A case of the Thyroid Induced Crazies.

Or, as they will be forever known in this blog, the TICs.

A few years ago, a little Asian woman (also known as my endrocinologist) turned out to be a ninja in disguise, and tried to kill me through a very touchy feely chokehold (also known as checking my throat for nodules). Her attempt on my life (check up) was diverted (she stopped, but only after squeezing harder for a minute or two) by the sudden finding of some sizable chunks of strangeness buried near my thyroid (nodules).

These sizable chunks had to be checked out, because apparently they could just be weird formations that just exist for the sake of existing (benign), or homicidal (cancerous). The odds were in my favor that these beings weren’t malevolent (given my gender and age), but there was also a possibility that they weren’t (a very, very tiny one).

So I was sent on a quest to determine the nature of these beings (biopsies), but no one could be sure. Even after they were sent to the fabled Mayo Clinic, land where mages of the highest caliber are supposed to be able to figure anything out. (Lies.)

Warning: There are no ninjas beyond this point.

That meant it was time to see a surgeon. G.T. had a great sense of humor, answered every possible question me or my parents could’ve had, and was all around excellent. Also, the top half of his face looked like John Barrowman, and the bottom half of his face looked like Robin Williams. How can you not love this guy on sight?

According to G.T., a surgery was the only route. Not just because surgeons have a deep love of using their scalpel, but if the half my thyroid that the big nodule was on had cancer, it could spread.

So I went under the knife, and a few weeks later G.T. called to let me know he’d found little bite sized pieces of papillary thyroid cancer. The other half soon had to follow just to be safe, and then the thyroid material left behind had to be burned out with a little radioactive pill.

After all that was said and done, I start taking a thyroid replacement. This little blue pill (Levothyroxine) has the ability to slowly drive me nutty when I go off it. Which was the subject of the last few days of feeling like I was slogging through six feet of mud, my head was spinning ’round and round and ’round again, and coherent thought either came out in snippets or not at all.

I get irrational, I get angry, I get overtired. For something that small to hold that much power (as the thyroid once did, which I never even knew about until the stupid thing went and got cancerous on me) is disturbing. Not to mention that if I go off it, and my calcium gets low enough, the muscle spasms that follow could hit my heart and kill me.

Walking short distances (The few blocks between my house and the drug store, for example.) leaves me out of breath and ready to drop. This frail looking state means everyone handles me with whatever gloves are softer than the kid kind, which leads to a spike in that uncontrollable anger problem. When I reach this stage, whatever it’s lacking in energy, it definitely makes up for in sniping snippyness. All in all, not a good time.

After taking the pill last night (it was a hold up with the prescription that caused the withdrawal this time around, not the first time it’s happened), I’m feeling a little more stable today. But there’s still that compelling urge to take a nap every five minutes, that sense that everyone seriously needs to go to hell, and the need to scream at stupid people for not really being all that stupid.

I have noticed that the only way to counteract the TICs is to get completely amped up on caffeine, but the downside is that when you crash, you crash hard. I also found out from a round with Google that too much of that could be potentially dangerous too.

Granted, it’s all in the name of being cancer free. But that’s hard to remember when you’re getting seriously tweaky, or going off Caffeine Falls for a bloody landing. It’s probably even harder to remember for the poor souls who have to deal with me during these multi-day instances when I’m not quite right. The only one who understands in my father, who had the misfortune of being born without one. Which they didn’t find out for years, making it amazing that he’s still alive today.

Which, if you knew him, would really sum up his whole life.

Given that it’s New Year’s Eve, I’m off to caffeine up and try to get through the rest of this day accordingly. Dr. Downer and Ms. Hyde have no place here, thank you kindly.

Happy New Year, folks. Ring it in as stylishly as you know how. Whatever that means, I promise, I won’t judge.

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~ by Sara on December 31, 2011.

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