2003, New York City:  The economy continues its steady decline.  The environment at work - after multiple rounds of layoffs - can best be described as a pressure cooker on hot coals.  An agency respected (and well paid) for its industry experts and impressive talent pool is careening down the slipperly slope of fear-based client service…a desperate, but dangerous approach.  Laughter and creative vibrancy are all but gone.  “Yes” men are born and respect is lost.  It’s a matter of time before those remaining choose a new path.  I am no exception.

Summer, 2003:  I’ve decided to leave Manhattan and move home… (rental prices in NYC don’t allow me to pursue my new - and likely low-paying career in writing).  Before setting off, I schedule a doctor’s appointment.  I need to secure some allergy meds before I become one of the millions of uninsured.  The doc…a middle-aged woman with a chilly demeanor, suggests I submit to a full physical, bloodwork and all.  I reluctantly agree.

Three days later, as I pack up another box of kitchenware, my phone rings.

“Your test results look good, except for a slightly elevated TSH count.”

Huh.

“It appears that your thyroid might be slightly underactive.”

What.

“I need you to come in for another test so we can verify the results.”

“But I’m moving in five days,” I say.

“We can fit you in tomorrow morning.”

I immediately power up my computer and Google “underactive thyroid”.  Thousands of results for something called “Hypothyroid” pop up.  Hypo-what?

I click on a defintion for “thyroid” and read something about a butterfly-shaped organ in the neck.  I have an insect in my neck?  Shivers.  It appears that this butterfly/organ produces two kinds of hormones which function as a sort of “spark plug” to our cells - resulting in the production of energy.

A realization hits me…like a ton of bricks.  Underactive thyroid = less energy.

I click on a list of Hypothyroid symptoms:

Fatigue: (well, that’s an understatement) - Check

Cold Extremities: I look down at my bundled feet and rub my frozen hands - Check

Dry Skin: Where is my Curel? I need my Curel! - Check

Headaches; Depression; Brittle fingernails; Allergies; Decreased mental sharpness; Menstrual irregularities, etc.:  Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check.

Oh. My. God.

Tears are streaming down my face.  Memories race through my brain…seemingly unconnected events tie themselves together.  9th Grade.  My mother hijcacking me from class to take me to the doctor.  They have me tested for Mono.  Negative.  Sports training.  The days at the track when two laps stood before me like a marathon.  Why was it so hard for me?  I beat myself up constantly.  If only I pushed harder, sucked it up…things would get easier.  But it never did.  Additional training never took away the exhaustion…the constant lack of energy.

College:  Concentration was impossible…and not because of the boys and booze (although, surely that didn’t help).  Studying was an uphill battle.  Sentences were read two, ten, thirty times.  What did I just read?  Why am I so bad at this?  Everyone, my parents, my friends - see someone unmotivated.  I know, deep down, I’m just incredibly frustrated.  I struggle, but my determination conquers my exhaustion and cloudy brain, and I graduate.

I learned to live with my physical issues…even excel at work, because what choice did I have?  There was nothing medically wrong with me.  I was just low energy, right?  It was just a character flaw of mine.  So, I pushed through, dragged myself from bed every morning, and tried my damndest to enjoy my life.  I pushed hard to keep up with friends, boyfriends, etc.  Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I didn’t.  Sometimes I was the life of the party, sometimes I struggled to make it out of the house.  Jokes were made:  “Nikki loves a bar within a block of her house!”  Funny names were coined - “Houdini” was my favorite…it had to do with my ability to leave a party without anyone knowing…so I could go home and sleep.  Yes, it was all coming together now.  The constant struggle to keep up with others…I’d been doing it my whole life.  Was there actually a valid, legitimate reason for it all?

My body started shaking.  I was sobbing uncontrollably, releasing the years of guilt, inadequacy, struggle. There IS a reason!  I’m not crazy or lazy or unmotivated!  I’ve just got a crazy, lazy and unmotivated butterfly in my neck.  If I could get my hands on that little bastard…

I smile through the tears…if there’s a reason, there’s a treatment.  And my whole life, from this day forward, will be completely different.  Right?

(Tune in tomorrow to find out about the struggles of successfully treating this all-too-common illness; close-minded doctors, synthetic drugs providing only minimal improvement and a patient’s will to rise above and find the few pioneers making a difference.)

There are trying moments in the life of a 30-something single woman when she must search through her bag of “hang in there” tricks to survive.  She may find positive mantras to help her along (”You are worthy”; “Your mind is sharp”; “You shaved today and you’re wearing pretty pink panties”).  Or she may revisit a particularly fond memory…that great hair day last weekend, or the time - inbetween weeks of uncomfortable silence - when she again made out with the hot coworker, which prompted several more weeks of uncomfortable silence….wait, scratch that.  Replace with random encounter with ex-boyfriend when the stars aligned, you looked fabulous, you were hanging with your boys (friends, but he didn’t know that) and all the words came out right.  Okay, that didn’t actually happen, but a girl can dream, can’t she?  Not all memories must be reality.

