Another gloomy post. I’m not really sorry. I need to write about this to clear my mind. If you’ve read my blog, you know I recently lost my thyroid. Rather, it was surgically removed. But the end result is the same: no thyroid. No thyroid means no thyroid hormones. No thyroid hormones means hormone therapy is needed.
Your body is generally amazing at regulating itself. The brain has a gland that secretes hormones (TSH) to tell the thyroid to make more hormones. That same gland has sensors for thyroid hormones, so when there’s enough in your blood, it eases off. Eventually levels drop again, and the gland kicks back in with more TSH.
Your thyroid hormones regulate your metabolism, heart rate, internal temperature, mood, and a whole bunch of other functions. Too many hormones and your metabolism speeds up, as will your heart rate. Not enough, and your metabolism slows down, as will your heart rate. I’m oversimplifying here, but essentially that’s how it works.
Tachycardia, bradycardia. Neither are fun conditions for your body. They stress your system and will be fatal sooner rather than later. It’s easy to imagine that you’ll need medical intervention if this regulator is gone. Which, for me, it is. Instead, the regulator is now me. If my history with debauchery is anything to go by, I’m terrible at self-regulating.
Every 90 days I get a blister pack of 100 thyroid tablets. A lease to secure the next three months of my life. When I run out, I’ll be dead within a few weeks. I could catch other mammals and eat their thyroids to stay alive. But eventually I’d run out of chicken thyroids. Or worse, I’d poison myself with too much hormone. Look up “burger thyrotoxicosis” if you have a few minutes.
I have always felt a certain sense of invincibility. No matter what happens, I reasoned, I would be OK. “As long as I don’t die, I’m willing to accept the consequences” was something I have said more than once. Now the reality is that I live in 100-day increments. I try not to think about it. But every morning I pop a pill from the blister pack and I think to myself, “one day less.”
Of course, this is a gross dramatization of reality. A reality I’m still getting used to. Like a Gaussian filter, my thoughts and emotions will smooth out over time. My father is on the same medicine and has been doing well for the past 30 years. And certainly, I will do just as well. On top of that, I feel fine. In fact, I feel great. Better than I’ve felt since my malaise started in October of last year.
I will be fine, as long as I don’t end up in a situation that prevents me from getting my meds. Like being stranded on a deserted island. And if I do, fingers crossed there will be chickens.