thyroid 101

hot time summer in the city back of my neck getting dirt & gritty

from the internet:

Hypothyroidism is a condition in which the thyroid gland fails to produce enough thyroid hormone.

The thyroid gland, located in the front of the neck just below the larynx, secretes hormones that control metabolism.

Hypothyroidism, or underactivity of the thyroid gland, may cause a variety of symptoms and may affect all body functions. The body's normal rate of functioning slows, causing mental and physical sluggishness.

I have had all these symptoms, in varying degrees, for YEARS.
Weakness
Fatigue
Cold intolerance
Constipation
Weight gain (unintentional) (like weight gain is ever intentional? pardon me while I try to control my hysterical laughter)
Depression
Joint or muscle pain
Thin, brittle fingernails
Thin and brittle hair
Paleness
Puffy face, hands and feet
Decreased taste and smell
Thinning of eyebrows
Overall swelling
Muscle spasms (cramps)
Muscle pain
Muscle atrophy
Uncoordinated movement
Joint stiffness
Dry hair
Hair loss
Drowsiness
Appetite loss

It was my damn thyroid.

I'm taking Synthroid, although the internet is plastered with information about something called Armour which is supposed to be totally like awesome. Who knows? All I know is that after three days of Synthroid I'm starting to feel like a functioning human being again.

It hardly needs to be said that I'm appreciative of all the support and that hopefully you can look forward to a healthy (ha! I KILL MYSELF) dose of the old Clueless soon.

The Arrogance Of Good Health

See, it's like this. 1977 was a good year. I started college and loved it. I had many interesting adventures and the whole world was at my feet, ready for me to conquer it.

1987 was a great year! I was living in my beloved New York City, and walking city streets holding hands with the Love Of My Life, who dumped me in 1988, but let's not go there right now.

1997 sucked. Our first baby (Nikki-Husky/German Shepherd mix) died on Roger's birthday, then I went through grisly fertility treatment without any success, and my father died suddenly on August 1, 1997. I was sort of dreading 2007, but only in a vague sort of don't-be-ridiculous superstitious way.

2007 has caused me to lose the tiny shred of hope and innocence that I had left after weathering the life blows that we all go through. Nothing big, ya know, a few broken hearts, a few failed career dreams, a few wrenching deaths. But I always had one thing.

Health!

Radiant, wonderful health! Years would pass without a doctor's visit. I think I went 5 years without going to the doctor in my 20s back when I had no health insurance. Oh, there were minor annoyances, but I was always able to keep going.

This year has broken me.

On Jan 8, 2007, three weeks after my hysterectomy, I collapsed on the floor of my office with racking muscle spasms and joint pain due to lack of estrogen, due to lack of ovaries. I have been on HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) continuously, but, come close. No. Closer. Let me whisper something in your ear.

it doesn't always work well and 10-20% of women do not respond to the traditional methods.....and I'm one of those lucky few!

So far I've tried: Tri-Est (2 different doses), Vivelle Dot patch (different doses), topical progesterone, topical testosterone, and Premarin.

I have tried the following pain pills: Tramadol, Naproxen. Muscle relaxers: Xanaflex & Klonapin. I opened the bottle of narcotic pain pills (Talwin) that I didn't even need after major surgery removing three organs at times to try to relieve the racking bone and muscle pain, and they don't even work all that well.

I have visited a homeopath, a chiropractor, an acupuncturist, and a Reiki practitioner. I take 20 supplements every day. I can't eat and I have lost 12 pounds. Two weeks ago, I wore a dress to Madeleine's First Communion that I haven't been able to fit into for twenty-two years. (Our family saves clothes--I wear my mom's cashmere coat from 1950 often and I have several sweaters from college that still look good. I don't know what they're made of--something that NASA might be interested in I guess.)

I am on disability leave from my job right now. Two weeks ago, I could barely walk.

Last Saturday, my friend Denee Frazer was spending her last day on earth before succumbing to ovarian cancer. Denee's health crisis may have saved my life, as my ovaries are now in some biodisposable waste dump. I've certainly had moments when I wished I was headed towards heaven, but I have two children to raise and a husband who claims that he'd miss me. So ok, I'm stuck here.

I was doing something different. I dragged my frail, mortal, but fixable (I hope) body to a new doctor, Jandrette Rhoe, who has impressed me with her wonderful sunny personality and bedside manner par excellence. She inserted the Last Resort--hormone pellets. They are supposed to work when nothing else does. I have 1 testosterone and 1 estrogen pellet.

You can find out more about the pellets at www.sottopelletherapy.com and see if there is a doctor located near you at this website: http://www.sottopelletherapy.com/physiciansmap.htm

So far, I'm still having pain, but my energy is slowly, slowly returning. I hope this will be the turning point in my health. I have been able to take long walks for 2 nights in a row now.

So, that's what's up with me. And that is why I haven't been updating regularly.

