For the past week and a half, I have been riding the hormone wave.

“But you’re too young for that,” I hope you’re saying.

Sadly, this has nothing to do with age.  For you long-term Anomalous Life readers, you know I am one of the lucky many women across this country to be blessed with a wonky thyroid.  It’s taken years of searching for the right doctor (i.e. one that actually listens), a change in eating habits (I miss you, Whataburger), and lots of tinkering with medications to get me to where I am today.  And where is that?  Well, it’s somewhere in the middle.  I’m not as screwed up as I used to be (no debates, please), but apparently I still have some tinkering left to do.

A couple of years ago, when I finally left my ancient doc for a new, more open-minded M.D., we switched my meds from synthetic to natural.  We also did lots of tests that temporarily left me with half my blood supply.  Tests results indicated that I was also a bit lacking in the progesterone area…not uncommon for folks restricted to thyroid hell.

First trial:  progesterone cream.  Fourteen days out of the month I slathered this “interesting” smelling cream on the “fattiest part of my body” (of which I will not reveal).  Did I feel better?  I’m not sure I can answer that, because the medication had the lovely side effect of causing my body to radiate every last symptom of early pregnancy - none of them, I might add, terribly enjoyable.  Aching boobs (sorry, boys), nausea, headaches, fatigue, with the added bonus of phantom menstrual cramps.  Oh, joy!  We’ve found the solution!  Or not.

The doc switched me to the progesterone pill.  Both of us crossed our fingers that the same medication in a different form might produce more satisfactory results.  If you consider a nose bleed on top of faux pregnancy symptoms “satisfactory”, then success had been achieved.  Or not.

At the beginning of this month, I stopped taking the progesterone altogether.  The lovely side effects, along with the constant fear of pregnancy (sorry Daddy) had me reeling, and I’m quite convinced Stephen was fearful he was dating Satan reincarnate.  I’m now close to a month progesterone-free and still the symptoms persist.  I called the doc this past Friday.  No luck.  Apparently their Fridays end at 1:00.  Isn’t that nice.  I called again yesterday morning.  No call back by 4:15.  I called again.  Apparently doc decided not to come back that afternoon.  Maybe I should have gone to medical school.

So, I sit here now with symptoms coming and going (yes, including the lovely cramps), and wonder…will I ever feel normal…I mean “physically” normal?  I know mentally I’m a lost cause

Waiting on a call back from the doc today.  I’m sure she’ll suggest progesterone in some sort of liquid form.  I guess I’ll give it a shot.  If I can take it with a whiskey chaser.

I’m off to take more Motrin.  I hope your day is filled with happy boobs, settled tummies and Bachelor recaps.  I think it’s gonna be Vienna by the way.  Discuss.

According to my recent test results, I have low progesterone…which basically means my hormones are so screwed up, there ain’t a lot of ovulation goin’ on up in there. 

“Does this mean I’m going into premature menopause,” I asked my new doctor, and then proceeded to throw up on her toy poodle. 

“No, no, no,” she replied.  “You’ll hit menopause when you hit menopause…this is just a hormonal imbalance…it’s all tied to your other issues…your thyroid, etc.”

I tucked my head between my legs, placed a paper bag over my mouth and breathed in and out…in and out.  “That’s good to know,” I finally gasped.  “I wasn’t quite ready for that.”  I grabbed some paper towels from the metal bin and attempted to wipe my stomach contents off the very confused pup cowering in the corner.

My new doctor (I’ll call her Doc She-Ra from this point forward…I expect great things) prescribed a natural Progesterone supplement and told me to take it days 14-28 of my “cycle”.  (I would apologize right now to my two or three male readers…but that would be premature…the real cringe-worthy content is still forthcoming.)

