Finding out you have an incurable (but thankfully not at all fatal) illness is kind of a bummer. A big bummer. A big, huge, hairy, fat bummer. The Sasquatch of bummers.
When I got my Hashimoto’s diagnosis, I went through all the normal stages of grief:
Denial: B.S. That doctor is a moron. And he has terrible teeth.
Anger: I hate that stupid doctor and his stupid teeth.
Bargaining: Maybe you’re right. Maybe I have Hashimoto’s. But if I get you Invisalign will you reverse your diagnosis?
Depression: Why do we even have teeth? Teeth are pointless.
And finally, acceptance: Oh well, we all have teeth. Some are straighter than others.
After I came to a place of acceptance, I moved on to yet another stage. A “this is it” stage. A “life is fleeting” stage. A “grab the bull by the horns” stage.
For years I had dreamed about having my own blog. About doing videos. About leaving my job and striking out on my own. But I was scared and tired and overwhelmed with the demands of parenting. I cooked up every excuse in the world to stay safe.
When I was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s last year, it rocked my world. I saw my mortality staring me right in the face. I was no longer the young, invincible girl in perfect health who had all the time in the world. I was fragile. I was mortal. And I was like, dude, I’m going to live the heck out of the rest of my levothyroxine-filled days.
So for that–that gift of GET OFF YOUR ASS, GIRL–I love my autoimmune disorder. It was my wake up call. And I listened.