I have lost the innocent, wonderful arrogance that I once had. Sickness? Happens to other people who don't take care of themselves. Chronic pain? Totally controllable with pain pills. Me as a sick person? Saintly, patient and noble. (Try whiny, teary, cranky, and withdrawn).

I hope that I will arise from this a better person, one who is able to truly appreciate a day without tears, pain and exhaustion. But right now I'd settle for still being my rotten self without tears, pain and exhaustion.

Carly Simon, First Communion, Ballet Recital, And Springtime

Busy days. Sorry for the lack of posts.

Was listening to some Carly Simon tonight.

We can never know about the times to come

But we think about them anyway

And I tell you...how easy it feels to be with you

And how right your arms feel around me

I rehearsed those words just late last night

When I was thinking about how right tonight might be

And tomorrow we might not be together

I'm no prophet and I don't know nature's ways

But I'll try to see into your eyes right now

And stay right here

'Cause these are the good old days

Virginia Tech

Christmas, 1979--Dad and his daughters

I recognized the building. Because I used to visit my Dad there when I was a child. Dad was an Assistant Professor of Civil Engineering at Virginia Tech back in the 60s.

My sister wrote a piece about those happy days.

What right have I to mourn?

Like the rest of the nation, and particularly anyone every connected with Virginia Tech, I was speechless and unbelieving when I heard the news that on Monday, a gunman massacred 32 students and professors. As before with the coverage of 911, I have been glued to CNN, trying to understand how this could have happened, and feeling this sick, sad, emptiness inside. I’m teary-eyed but I catch myself and think, “what right do I have to mourn? WHAT am I mourning – I knew none of the victims, none of their families and friends?” Intellectually, I know that this feeling is part of a collective consciousness of pain when as a nation or a community we are faced with an unexplainable tragedy. Even so, it’s still a strange sensation.

But I realize am mourning something more than the victims – my own selfish loss, the loss of an idyllic period of my childhood.

Our family moved to Blacksburg, Virginia in 1967 so my Dad could take up a position as a professor teaching air pollution control. Our three story house was on a quiet, dead-end street just across from the Virginia Tech campus. Most of our neighbors and almost all of my parents’ friends were faculty or staff at Tech. Our next-door neighbors escaped Communist Hungary in the 1950s and the husband was an internationally renowned scientist and professor at Tech . It was his wife who first served us goulash and their daughter who first showed us an iguana. Their home was a magical place full of new discoveries, the parents like kindly extensions of our own. I learned to ride a bike in Blacksburg, and my big sister Lorrie taught me the intricacies of a public school cafeteria as well as how to play kickball.

When a new family moved into our neighborhood they almost always paved their driveway, against neighbors’ advice, only to find in winter that the gravel the rest of us had on ours was a necessity to get enough traction to drive the car up the steep grade from garage to road. It became a ritual, someone’s spring return of their driveway to gravel. Because of that gravel, the key-type roller skates we got one Christmas were useless except on the short sidewalk out front, til our parents offered the entire basement for our skating pleasure. In that basement, our Mom created decoupage boxes and our Dad happily tinkered on antique clocks and our cars. When it snowed, we not only made snow angels but ate snow ice cream from the most pristine patch our Mom could find.

In the spring we watched the cadets drill at Tech and my mom gently teased that she would invite one of the handsome ones for Sunday dinner, since my seven year old self was so taken with them. School holidays meant accompanying my Dad to Tech, reading in his office while he taught but inevitably wandering down the hall into his classroom, becoming the pet of his students. Driving through campus we learned to identify the types of smoke coming from the stacks (important to an air pollution expert!) . And on the way to nearby Christiansburg for my weekly allergy shots (reward – one nickel to be spent on candy, my choice was always SweeTarts), marveling that even in summer the nearby mountain peaks had a shining cap of snow.

There was such a sense of community in Blacksburg that even football games were fun for me - I understood nothing about the game itself but being in the stands cheering alongside my Dad, waving my orange and maroon pennant - it was a sense of belonging. Those three short years in Blacksburg were probably the happiest of my youth. Life was gentle and uncomplicated. The worst thing I can remember happening to me was having to transfer to public school in second grade, but even that could not overshadow the day-to-day contentment, the happiness, of our life in Blacksburg. To this day I am most comfortable when in the mountains, like the area surrounding Blacksburg. For many years my dream was to attend veterinary school there, but when I detoured into law, in the back of my mind I still hoped I might live there again, perhaps even in retirement.

What makes a murderer? What childhood memories must haunt them? At what point is their breakdown inevitable? And why must they destroy other futures and color those of the ones who survive?

I will never again think of Blacksburg the same way. I lost no friend or family member there, but the horror of this week will forever taint my memories. It’s a loss I can’t quantify, but I feel it just the same.

-Caroline Callison Tiffin, President of Palmetto Hope (World's Greatest Guatemalan Adoption Agency)

I Couldn't Love Her More If She Was My Own Child!

I remember that night.

It was 16 years ago, and it was our second date.

"I can't father children due to the therapy I had for cancer as a teenager," said my good looking, handsome, nice, straight, employed date.