Doc She-Ra called in my prescriptions to the nearest “compound pharmacy”…a stand-alone building on Kirby, near the Rice Village area (a handy location for those prone to last-minute shopping excursions).  I arrived for pick-up mid-afternoon, gave the young lady behind the glass partition my name and lounged in a plush leather chair awaiting my new cocktail of drugs.  Look at these magazines!  Elle and People and Rolling Stone!  Not your standard waiting room periodicals.  I mean, there wasn’t a Highlights  or Diabetes Weekly  in sight.  This is my kind of dealer.  I scanned the room’s decor.  Very nice.  Nice, quality leather furniture…attractive, yet soothing paint color, nice framed…wait, what are those?  Prints of models?  Three professional pictures of a man, woman and child.  Black and white.  Tastefully done.  Must be an example of the “ultimate” customer…or possibly the perfection you turn into after purchasing this particular pharmacy’s goods.

“Miss Wynn?”  It was a male’s voice.  “We’ve got your prescriptions ready.  I’ll need to walk you through them.”

I looked from the portrait of models to…hold on…I’m confused…what is the model doing in this building…and why is he wearing a lab coat? 

“Miss Wynn?”  I need to speak soon or this is going to get awkward, but I’m a bit tongue-tied by the Adonis in white.

“Um…ha…sorry, yes,” I stutter as I walk to the window.  My massive purse falls to the bend in my arm, causing my whole body to jerk to the right.  I let out another nervous giggle.  What is going on?  Jesus…slap some metal braces on my teeth and plop me back into the halls of Kleb Intermediate…apparently I’m the “terrified yet intrigued by boys” thirteen-year-old again.  Pull it together!

I somehow survive the walk to the window and Pharmacist a la Perfecion begins to explain my new set of prescriptions.  I hear something about taking the thyroid medication on an empty stomach, first thing in the morning (got it…no different from the past) and then something about a cream.  A cream?  Why am I getting a cream?

As many would (or so I say to make myself feel better), I assumed the magic Progesterone supplement would come in pill form…but that assumption would prove to be incorrect.  As would the assumption that all pharmacists look like Gene Wilder in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

Perfecion is still talking.  Oh, God, I’m missing crucial information.  Two clicks?  What?

“Can you repeat that last part, please,” I ask.

He smiles.  HE SMILES!  I blush and look down at my shirt.  Damn!  Why did I wear this ole thing…the color is awful on me!

Sidenote:  For those of you who know me well, you know I’m not easily rattled (or at least I can hide it well).  But we’re not talking “hot guy in the office” or “cutie at the grocery store” here…I’m talking a cross between Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise.  I know it’s a weird combination and I know Tom is a little loopy…but those boys are HOT - and so is this one!

I need to focus.  FOCUS, NIKKI!  Your health is on the line here!

“…turn it two clicks..right down here, see?”

“Uh huh.”

“…once in the morning and once in the evening.  And, that’s it!  You’re set!”

But I don’t want to leave, Mommy.

“Right…ok,” I say as I inspect the cream dispenser.  And one thought keeps racing through my teenage brain…”where the hell do I apply this cream?”  My second thought:  “This is about female hormones…oh, God…what if if goes in my ‘hoo ha’…or on my nipples.  CAN’T THINK OF EROGENOUS ZONES WHILE IN PRESENCE OF PERFECION!!”  I do a quick visual inspection of the bottle…just dosage information…nothing about where to apply!  I can NOT ask this man…this specimen…if I put this cream up my “hoochie”!

“Okay…alright…so, don’t apply this until an hour or so after taking the thyroid meds?” I ask.

“That’s right,” he replies.  That mouth…mmmmm.  Focus!  “Just two clicks of the base here, rub it in, and you’re done.  It’s that easy.”

EASY?  EASY!!!!  RUB IT IN WHERE????  IN MY HOO HA…ON MY LEFT NIPPLE…UP THE BACK CRACK????  WHERE THE HELL DOES IT GO???

“Alrighty, then (did I just say that).  Sounds simple enough.  Thanks, again!”

“You bet!  Thanks for the business!”  And he winks.  Let me repeat that.  He winks.  Sigh.

Three hours later.  Parent’s house.  Back TV room with Mom.

“What do I do, Mom!  Does it go up my place?”

“It’s called a VAGINA, Nikki!  My, God!  You can’t even say it, can you?  Where did I go wrong!”

“No, I can’t say it…and I won’t!  And you didn’t answer me!  Where does this stuff go?”

“I don’t know!  But it does say ‘for external use only’…so I guess it doesn’t go up your ‘HOO HA’!”

