Nothing to be done

I have a friend who walks around saying that, "There really isn't anything to be done."

She usually says this when people are running around trying to fix a problem that isn't life or death. She recognizes the crazy-making feeling that happens when people get stirred up. And, for what?

Lately, she's also been known to say this as friends are in the actively-dying phase and their loved-ones are stressed. They call her seeking a way to take away the pain of loss. She said that sometimes the best way she knows how to help is to remember that there isn't anything she can do herself except to quiet down.

We all want the pain to go away.

Yesterday my body was all stirred up. I'm not sure what the cells where doing, but my chest was really hurting under the breastbone and my back ached. I was so tired that it was an effort to move. This time, my breathing was more of a challenge than in the past. I'd had this in May, except this time I was having a little more trouble breathing.

"Here we go again," I thought.

Last week, I finally got to see the endocrinology for the first time since this mess started back in April. I was prepared to dislike her, but I couldn't. She did a great job explaining things and took her time with me. She even did her own ultrasound on me pointing out that my thyroid no longer had a clear shape anymore.

It looked more like applesauce on the screen rather than a distinct organ. The scientist in me thought that was so cool. The me in me was horrified.

She explained the possibility that I could go from having a hyper-active thyroid to having a lull and perhaps a meltdown as the thyroid function switched to the hypo-active state.

Afterward the medical appointment, I had so many things to do. However, I stopped off for a blood draw before soldiering on.

I noticed that I was having more problems swallowing after the appointment. Damn her. Things had been calm and with all that digging around my throat with her fingers and ultrasound wand, I was having more trouble again.

From that point on, I was booked solid for the next several days. I was running down and then running on empty. By yesterday, I recognized the bottom when I could barely shake the feeling that I couldn't seem to fully wake up and that my chest hurt. I kept yawning. Any exertion felt like such work. Driving felt more tedious. My old symptoms were back.

It probably didn't help that one of my beloved elderly friends had a heart attack over the weekend and was in the ICU. We have over 20 years of shared experiences with the Quakers, and lots of beloved time together in a meditation group and a writers group.

Additionally, it isn't a surprise that as I get closer to the 50th wedding anniversary of my parents that my body acts out. I've been fretting over this for some time now. Their party is this coming weekend.

And then there is the Candidates Night event that I am chairing. This week the candidates' responses are due and the event is next week.

I called someone whom I was supposed to see the next day and said I needed to cancel our time together. The sweet soul on the other end of the phone really pushed me to call the specialist.

"Don't ignore this," she said.

So at 4 p.m., I called the doctor's office. At 5 p.m., I got a return call. The exam wouldn't cause these symptoms, I was told. The lab results were now showing a switch to hypo-thyroid levels and my squishy thyroid was likely crashing.

Dr.: Do you need to go the E.R.?

Me: No. I'm not that bad. I'm feeling better than I did earlier in the day.

I called a friend and decided to see if she would take me to the writers group in the evening. I didn't trust myself to drive. But going had to be better than sitting on the couch with my silent, helpless partner watching T.V.

There was really nothing to be done.

I was already on a beta blocker. Thyroid medications are a no-no with this disease process. Just waiting it out to see where it lands is the treatment of choice for 95% of people who get thyroiditis. There is the question of additional autoimmune problems, but we don't know yet.

As the evening wore on and the ibuprofen kicked in, I felt better. I got to listen to others' stories and hear them talk about their writing process. I was able to write in the company of others. I got to laugh. I was feeling better.

This morning I see the specialist. In the face of yesterday, I am feeling so much better. Go figure.