I got the illness and yet another insert in my medical file.
It’s fine – when I was rapidly losing weight and feeling like I could take on the world with the excess energy I had, it was sublime.
The severe cartoon-like heart palpitations were another matter however, and were sadly followed with beta-blockers to bring me back to earth with a thud.
Since then, I’ve been on varying doses of thyroid meds to calibrate me back to normal. Up a little, down a little.
I had a consultation with an empathic and lovely endocrinologist today who fortunately has a great insight into Alemtuzumab-induced Grave’s Disease.
I’m to stay on the meds for another six months, but the likelihood is I will have to choose between losing my thyroid or becoming radioactive (for a week).
Hmm. I googled, and wish I hadn’t. One post started, ‘so, you’ve elected to have your throat cut – are you aware of the risks?’
I met The Boss for Emergency Talks tonight (long, sorry work saga) and explained my dilemma.
I took a sip of wine and said, ‘and I’ve looked in to it, you know, if I get the thyroid taken out, I could, like, lose my ability to … shout.’
‘Can you go private? I’ll pay.’
I asked him how he was, what with his broken arm, dodgy knee and headaches.
That obviously reminded him and I waited as he popped out a few pills from their blister packs.
‘You know my dodgy knee?’
‘How can I forget, Boss?’
‘Erm, well, the doctor thinks its, well, um …’
‘Isn’t that what older people get?’
If looks could kill …