I had difficulty recalling events of the day before. I couldn’t fall asleep. My knees had checked into the school of hard knocks making it impossible to wear
the fabulous assortment of heels I had amassed over the years. During a Passover Seder, I cornered a doctor, and in bad social form, blurted out “I’m sure you hate it when people do this…” … and described my multiple aches, pains and memory problems. She seemed to listen sympathetically, until bluntly cutting in, “You know… we are getting older”. My eyes clouded and I quickly dismissed her prognosis, pressing her to recommend a colleague.
But I was concerned that a “heads up” from my new friend would color a savvy New York doctor. I concluded that adjusting to a new time zone and unnatural cold weather were the cause and immediately forgot about my problems.
That June, I scheduled my annual check up with Los Angeles’ most eligible widower and my general practitioner, Dr. Mitch. Among my other symptoms, something was definitely wrong with my right hip. Applied pressure was agonizing. I looked up into his eyes, asking in earnest, “Do I need a replacement?”
Dr. Mitch has this way of looking at you like you might be crazy, but that he’s going to refrain from judgment and treat you accordingly. I love him.
“Well…” he turned to give me the news eye to eye; “…you’re not a spring chicken anymore”.
Now really. Was this little piece of information necessary?
Nevertheless, I made my “bursa” as in “bursitis”, an event, even affecting a bit of a limp. While most furrowed their brows, those over 40 knew exactly what I was talking about.
My condition required a rheumatologist to administer a cortisone shot. So, following my return from NoLa, I double dosed on doctors, stopping first at Dr. Rinale then onto Dr. Mitch, where my seriously poisonous spider bite turned out to be a mild rash. “Probably sweaty gloves”. These are not the words you want to hear from your soon-to be-fiancé.
During my build in South Dakota, Dr. R’s office called me with the news that my blood work revealed low platelets. “Do I have cancer? I’d rather know now and get the hard part over with” I stoically demanded. “We don’t need go there right now” she replied. “Just come in for another draw when you get back into town”.
Her ambivalent response ramped up the paranoia, and I pestered the group’s retired nurse about her cryptogram. Apparently, it could mean my blood wasn’t clotting properly. I arrived home and immediately fell ill. Dizzy, exhausted, lightheaded, I awaited any kind of scratch to check clotting quickness. I consulted the Angry Man, king of all illnesses. He asked me when I got so Jewish, stating that he hoped I really was sick so I would quit smoking. As he lectured me, I put the phone down and googled “low platelets”.
Clotting wasn’t the only issue. It seemed I could have Bone Marrow Cancer. The symptoms almost certainly matched mine. I made an emergency appointment with Dr. Mitch for the following day, apologizing profusely. Despite the “spring chicken” comment, I still had a huge crush on the Doctor. There is no way I want him to think I’m nuts.
After taking the requisite pulse, temperature, & blood pressure, he banged my head with his reflex hammer and asked me if I heard tones. I knew it. Something was drastically wrong. I looked up at the ceiling, trying to get the tears to roll back into my eyes.
“At first I thought you were crazy”, Dr. Mitch began, “But the ringing and the lightheadedness got me thinking” he said. I asked him, desperately trying to control the quiver in my voice, “What’s your plan?” “Well”, said my future husband, “We’re going to try a couple of things and then I’ll see you next week”. He left the room.
I had Bone Marrow Cancer. Who would be my match? Was he giving me experimental medication? Would Dr. Mitch even consider marriage now or was I destined to die alone, eaten by my cat like the corpse in “6 Feet Under”/Episode 18?"
He walked back into the room, turned to shut the door, and coolly handed over a weeks worth of Allegra D and Nasonex. Sinus medications.
Although my blood work came back normal, I wasn’t convinced that mere dust and pollen was the cause of my memory loss and severe sleeping disorder. I left it to my girlfriends to fill in the blanks. With three almost-professional opinions, it seemed everything pointed to my thyroid. My stomach looked distended. I’d been unsuccessfully trying to lose the 10 pounds I gained on my cross-country trip. Sudden weight gain, incidentally, is a symptom of hypothyroidism.
After visiting a website specializing in home diagnosis of thyroid abnormalities, I forced Dr. Mitch to recommend an endocrinologist; securing a back up plan just in case. According to thyroidpower.com, it’s common knowledge that doctors misread the C125 and Free 3 levels all the time. They could send me home when in fact I could still be dying.
My sonogram revealed cysts living on my glands. As I prepared myself for surgery and the phone call I would have to make to my mother, the lab doctor, escorting me out the building, patted me on the shoulder and said, “Nothing to worry about, they’ll probably go away on their own. You’re not going to die yet!”
But it wasn’t my thyroid, it seems that eating nuts and sitting for longs periods of time in a car can be rough on the intestinal track and after a three-day cleanse and the addition of seaweed salads into my diet, I began to feel much better.
That is, until October when the palpitations started in. Just as I was about to fall asleep, my heart would begin booming, reverberating through the springs in my mattress. I hated to do it, but I picked up the phone and called Dr. Mitch.
He dutifully took more blood, studied the pictures of my tiny thyroid cysts, administered a panic attack test and scheduled a heart echo. I warned my family. This could be serious. My ticker was torquing and who knew what that meant. Perhaps this perplexed the doctors as well since I never received a phone call from either.
In the meantime, after a year of listening to my failing health, David LeBarron has given me a Hypochondria Wheel,
which shouts “Yes, You're Probably Dying!”As a matter of fact, my hair was falling out in clumps.
Hair loss. Sharp pains in the ear. I lined up the wheel. My illness seemed to be something called “Folliculitis“, however, next to the diagnosis, it read “But you’re probably just aging”.
I didn’t need to hear that a third time.
