The Goiter

 So, I am going to go against my self-imposed policy of keeping my health updates private and tell you about my latest.

I hate to do this, but this post will be the first my kids know, too. 

Let me preface this to say I really don’t like going to the doctor.  I worry in advance weeks before I have to see him. And ever since I learned I have a wonky heart, my pre-appointment anxiety is on steroids.

My fear/distrust of doctors actually began in the seventies when I was a young girl and my mother’s fatal brain tumor was misdiagnosed for an entire year, first as migraines and then perimenopause, followed by the false assurances of her recovery via brutal chemotherapy and radiation, both of which completely destroyed the quality of her remaining year with us.

I realized doctors weren’t gods and they not only couldn’t always save us, sometimes they made it worse.

And then through some wacky twist of fate, I ended up as a medical malpractice paralegal and you don’t even want to know the things I saw.

“Just shoot me if I get sick,” I instructed my husband.

But then, you know, I want to hang around after all so I force myself to see the doctor and cardiologist twice a year and I not only watch my diet, I have been walking a couple of miles a day so that when I go for my visits, no one will tell me I have to lose weight, etc. and I will pass my exams with flying colors.

And I gotta admit, both of my doctors are great with nice bedside manners so I know anything bad is all in my head and I shouldn’t be such a baby but oh well, I’m too old to change.

So I’m gearing up for my impending visit, terrified as usual, when I start having these strange symptoms.

Let me interject again.

I promised Gary…no, I swore on my life to Gary, that I would never Google anything medical again.

Let’s just say there have been incidents with Robin Slick and Google where illness and disease are concerned with many unnecessary fears stoked and many unnecessary curse words uttered.

Anyway, I started having these crazy symptoms which were so ridiculous I probably wouldn’t have Googled them anyway, promise to Gary or not.

Like, I swore I had a piece of glass in my knee. So much so that I got out of bed in the middle of the night to get a flashlight. I climbed back in, forgetting about my situation and put all my weight on my bad knee, which of course made me yelp and wake Gary.

Correction, I woke him when I shined the flashlight in his face instead of my leg.

“What now?” Gary rolled over, squinting.

“I think I have glass in my knee.”

Gary sighed. “How. How did you get glass in your knee in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t know but it really hurts.”

“Go back to sleep, you lunatic.”

I know I can be a hypochondriac but how could I be imagining this?

I decided to diagnose myself with a hairline fracture somewhere and started getting into bed ass first so I never had to put any pressure on my knee.

Until I forgot and this time, it felt like I was pierced by a dagger of glass, sending white hot sparks of pain up through my thigh.

I made Gary get out the flashlight AND the magnifying glass.

“I don’t see anything, Rob. I bet it’s arthritis. Maybe you should ask your doctor.”

I shook my head vehemently. “Why? So he can send me to more specialists and pump me up with more prescriptions?   Nah, I’m good. This is probably my crazy imagination.”

“Probably,” he agreed.

I do not have a good reputation regarding medical complaints. Did I mention I am a hypochondriac terrified of doctors?

Gary pulled the covers up over his head. “Do other husbands get woken in the middle of the night like this or am I the only lucky one?”

Hey, dude. With creative, artsy people you might get insanity but there are big perks, too.

Just give me a minute to think of them.

This is probably a good time to share a childhood memory with you. Unlike normal people, my memories are not about beach vacations or other fun family outings. What can I say, I was a weird little kid. Anyway, my mom used to shop at a local store where the cashier was a woman who had a huge…and I mean gigantically huge…growth on her neck.

“Mom, mom, what is that?” asked a horrified, seven year old me. 

I couldn’t stop staring at it, it was like a second head was growing out of her throat.

She scared the living crap out of me.

“Shhh, stop, you’re embarrassing me,” whispered my mother. “That poor woman has a goiter.”

“A what? A goiter? What’s a goiter? Do they just grow out of some people? Can it happen to me?” I asked horrified, clutching my neck.

My mother tried not to laugh, I am sure, but I remember she tried to assuage my fears in between politically incorrect chuckles by telling me that the poor woman had a thyroid condition. Meanwhile, I am wondering why she thought this was funny when I was so terrified and literally couldn’t get it out of my twisted little head.

Seriously, mom. What if I grew a goiter?

Oh my god!

Can I tell you I worried about getting a goiter right up until puberty?

Yeah. Really.

Anyway, back to the present and the imaginary glass in my knee.  I decided I didn’t need to tell the doctor because the only time I felt pain was if I kneeled on my knee. I would simply go ass first into bed for eternity.

No problem.

Until a couple of nights later, when I woke up in the middle of the night, gasping in pain.

“What? What?” Gary turned on his nightstand lamp, looking worried, pissed, and half asleep.

“My toe! My big toe! It feels like it’s on fire!”

Gary sat up and stared at me.

“Your big toe, huh. Your big freaking toe. You realize you’re insane, Robin, right?”

I struggled to get out of bed.

“I probably have blood poisoning from the glass embedded in my knee,” I moaned.

Now I had his attention.

“That’s it. You’re going to the doctor!”

I had to agree. If nothing else, maybe he could recommend a good psychiatrist.

So, I went. And with what was probably a bright red face, I told him my bizarre symptoms.

“It feels like there’s glass in my knee and my big toe is throbbing so badly I feel like I need orthopedic shoes or something,” I said sheepishly.

The doctor looked at me sympathetically.

“Actually, these are classic symptoms. I will do bloodwork, of course, but I can give you my diagnosis right now.”

“So I’m not crazy?”

Actually, why was I worried about that? The doctor looked concerned and was making a lot of notes.

What the hell was wrong with me?

And then he said the words I dreaded my entire life.

I went white and clutched my neck. The room started spinning and I felt myself drenched in sweat.

“Robin! Are you okay? Listen…it’s not that serious, we can likely attack it with diet and exercise…why are you holding your throat?”

My mouth was completely parched, I could barely speak.

“Goiter,” I gasped. “You said I had a goiter.” My eyes filled with tears, I was about to get hysterical.

“Goiter? Who said anything about a goiter? I said you have gout. It’s a form of arthritis, and in your case, probably caused by your medication. It usually occurs in people who eat a lot of red meat but I know that excluded you…hey, are you okay?”

I was still shaking. I couldn’t believe I thought I had a goiter…it was like every horrible nightmare I had as a kid coming true, starting with my mother’s death.

What a piece of work I am.

Anyway, after the initial horror came profound embarrassment, followed by my doctor and I having belly laughs.

“Don’t ever change, you freak,” said Gary, gasping for air laughing when I told him what happened.

No worries there, bro. If it hasn’t happened yet, it ain’t happening.

So now I can add gout to my old lady resume.  But hey, knowing what else can get me (I’m looking at you, goiter), I’ll take it.

And that’s my update.

Thank you for your attention to this matter! RJS