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Rising from the Graves’
And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.
I awoke after a few hours of hard sleep with images of Humpty Dumpty running through my brain. I went over my symptoms for the umpteenth time. Foreboding thoughts ricocheted through my mind. Since no one else could or would, I decided that it was up to me to put myself back together again. I definitely couldn’t turn to my husband for support—he was now avoiding both my problems and me. My parents didn’t even know I was in the hospital: I never told them because of Dad’s health problems. I wasn’t sure how to do it, but I couldn’t resist the pun: I’ll rise from the Graves’. Gallows humor, I grimaced, but any kind of laughter was better than none. My attempts to find humor in my situation helped me to deal with the desperation I didn’t want to feel.
There was only one solution. I had to find the real cause of my condition. I vowed not to make any permanent decision to destroy my thyroid until I had answers. So I made my decision not to make a decision.
In my mind I went over my symptoms one by one. One thing about my condition that was jarring, especially since the doctor said weight loss was a usual symptom of Graves’ disease, was my illogical weight gain. Was it some sort of clue that something wasn’t right about his diagnosis?
I questioned the doctor several times about the inconsistency of my weight gain in relation to Graves’ disease. “Most patients who have a thyroid as overactive as mine lose a lot of weight,” I told him. “They don’t put on thirty pounds.”
His only comment: “Oh, you women! Always worrying about your weight!” I wanted to blurt out what I thought of his patronizing attitude. Instead I kept quiet. “You don’t need to worry about what you look like right now. You need to concern yourself with getting well first.”
“Well” to him meant losing my thyroid gland.
“But, if it’s really Graves’ disease, shouldn’t I be losing weight?” I repeated in hopes of getting an answer. “Instead, I’m gaining weight. This makes no sense.”
I never got him to focus on this clue that something other than Graves’ disease could be causing my symptoms. He continued to insist my only course of action was to grant permission for them to destroy my thyroid. But for me it was a red flag.
Not only my self-image, but my life was changing without my permission, and I couldn’t seem to stop it. I felt as if I had no control over myself anymore. Somehow, it had to stop, I told myself.
I made up my mind that I wouldn’t do anything the doctor told me to do. Expecting to be judged as a defiant child, I informed him, “I am not going to irradiate my thyroid gland. Instead, I’m launching a campaign to find the cause of my Graves’ before making any final decisions.”
“You’re making a big mistake,” he said ominously.
“Perhaps. But it’s my life, and I take responsibility for it.”
Shaking his head, he left the room.
Though he had no interest in symptoms that didn’t fit his diagnosis, he returned to quiz me at least a dozen times about my family medical history. Each time he asked, “Does anyone in your family have thyroid problems or diabetes? Have I already asked you this?”
My repeated reply, “I have no medical history—I am adopted,” didn’t seem to ever register with him. Though my questions to him appeared to get no reaction, he had aroused my curiosity about my absence of medical records and I thought I should try to contact my birth mother to ask her. However, the thought of doing that was a little scary and a little too much to think about at the present time.
Nevertheless, for the time being, I took a big chance defying his advice, elixirs, and pessimistic predictions. But I had to honor my own instincts. I knew that keeping my thyroid gland was the right thing to do. At least until I had more information.
For three days I had laid there with tubes and wires connecting me to IV bags, EKGs, and sterile antibiotic drips. My immune system was so compromised by that point that I developed a serious upper respiratory infection. My blood pressure was too high, as well as my heart rate and cholesterol. Holding my lab results on a chart before him, the doctor asked with a puzzled look on his face, “What do you eat? You look so fit. Your blood levels don’t match up, in my opinion.”
Equally as puzzled, I answered, “Well, a couple of days ago I had tofu for lunch. I always watch what I eat. Because I have been gaining weight this past year, I have been dieting regularly. I never had a weight problem until a year ago.”
“Tofu? You eat tofu but have a cholesterol of three hundred?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yep,” I responded. “I think I’m doing everything right. I watch what I eat, exercise every day, don’t smoke or drink, never eat sweets or crave chocolate. I’m just as confused about this as you are.” It was the damned weight thing again. I knew it was a major factor in this equation. I just couldn’t figure out how it fit in.
“Why am I sick? What’s going on here?” I asked. “Why have I gained so much weight when I am careful about my diet and exercise every day? Plus, I have an overactive thyroid gland! None of this makes sense. There has to be a reason for all this inconsistency. But what? I want some answers! And if you don’t know,” I said to the doctor, “I’ll find out myself. I’ve had enough of lying around in this hospital.”
Expecting an argument, I asked to go home.
He hit the roof. Well, sort of hit the roof for a well-trained doctor. “I disagree adamantly with your decision to go home.” His face reddened. “You can’t go home without doing something about your thyroid. A thyroid as overactive as yours is dangerous.” He ran his eyes over the chart and wielded it like a stick. “Don’t take this lightly, Jan.” He stumbled over my name as if unsure of who I was. “I want you to really think about letting me irradiate your thyroid gland before you go home and possibly die.”
“I can’t,” I answered, a bit perturbed that he wasn’t sure of my name. “I just can’t. Let me go home and I’ll see you next week. I’ll call if I get worse or something.”
Reluctantly, he agreed. Immediately after he left the room, I gathered up my belongings, pulled on my sweats, and prepared to go home. “I hope my car is still in the lot,” I thought with uncertainty. “I drove myself to the emergency room three days ago. I guess I’ll drive myself home,” I murmured.
Before I left the hospital I listened again to the doctor’s warnings and instructions and filled the pile of prescriptions he loaded on me at the hospital pharmacy. I agreed to take all my medicine as directed until my final decision was made. If my thyroid lasted, that was. I also agreed to see him once a week for blood tests. His last words to me were a warning.
“Prolonged use of this thyroid medication could destroy your immune system. Yes,” he told me, his eyes narrowing, “no one really knows the long-term effects of this medication. You need to make a decision about what you are going to do with your thyroid soon, because you could destroy your immune system in a matter of months. Then you’ll really be in trouble.”
I looked at it differently. The doctor had no idea what caused Graves’ disease. He wasn’t sure if the medication would kill me before my thyroid did, and if I did have