So, let’s get to the encounter which prompted the need for mantras and memories:  It’s an overcast Thursday morning.  I am headed to my annual visit to the Endocrinologist…minor thyroid issue…nothing dramatic to report.  A mile from my destination, I panic…did I deposit those last two checks? Does the doctor take Mastercard?  Where is my wallet!  This is a bit off subject, but the “independent consultant” often panics over the cost of a doctor’s visit.  Shitty medical coverage will do that to you.  I blindly dig in my purse as I race through a yellow light, conquering the carefully-timed downtown Houston traffic.  I find an empty pack of gum, two bobby pins and a receipt so old I can only make out the shade of lipstick I blotted on it.  Damn!  More digging.  Found:  a blush brush, digital camera, and…yes…one five-pound, bursting (not with money) wallet!  Panic subsides, heart rate slows to slightly above normal and I screech into the parking garage just a mere seven minutes past my 9:30 appointment.

Dr. Not-So-Young-Anymore (we’ll call him) is with patient when I arrive.  The nurse calls me back to be weighed.  She purses her lips as I take off my shoes.  What does she expect?  The shoes were off last time…we can’t have a proper comparison if the shoes are on, ma’am!  Weight is taken - a girl doesn’t divulge that info…not even for you, reader - and we proceed into the exam room.  I lie about the last time I’ve been to the dentist and gynecologist, and she shoos me back into the waiting room.

Sullen, not terribly fit - and let’s face it, quite haggard fellow patients surround me.  I wonder if a slightly defective thyroid will, years from now, find me hanging my head in polyester pants.  I shake the vision away and pretend to read the front page of the Chronicle.  Spitzer.  What a fool.  I can’t concentrate.  A bitter man wearing sunglasses is berating the nurse’s assistant.  I might leave.

“Miss Wynn,” a nurse shouts.  “Dr. Not-So-Young-Anymore will see you now.”  Thank you.  Lord, thank you.

A bit fidgety, I walk into the dimly lit room of Dr. NSYA.

“Take a seat,” he says.  I do.

“You look well,” he says.

“Thank you.”

Dr. NSYA has been doing this a looooong time.  He likes to ask questions.  Questions - I feel, at least, are unrelated to my underactive thryoid.  Things like “What work do you do?”; “When will your next book be published?” “Have you been sleeping well?” - okay, that one might be medically related.  He goes silent.  He looks at me for an uncomfortable amount of time - a slight smirk on his face. 

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven.” 

“Are you married?”

“No.”

Silence again.  Smirk again.  Don’t do it Dr. NSYA.  Don’t you dare say it.  Don’t even think about it…

“When do you plan on getting married?”

No!  No, you did not!  Compose yourself, Nikki.  Deep breath.  Smile.

“I have had a few relationships in my day,” I reply through my own not-so-subtle smirk.  “Just got out of one, actually.”

Oh, God…that sounded pathetic.  But really…really Doc?  Has it been that long since you were out there?  Did you just wake up one day:  “Hmmm…I think it’s time to get married.”  Your future-wife, I assume, then magically appeared.  You had a fabulous wedding (just after finishing your internship), traveled through Europe for the next few years, and then settled down to have three pefect children - two boys and a girl…all of whom attended medical school and married before they were twenty-six.

The thing is, this particular encounter is not an “anomaly” for a thirty-something single woman.  In fact, at last year’s visit to Dr. NSYA’s office - and this is the God’s honest truth (back me up, Susan) - the good doctor’s very Catholic nurse - who decided she also required mucho personal information about me - sprayed me with holy water.  Yes, you heard me right.  She sprayed me with holy water…quite unexpectedly.  I jumped, of course.  She didn’t seem to notice…just swung around in her chair and bowed her head.  “You will meet good man this year…I pray for you…you get married.”

In her defense, I did have two fairly significant “relationships”…one with a former flame from ten years past, which worked out about as well as the first time.  And, of course, the more recent debacle.  I should have tracked her down the other day and suggested she change holy water suppliers.  Kind lady…well meaning, I’m sure.  And provider of another head-shaking thirty-something moment.  God bless her.

Tonight does bring one beautiful, shining moment.  A new season of The Bachelor is on…and not a moment too soon.  There are always a few blaring examples of what not to do or who not to be.  Makes you realize - things ain’t so bad.  And yes, there it is.  They’ve already delivered, folks!  The token drunk just stuffed her panties in the British boy’s pocket.  I love you ABC…oh, how I love thee!  Gotta go view the rest of the trainwreck.

Join me soon for the next entry from an anomaly.

Cheers!