“Then where?  My nipple?”

“Oh, Nikki!”

It’s late night and I’m surfing the net.  Key words:  “Where do you apply Progesterone cream?”

Answer: Not in ‘hoochie’ or up ‘butt crack’.  It appears the cream soaks in best in areas that blush:  chest, neck, face…and also the inside of arm.  Well, I wasn’t so far off…something tells me I was blushin’ in other areas when I was in the presence of Perfecion.

I call in the morning to confirm (and to hear his voice):  “Inside of your arm…on your wrist,” he says.

I ask him why he married before meeting me (but not out loud) and hang up the phone.  I then turned the prescription bottle two clicks and applied my first dose of Progesterone.  Bringing my levels up is supposed to increase my sex drive…filling my prescriptions through Perfecion appears to have increased it two-fold.  The actual cream may put me over the edge.  It’s time to go back to Vegas.  Like today.

I spent a good part of Sunday afternoon watching a marathon of the past season of “So You Think You Can Dance”.  Sad statement on my social life?  Not really…although I wasn’t necessarily flooded with other offers.  But after the craziness of last weekend, a severely lacking social calendar was exactly what I needed.

So I danced.  And by that I mean I watched other people dance and wished I were them.  Damn - they were amazing, and as I watched episode after episode after episode, my appreciation for their skill, athleticism, dedication and drive multiplied.

As you know, I’ve been battling with some health issues lately.  I did receive the test results back from my lovely home - blood and saliva - tests (remember that??? good times.)  As suspected, there are issues with my cortisol and other hormone levels, my free T3 is low (meaning the current medication I’m taking is essentially useless) and my thyroid antibodies are way out of whack.  I’m headed to a new doctor today to go over these results and start a new approach to treating all these lovely issues.  I’m told she (the actual doctor) is going to spend a WHOLE hour with me.  I’m not sure how to handle that.  I may cry.

Anyway, the point is, this health wake-up call may have a strange connection with dance.  How is that?  Well, according to my pharmacist (and most likely my doctor today) my chance for living a long, healthy life, rests almost squarely on my shoulders.  Yes, I will need some drugs and supplements…and when they get those right, they will likely make a significant difference, but it appears what I put in my body - nutritionally - will have just as much of an impact.  Looks like eating healthy will no longer be a short-lived guilt trip spurred on by an article in Shape magazine…it could turn my health around.  And I, for one, am ready to take it on.  In fact, in anticipation of today’s appointment, I spent the last week moving in that direction:  staying away from processed foods and refined sugars and carbs…and you know what?  I don’t think it’s just in my head…I’m pretty sure I feel better.  I have more energy.  I even ran a bunch of errands this weekend…with a slight skip in my step!  And my poop looked just like Dr. Oz said it should look (sorry - it did!)  And had you been a fly on my bedroom wall yesterday, you would have seen me rushing in at each “So You Think You Can Dance” commercial break, attempting to replicate a new dance move.  It may not have been pretty, but that’s the most energy I’ve had in months…maybe longer.  So, after this doctor’s appointment, when I’m armed with an hour’s worth of advice, I’ll head off to Whole Foods, spend entirely too much money on a cart-full of groceries, come home and make myself an avocado sandwich on gluten-free bread.  Ah, the life.

And, maybe, just maybe, I’ll Google dance studios in Houston, find the one that looks the least intimidating and, egads, give them a call.

Look for me on the next season of “So You Think You Can Dance” (in the audience).  I’ll be the one with the glowy face and new bod.  And a smile.  A BIG. FAT. FRIGGIN SMILE!

There’s a part of me that realizes it’s been a few days since my last entry and I need to do my best to make up for my absence…offer up a blog-full of laughs.  But, to be quite honest, I’m not feeling too “cheery” today.  As a matter of fact, I haven’t felt too cheery for the past couple of weeks.  For those of you who follow The Anomalous Life religiously (thank you for that), you know that I have been battling with my doctors and my conscience regarding my hypothyroid treatment.  And you also know that my long-time (and very lackadaisical endocrinologist) recently upped my dosage - due to a raised TSH count and little to no reduction in my symptoms.  This resulted in some pretty alarming side effects…not the least of which is the loss of a few too many hairs.

