After a trip to the ER, an MS scare and months of feeling like I was walking through molasses on a daily basis, I scheduled an appointment with a doctor in San Francisco. I went in, described my symptoms. He told me I seemed like an anxious person. I told him he seemed like a jerk. He sent me for a blood test and called a week later.
Doctor: “Your thyroid antibodies are elevated.”
Doctor: “That means your body is attacking your thyroid.”
Doctor: “Come on in and we can discuss further.”
I didn’t go back to see him. I didn’t like his brusque bedside manner. So I went to see my beloved OB who told me this is quite common in “tall skinny, pale people” (PALE people??). He sent me to an endocrinologist. I didn’t really think much of it. After I had my son 3 years ago, my TSH was elevated—a whopping 17. It resolved by going to acupuncture once a week for nine weeks. Didn’t seem like a big deal. Looking back, I guess I should have been more concerned.
The endocrinologist was pleasant enough. Within 30 seconds of walking in the room he said, “You have Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis. You’ve heard of it I’m sure.” “Hashi huh?” I said. “No, I haven’t ever heard of it.” Why the hell would I have heard of it? He proceeded to tell me the same thing, that my body was attacking my thyroid. “I’m going to give you levothyroxine. You’ll feel better in a week!” He said. I asked if there were any natural things I could do. “Nope, nothing.” “We’ll see about that!” I thought. I was born in Boulder to hippies, have a Sanskrit name and a serious phobia of “western medicine.” If a natural cure existed for Hashimoto’s, I was going to find it. I thanked him for his time, took the prescription and didn’t fill it.