I was recently diagnosed with a condition with the scary sounding name of hypothyroidism. I wish the medical people would use simple words which I could easily understand. Apparently all it means is a sluggish thyroid. I’ve suspected I had one of those for a while and my Oncologist and GP have been monitoring it. There was some confusion between them over whose responsibility it was, and I must confess that if my blood tests got forgotten that I never reminded anyone. Eventually it got sorted out and I now have a daily Levothyroxine tablet. I still don’t really understand how the thyroid works. They did try to explain it to me with a series of diagrams and flowcharts but I got lost with talk of T3, T4 and TSH. All I know is that a particular reading is supposed to be under 5. Mine was 1.3 before my treatment and now it’s 7.8 and it needs to go back to 5 or I might be at risk of getting furred arteries.
Well I’ve had the tablets for a couple of months now and I feel like a new woman! Much more energy and my hair has stopped falling out. My skin isn’t so dry and this has helped the dryness in my mouth which has made a big difference to me. The only drawback is that I’ve started losing weight. I now weigh less than I did when they took out my feeding tube so I’m back under the Dietician and I have to have more calories each day.
With my extra energy I’ve been enjoying going for a brisk walk each afternoon. Not quite as enthusiastic as power walking, but a bit of arm swinging and trying to walk at a consistent tempo. I got chatting to a fellow walker one afternoon and she complimented me on my marching style and asked if I’d been trained. I made the error of admitting that I used to be a majorette, and before I knew it I was being asked if I’d like to apply for the position of chaperone with a local troupe.
I should learn not to talk to strangers in the street because it reminded me of a very miserable time in my childhood . Myself and D had committed some minor misdemeanor. I think it might have been the incident at the back of the cricket pavilion involving a pack of 10 Woodbines and a litre of cheap cider. Anyway we were presented with the choice of being grounded for 3 months or helping the vicar with charitable works. Naturally we chose the vicar and were initially delighted to find we were joining his newly formed marching band and majorette troupe. D had visions of becoming the next Jimi Hendrix, and I could see myself in a Californian cheerleaders outfit flourishing pompoms.
The reality was very different. D had to pick between a tambourine with a hole in it and a pair of dented cymbals. I was stuffed into a revolting brown suit and the skirt was so tight that I couldn’t move my legs properly. My hat wouldn’t stay on so the vicar’s wife secured it under my chin with some elastic which was far too tight. I was then expected to twirl a baton high into the air. All I can say is that it spent more time on the floor than in my hand, and I was soon relegated to walking at the back with the collection bucket.
So you can probably imagine that I was less than enthusiastic at being offered the opportunity to relive my days traipsing round the street with a forced smile on my face to the accompaniment of “A Life On The Ocean Wave” or some other jolly tune. Fortunately my cancer journey seems to have made me more assertive so I had no problem in firmly saying no thanks!
