Kiss My Goiter, Dr. Phil

About the time I begin to feel human as my thyroid bores of hypothyroidism, I begin to notice sudden, unexplained weight loss accompanied by supreme hunger and thirst. My hands shake, my electric bill increases as I pop the central unit down to fifty to combat the "heat," and I can't shake hands without first wiping the moisture off them on my suddenly tight tookus. My eyes bulge, my hair falls out again, and my skin becomes decorated periodically by hives. I regret cursing that constipation factor of hypothyroidism as I spend more and more time on the number "Two." I begin to wonder if age thirty-seven is too young to have a heart attack when those lovely palpitations and pains kick in. My teenage neighbor asks to buy cocaine from me, certain that my straw-thin, scarecrow-like appearance is connected to an addiction to such a substance: that teen's mother whispers to others, "I wonder if she's got AIDS?" Whoever said you can never be too rich or too thin was only half right. When I'm convinced it can't get any worse, the shortness of breath bonus brings back my childhood asthma.

It is not, Doc, "what we eat" -- it is also not our gene pool, our comfy couch, an addiction to soap operas or Bon Bons, and it is not, you poor, deluded soul, lack of effort in weight management. It is a butterfly shaped gland in our necks which, depending upon the path the disease has chosen to take, either makes us gain or lose massive amounts of weight despite our every effort to combat it. When underactive, it blows the roof off our cholesterol levels despite having avoided consumption of a single fat gram since 1989. It slows or speeds metabolism: it makes our blood pressure high or low, it makes us feel like teenagers or geriatrics, and as an added little bonus, it makes our hair and eyebrows fall out. It alters our personalities and behavior, causing our loved ones to wonder who we are and what we did with the Real Person they love and admire. It makes us sweat profusely when there's snow falling or freeze to death in tropical temperatures. It makes our joints and muscles ache, it affects our menstrual cycles adversely and it gives us the ability to put out an eye at twenty paces with breast milk -- even if we haven't had a baby in eleven years. It throws surprise parties for our bodies, the gifts being depression, inability to concentrate, irrational fears, constipation, skin problems, alterations in thought and speech patterns, and BY GOD, Doc, the biggest gift of all is, indeed, an ever-widening-or-shrinking caboose.

Don't believe me? I challenge you to a little experiment, Phil Old Boy -- for six months, I'd like for you to pharmaceutically alter your thyroid level. Lets start with the fun one: make it underactive for the first six months and see if you're right or if we who live it are right. First, though, buy a good supply of Ex-lax and Prozac -- don't forget to pick up a toupee, a girdle, clothing in at least three upscaled sizes, an arsenal of exercise equipment and do plant a salad garden. Have a T-shirt printed, a bold drawing of the thyroid gland in the center, fluffy female sheep encircling it: your caption, per your own ridiculous suggestion on Oprah, should read "Ewes not fat, Ewes just thyroid impaired."After six months, drop the meds and see how long it is before you feel and look "normal" again. As soon as this occurs, take medications to flip-flop you to hyperthyroidism -- make that souped up thyroid rock and roll! Buy clothing in three sizes under your normal body mass, learn to sign your name with trembling hands and imprint onto your brain that you are not having heart attacks, you are experiencing thyroid-related chest pains and heart palpitations. Buy stronger antiperspirants, an asthma inhaler for those little shortness of breath blessings, some anti-diarrheal medications, and lots of small belts. Eat more liver to combat the anemia factor and never leave home for more than ten minutes without a gallon jug of water. Stock your freezer with cheesecakes and eat one whole at each meal so as to maintain what little weight you have left -- otherwise your neighbors will begin to whisper that you're anorexic, bulimic, a cokehead, or HIV positive.