went on, “The thyroid is located at the base of the esophagus in the throat and produces thyroid hormones.” He spoke as if he were reading a script. “Thyroid hormones have a wide variety of effects on the body and are essential to life. They have many effects on metabolism, growth, and development.”
My head throbbed as I tried to focus on the meaning of his textbook explanation.
“Graves’ disease is also called thyrotoxicosis, a hyperactive thyroid gland that produces too much hormone,” he continued to routinely explain. “Excess hormone production causes the body to remain overactive. All of the body’s processes speed up, including digestion. This is why people with hyperactive thyroids typically lose a lot of weight.”
His last words registered on me. “Lose a lot of weight?” I questioned. “I’ve gained thirty pounds.”
Unaffected by this information, he continued, “The most common symptoms associated with hyperthyroidism or Graves’ disease are nervousness, irritability, increased perspiration, insomnia, fatigue, weakness, hair and weight loss, separation of the fingernails, hand tremors, intolerance of heat, rapid heartbeat, and sometimes protruding eyeballs.”
“Let’s see. You’re saying I have twelve out of thirteen symptoms. Why is it that the major symptom I don’t have is weight loss? I’ve gained thirty pounds. My luck!”
He shrugged.
Headaches weren’t on the list. I wondered why not. The mammoth headaches were my most distressing symptoms.
As the doctor leaned over my bed, I struggled to make sense of my situation. I knew something was very wrong, and just the name “Graves’ disease” sounded so foreboding.
“I want to irradiate your thyroid and run some tests on your gall bladder,” the doctor confidently continued.
My gall bladder? When did that come into the picture? I wanted only one problem at a time here! That was all I could handle, anyway.
“I must tell you that after we destroy your thyroid, I’ll have to keep you on medication for the rest of your life to keep you alive,” he added. “But I can fine-tune you so you’ll be better than before.” He smiled a really big smile after he said this—almost sinisterly. I thought of Edgar Allan Poe’s dark, malevolent characters as he rushed on. “You must do something about this soon; however, for you can die if we don’t destroy that thyroid gland.” He startled me as he abruptly pushed back his chair, its wooden legs scraping across the polished linoleum squares. Then he stood up as if, his job done, he was ready to leave the room.
“Wait a minute! Is this all you’re going to say to me?” I cried out. “I have some questions. Don’t run off! We are only getting started. First of all, what do you mean, destroy my thyroid gland?” I asked in desperation. “Is this the only alternative I have?” Who was this guy, anyway? Who was he to tell me what to do? Hey, I’d been through three natural childbirths, taught aerobics for over fifteen years, always eaten right (or so I thought at the time), didn’t smoke or drink, blah, blah, blah. Didn’t all that count for something? The doctor didn’t seem interested in anything other than the standard diagnosis and my sketchy medical history he held on a chart in front of him. However, I wasn’t as cavalier. Before he destroyed a vital part of my anatomy, shouldn’t he carefully study my daily routine to find a cause for this disease, I wondered.
Maybe not. The young doctor turned and silently walked toward the door.
I lay there stunned. Alone and confused, I had no clue as to why I was sick. The doctor didn’t know. Nobody knew. I wanted to call my husband for advice, but he’d been so detached, why bother? He still hadn’t come to the hospital to see me, and I couldn’t tell my family because my dad was still recovering from his heart attack. I was being forced to make a decision about permanently destroying my thyroid gland with very little knowledge and no one to counsel me. Time out!
“Look,” I yelled after the doctor, “I need more information and some time!”
From the doorway, he tried to quickly convince me that he could permanently solve all my problems by simply destroying my thyroid gland. Dr. Edgar Allan Poe hastily said, “Tomorrow I can have a specialist administer a finite dose of radioactive iodine that will ‘kill’ your thyroid.” He tried to convince me that radioactive iodine was the best “thyroid assassin” because it was a simple and convenient treatment. I stared at him transfixed. In other words, it was a quick kill. Easy for him to say—it wasn’t his thyroid!
“Most thyroid specialists recommend radioactive iodine for all their patients over twenty-five years of age with Graves’ disease,” he said as he continued his attempt to win me over. “Radioactive iodine is usually given in capsule form, which doctors prefer over surgically cutting open your throat. If you decide to do this, it will take several weeks to take full effect and, during this period, you’ll have to be in total isolation because you’ll be radioactive.”
Instead of accepting what my doctor said, I wanted to question everything. He was leaving something out of the equation. I needed to find out what! “I doubt your recommendations are the only ones available,” I blurted out loud. “There must be alternatives, even though I, of course, have none at the moment.”
He looked stunned.
I thought the doctor believed he was sincerely doing his best to help me. I, however, preferred to discuss alternatives before I irreversibly destroyed one of my body parts. A necessary body part, I might add!
“I’ll feel much better about your advice,” I remarked, “if you’d be willing to first explore with me the cause of my Graves’.”
He shrugged, and his apparent lack of interest in this aspect was an important turning point in my final decision not to follow his advice.
I cried out, “This is insane! I am not going to kill my thyroid with radioactive iodine! What happens to the poison once it leaves my thyroid? What else does it destroy on its way out? And don’t tell me it won’t do the rest of my body any harm!”
Taken aback by the force of my words, the doctor slowly inched his way farther out the door. He quickly added as he moved out of view, “You’d better do something about this soon, for you are in danger with a thyroid as overactive as yours. You cannot live with vital signs as high as yours are right now. Think about this for a couple of days if you have to, but I wouldn’t take any longer. I can be ready to irradiate you in twenty-four hours.”
When he finally disappeared, a multitude of feelings simultaneously rushed through me. “I can’t suddenly come down with a deadly disease with no known cause or cure!” I cried out to the empty room like a defiant child. I didn’t buy his explanation, but I was too exhausted to think about it anymore. I was being held captive in my unfamiliar bubble of confusion. I laid back and pulled the sterile hospital sheet up to my chin.
I wanted to sleep. I closed my eyes in hopes of sleeping forever, in hopes of escaping this nightmare.
It didn’t take me long to fall into unconsciousness, and as I slipped away, I descended somewhere far, far inside myself, thinking, here I will search for answers.
I knew I had to find them and quickly, or I would die!