I must first point out that I am quite disappointed in myself for not considering a number of facts before agreeing to this unfortunate decision.  For example, why did I assume that a prescription drug that has resulted in so little improvement over the past five years, would suddenly prove to be a miracle if only more of it were pumped into my system?  And did I not find it odd that he chose to go from 25 to 75 mg…skipping altogether the next highest - and logically more gradual - 50 mg?  And what about past experience?  How had I so easily forgotten the same hair loss side effect when I began taking this drug years ago?  How could I possibly forget the stress it must have caused then, just as it is today?

I know, I know.  You’re all thinking the same thing.  Don’t be so hard on yourself.  We’ve been brought up to trust the medical community.  How could you have known?  But the reality is…medical care bears no resemblance to that which we remember from our childhood.  In many ways, advancements in research and technology have helped to prolong many lives and even eradicate certain diseases.  But patient care of the day to day variety - our general practicioners - those whom we visit for the flu or ear infections or even ongoing care for non-life-threatening conditions such as mine, leaves something to be desired.  When was the last time your doctor truly listened to you?  How long has it been since you felt like anything more than cattle shuffled in and out of an office, with little more than a moment of eye contact…little more than a nanosecond of humanity?  And how many times have your very real symptoms been brushed off as “stress related” or exaggerated?  The Kelsey Seybold’s of the world have packed their doctor’s schedules so tight, aligned themselves so closely with the profit-obsessed insurance companies that the caring, human doctors I know still exist, are reduced to paper and human shufflers.

Today, unfortunately, it is the patient’s responsibility to research and research and research (via the internet and friends and colleagues) to find the few remaining doctors willing and able to cast aside the broken system and take the precious and necessary time with their patients to make educated and clear diagnoses.  When did that happen?  When did it become so difficult?  Why do I have to go the “alternative” route to find what should be mainstream?  Why is it that I know more than my own doctor about what is affecting me, what to test for, and how best to treat it?  We shouldn’t bury our heads in the sand…we should always be our own best advocates…but when did being a patient require us to become master researchers and medical detectives? 

I know there are good doctors out there…believe me, I’m counting on it.  I even know there are good doctors who find themselves caught in the frustrating web of the current system and wish upon wish that they could run an empathetic and responsible practice.  But that doesn’t change the state of care today.  And today is when I need it.  Today is what matters.

There’s a part of me that feels extremely guilty for my current state of mind.  I am alive.  I do not have a life-threatening illness.  I don’t have a sick child.  I have a job and food on the table and a roof over my head.  But I know I must also follow some advice I gave to my sister just the other day.  Hurt is hurt.  Sadness is sadness.  Frustration is frustration…whatever the reason that brought it our way.  We are allowed to have those feelings, without fear of guilt or judgment…but we also can’t wallow in it.  The most difficult moments in our lives can bring about the most beautiful lessons.

I lost some hair.  It stopped, thank goodness, before it became noticeable to anyone other than myself…before it would have severely affected my confidence or daily life decisions.  Because, let’s be honest, we do care about our physical appearance - there’s nothing wrong with that…and when we’re faced with something more than a zit or the gaining of a couple of pounds, it affects us, and THAT. IS. OKAY.

But more importantly, this little incident has helped me to focus in on what matters:  my loved ones - friends and family - wouldn’t have given a shit if I’d lost every last hair on my head, and that’s a really nice thing to be reminded of.  And I’ve now decided to take control of a situation that I left in the hands of someone incompetent for way too long.  This temporary setback will, I hope, soon find me feeling better than I have in years, maybe ever.  And maybe that renewed energy and outlook will allow me to do things and help others in ways I’ve never even imagined.  We’ll see.  Fingers crossed and eyes open.

On a lighter note:  I’m off to Vegas this weekend, where I will party ’til the sun comes up and return (extremely tired) with - I’m sure - some very interesting stories and lots of crazy pictures.  If you’re a fan of Sin City…send me the scoop on your favorite Vegas hot spots and activity ideas and kindly pass on some gambling tips as well…I’m sure I’ll need ‘em!

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?