You’re not crazy and it’s not in your head
Maybe your physical symptoms aren’t made up after all
Two decades ago when I was only 19, I laid in my friend Ben’s bed watching TV when he looked at me sideways suspiciously. What? I asked squirming uncomfortably under his stare. “You got a fat neck. Have you ever had your thyroid checked?” No, and also, fuck you. He was a volunteer EMT at the time who had just spent several of his teen years in cancer treatment, so I thought he was seeing illness and death everywhere (and, well, being a dick).
Last week I got a call from the doctor’s office about my blood test results. You have Hashimoto’s Disease, the nurse says casually on the phone. Sounds like some fucked up, rare cancer I think. They always have long complicated names. In my head, I’m already writing goodbye letters to my children. Okay, not quite. I say, uh, that sounds bad as I’m googling what this thing is. I find it before she finally tells me that it’s an autoimmune disease (not cancer, not rare) that attacks the thyroid. Well, bitch, you could have led with that, no? I don’t say this out loud. I’m angry because I’m scared. Yes, I love healthcare personnel, and I know that they are stretched to the limit and that she probably did have to give some fucked up, rare cancer diagnosis to someone else today, but I’m worried and I’m selfish. How hard is it…
