Well, good…it sounds like you had a nice day.  Oh, me?  No, you don’t want to hear about… Uh, huh…I see.  Taking a little break from work?  Need something to pass the time?  Well, okay then.  If you really want to hear about it.  You’re sure?  Fair enough.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you, friend (even though I didn’t).

Today.  Today was interesting.  Especially the part where I had to produce enought drool to fill four plastic viles.  Oh, and the sticking my fingers with microscopic little daggers was fun, too.  Yeah…good times.

Later in the day, I came really close to finishing up Chapter Eighteen in the children’s book.  That was a nice feeling. 

I’m sorry?  What was that?  Oh, it was nothing.  This home testing kit I got from a “compound pharmacist”.  What is a “compound pharmacist”?  Don’t ask.  Really.  It’s a very long explanation.  One that requires me to have much more stamina than a woman who spent the day feeling the full effects of cramps because slightly overdosing on Motrin would have messed up her “home kit” test results.  And besides that…boredom would cause you to fall asleep at your desk and your boss would walk by and he/she would hear you snoring (you really do, your husband/boyfriend isn’t lying) and said boss would see The Anomalous Life up on your screen instead of this month’s budget and you’d get fired and I would feel really guilty and would even consider ending this neverending sentence just to appease you.  Whew!  See?  I’ve always got your back.

Come again?  Okay, so skip the part about the compound pharmacy and dive right into the drooling and bloodletting?  You always were a sucker for the gore.  No…”gore”…small “g”…as in blood and guts.  Yeah, I hear ya.  He is a good man.  Right.  I did notice that he’d put on a few pounds.  Must be all those big Nobel society dinners.  But you’d think he’d sweat a little off, what with all the global warming and stuff.  I used to have a little crush on him, ya know.  Of course, I didn’t tell my Dad.  But then there was that awkward kiss with Tipper and the feelings just went away.  Poof!  Gone.  Just like that.  But, yeah.  Good guy.

Gosh, I’m sorry.  Got a little off subject there.  I know you’re pressed for time.  Let’s get back to the home test kit and why I willingly agreed to self-torture.

Here’s the deal.  I’m taking back control of my health.  I’ve been listening to the same ole bullsh** from the same ole endocrinologist for five years now…resulting in very little success, if any.  I decided to do some research about additional hypothyroid testing and treatments…alternatives to the textbook Synthroid and anti-depressant prescriptions.  Boy, did I open up a can of low-energy, cold-intolerant worms.  Apparently, I’m one of about five trillion women who get little more than a dose of frustration from their (synthetic) medication.  And I certainly ain’t the first to take that initial step away from treatment by (insufficient) testing toward treatment based on the elimination of symptoms.  In other words, I’m finally going to FIND A DOCTOR THAT LISTENS:  A DOCTOR THAT BELIEVES ME WHEN I TELL HIM/HER THAT I’M STILL CONSTANTLY TIRED OR THAT I CONTINUE TO GET COLD IN 75 DEGREE WEATHER OR THAT GOBS OF HAIR ARE SHOWING UP IN MY SHOWER DRAIN.  And when I say these things to my new doctor, he/she won’t say:  “Well, we’re getting your levels to a decent place with the Synthroid, so maybe you just need to get some more exercise.”  And I won’t have to respond by pulling out a sawed-off shotgun and screaming: “IF I HAD THE ENERGY TO MAKE IT THROUGH A FULL DAY, I’D LIVE AT THE FRIGGIN’ GYM!  I WOULD GO THERE WITH LARGE, ANNOYING CHRISTMAS BELLS STRAPPED TO MY ASS!”

 No - I didn’t mean to scream in your ear…it’s just a sensitive subject, ya know?  Yes, I do remember when you got that bad splinter from the bay house railing.  That must have really hurt until it was pulled out two seconds later.  It is alot like my five years and counting thryoid ordeal.  No, you probably don’t need the home kit.  The splinter episode was two years ago, and it wasn’t really a hormonal issue…more of a drunk girl running her hand along some dry wood issue.

Yes, I could go somewhere and get the tests done, but the big wellness clinic involved in this treatment would have cost me over $3,000 for the full workup, and the compound pharmacist I spoke with (very well respected) told me I could do it at home for under $400.  Hmmmm.  So I chose him.  And I poked myself and spit into viles and tomorrow morning I’ll send my samples to a lab in Oregon.  And they’ll use those samples to perform common (and not so common) tests that I’ve never had done, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll find something out.  And this lovely pharmacist will send me to his favorite, open-minded extremely legitimate (well-respected) doctor, and whoa, dare I say it, maybe she’ll really listen to me and I can put my shotgun away and we can try some new medication that brings back my rosy skin and full head of hair and stocks me full of endless energy.

What’s the first thing I’ll do when the medication kicks in and my world lights up?   I guess I’ll go to the gym.  No, not my gym.  The one my old doctor is a member of.  But he won’t recognize me with the good coloring and smile and lack of shotgun.  So, I’ll stick out my chest, flirt and offer to spot him on the free weights.  I might add a few hundred extra pounds onto his barbell, but he won’t say anything, because he’ll be trying to impress me and my protruding chest and rosy cheeks.  And then when he’s struggling and his face gets all veiny and red…I’ll walk away again.

 Above Pic:  Don’t act like you weren’t curious…you love gore, remember?

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