I remember the night we got engaged.

"How about artificial insemmination?" I asked.

"No, thanks," said my good looking, handsome, nice, straight, employed fiance.

We did give it a whirl 5 years later after a couple of dizzying roller coaster rides on the domestic adoption front, but my heart wasn't really into it. I went to homestudy classes and listened with incredulity as women bared their souls about the crushing pain of infertility.

"I had to run out of my niece's christening because I was bawling," said one.

"I can't go to baby showers. Don't even ask." said another.

I looked properly sympathetic, but inside I was thinking how very, very different and weird I was. The idea of being pregnant didn't fill me with much of anything except abject terror, and knowing that I could never recreate a little RogerLorrie anyway made it easy to pursue the path that we followed.

I also never had an attack of "I am adopted, I need to see my face on somebody else." (shrug) I'm not being falsely modest here, but I never thought my face needed to be recreated on another innocent human being.

So I've been following the debate that rages on A Little Pregnant, Chicago Mama, Figlet, etc. with great interest and lots of feelings, but I'm having an uncharacteristically hard time trying to figure out if I can add anything to the debate that I (much less any of your poor innocent readers) would find new, or interesting, or significant.

Because the first thing that I believe about all this is that:

We are all different.

I can't take the moral high ground because for me deciding to pursue adoption was almost effortless. I wasn't beset with doubts about could I love another's child as my own--I had noticed that my adoptive mother and father had no problems with this and figured, correctly, that I wouldn't either.

I did not care what race my child was, but I also understand people who want a child who looks like them, and frankly it never occurred to me that my child might want to look like her parents. (It should have). In 1998, China was the go-to program for adoption---devoid of corruption, fairly easy (ha! It must be like labor pains--you forget the hours of backbreaking paperwork and the torturous wait, now stretching into eternity it seems) and yes...I wanted a daughter. Real Real Real Bad. I also wanted a child that had probably not been exposed to drugs/alcohol.

The second thing I believe is:

I agree with the adoptive mothers who are upset over the casual putdowns of adoption by people who haven't done it.

I mean, I've never experienced labor pain, and I wouldn't go around telling pregnant women about my how sister in law's third cousin screamed and screamed for thirty-six hours and got all tore up and etc. I wouldn't tell them that adoption is so much easier because after all, you don't end up with stretch marks and other unpleasant reminders of childbirth, yet so many people seem willing to spread horror stories about somebody they know who had a terrible experience with adoption, ergo, it's a bad thing.

Look, if YOU could never love another person's baby as your own, that's fine, but can you understand how hard it is for an adopted child to hear that? Can you understand how painful it is for me to think that my parents would have loved the product of their loins more than ME? I mean, how on earth could any child be more wonderful than I AM? I ASK YOU.

Can you understand how hard it is for us adoptive parents? Can you understand that we're dreading the day our child comes home from ballet practice asking us about an offhand comment that they heard in the car pool line along these terms? Can you understand that we lie awake at night worrying that our child will someday lie awake at night asking themselves, "Did they settle for me? Did they reluctantly give up the dream of a blonde blue eyed angel with their smile for me? Do they secretly regret that I can't do algebra or throw a football as well as they can and think that perhaps their OWN child would have lived up to their hopes and dreams?"

And the third thing I believe is that:

I, personally, am glad I adopted and I hope with all my heart that you, dear reader, find your path, whatever it may be.

Peace.

meet the robinsons

When I heard that a Major Motion Picture was being released dealing with the theme of adoption I knew that I had to comment on it, since I'm such an expert on adoption, and I know that y'all turn to me for guidance and wisdom and all, heh. (If you're new to the blog I'm adopted myself and adopted both of my children).

There's a letter circulating around on the adoption boards that warns adoptive parents against taking their kids to see this movie as the hero is abandoned at an orphanage and gets rejected by 114 families, etc.

You can read the plot summary here.

The people who've seen it say that the message is that you can let being adopted rule/ruin your life, or you can pick yourself up and go on. Now that sounds like something I can get behind.

I got a lot of flack about being a whiny 40ish adopted person back last fall when I wrote a series of posts imagining myself as my birthmother, and I've picked up a lot of flack over the years from angry adoptees claiming that I constantly emphasize the good points of being adopted without adequately exploring the feelings of loss that come with the territory, so ya know, you can't win and I don't pretend to speak for all adoptees anyway. All I can tell you about are my personal experiences with the topic.

The world for me changed on November 1, 2006 when my doctor looked at an ultrasound picture of a Thing in my body and turned to me with terror in her eyes. When the Thing turned out to be benign, I lost all interest in spending one more second of my life mourning the loss of my birth family.

Now, what to do about this movie?

I will take the kids to see it. I'm not going to tell them what to think about it. I'll just listen to what they have to say.

They Laughed At Me For Being A Health Food Freak

Separated At Birth

This cracked me right the heck up. Shrek and..an American Idol contestant. One of my pals, Miss Cellania, writes for them.