Details that I might regret sharing

But will keep brief. I’ve been exhausted to the point of collapse for several years now. I actually fall asleep while driving at times (usually I pull over and sleep for about 15 minutes). It’s been hellish and miserable and I have not felt like myself for a ridiculously long time.

My doctor sent me to get some blood drawn, and I added a check mark (after the fact) for a blood test I wanted done that my doctor has consistently neglected to run, in spite of my requests. It’s an “integrative health clinic”, and they always want me to take my temperature for three weeks and do elimination diets and blahblablah.

Got the results back. The box I checked? Yep, that was it.

Simple tiny pill every morning. Typical results of the single little pill? Increased energy, reduced pain, reduced risk of heart disease and diabetes, lowered cholesterol, weight loss, better sleep, healthier hair, skin and nails.  

Why the hell is health care so hard to manage? Why are women discounted so utterly? Why in god’s name have I been put at risk of serious complications because some nitwit didn’t want to do the most obvious possible test for a middle-aged woman with textbook symptoms and a history of facial radiation?

Geez fucking Louise.

Just thyroid. That fucking simple. Not rocket science, not a character flaw, not my lifestyle (my lifestyle is healthy and productive, thank you very much).

You want something done, you gotta do it yourself.

I’ll let you know how it turns out.

 

Work – body and mind

  I was incommunicado for a couple of weeks with shoulder problems. Went to the doctor, who listened to me (!), prodded at my shoulder, then said something like “Well, you know when you have surgery, for every day you’re hospitalized you lose 5% of your muscle tone.”

Or something along those lines. So I started doing this compulsive numbers thing, thinking “Ok, so in the past two years I’ve been hospitalized 9+9+5 days times 5% = 23x.05=115%.

That means I’ve lost 115% of my muscle tone, according to my incredibly accurate compulsotronic calculations and geez, doesn’t that mean I should be a pile of goo by now?

Sigh. I hate when I think like that. But recovering from having been sliced from my guggle to my zatch not once but three times is a slow and tiresome process and I am still easily injured and easily fatigued. And discouraged, too. It is a process.

For today, though, I am energized by the thought of writing that damn great American novel, and energy is the best possible pain reliever. Ta-da! Grand-daddy would be proud (power of positive thinking, rising above it all, etc.)