Now it’s next steps. It’s fun trying to talk yourself off the edge because you’re playing both parts, and trying not to lose sight of the goal.
I got a call from the endocrinologist. He was nice, he asked about my symptoms, medical history, and just confirming some of the information he already had. He told me it was Hashimoto’s, which is an autoimmune disorder where the body attacks the thyroid, which can cause hypothyroidism. He said my hormone levels were extremely low, which explains a lot of what I have been feeling over the last few years. He said Hashimoto’s can cause thyroid nodules, and the dose of medication I am on now is too low, and he wanted to bump it up and check in on me in two months. He put a place holder for a possible biopsy, but said it might not be necessary depending how I respond to the increased dosage of medication.
Finally there was an answer and it’s something treatable! I could sense the dark cloud moving. The relief I was desperately looking for since February finally arrived fashionably late. It was a shock to the system, the cold water dumped on me to make me rise from this fever dream I felt forever stuck in. There is a conclusion to this mess, which sounds odd since I have been diagnosed with a debilitating disease, but it’s better than the alternative.