Health Saga Update--number one

I know I’m posting an update on the same day that I put up the original post, but I had written it a week ago and forgot to put it up. It was easier to just do it this way rather than edit. Sorry about it.

I got the results of the last saliva tests. The way it works is I have to put this thing in my mouth between 11 and midnight two nights in a row, keep them in the fridge, and then turn them into the lab.

One of the samples tested at the very highest point of normal, and the other one tested in the not-normal range.

Woo. Hoo.

That was enough for the endocrinologist to recommend going to a neurosurgeon.

I’m stoked. I know that it seems strange to be rooting for bad test results so that I can have brain surgery. The thing is, it means that they have a clue about what’s wrong with me and we can make a plan. After a year and a half, that’s excellent news.

My Health Saga

I’ve been meaning to write this post for a while. I’ve got some crazy health stuff going on and so many of my people have wanted to be updated. I thought that I could maybe just post updates on here and then it would reach everyone at once.

I’ll start at the beginning. It’s long, so if you know this part or don’t want the details feel free to skip around…

In March of 2016 I hurt my back at Orange Theory. It felt like it always felt when I would “throw my back out,” but this time I kept not getting better. Finally, at the beginning of June 2016, I went to a doctor. He told me that I had actually torn the ligament that connects my hip to my spine. He was hoping to avoid surgery, so he prescribed physical therapy and a three-week course of prednisone (steroids). I am one of those lucky (insert sarcasm) people that, as soon as I even think about skipping a workout, I gain a pound or two. I continued eating pretty healthy, but I was gaining weight like it was my job. To put it in perspective, I gained 7 lbs. the month that I did the Whole 30 (like paleo, but less fun and more intense, and people usually lose 10-ish pounds when they do it). I was finally cleared to get back to working out in September. I was so stoked, because I was thinking that it would take time, but I should start to see a downward trend on the scale.

Except I didn’t. I kept gaining at the same rate. In October I went back to the doc. She ran a few tests, and one of them came back with results that looked like Cushing’s disease. It’s a super hard to diagnose, super rare endocrine problem that is sometimes brought on by steroids, sometimes brought on by a tumor either on the adrenal glands or the pituitary gland. It has to do with out-of-whack cortisol levels, which is your “fight or flight” mechanism. Symptoms include weight gain in a particular pattern (mostly in the belly, with skinny arms and legs, but a round face and a “buffalo hump” on the shoulders), headaches, adrenal fatigue, and body acne, so basically it’s just a whole lot of fun. I was referred to an endocrinologist, who explained to me that it takes time to diagnose, because the tests have to be judged against each other, basically. So we would have to run tests, wait a bit, and run more. Then, my insurance company said that even though they had originally said they were, these doctors weren’t in-network, so they weren’t going to pay for them. That meant I had to start with new doctors. By the time I finally got to see an in-network endocrinologist, it was the beginning of May 2017.

The new doc, which I actually liked better than the other one, told me that there was no way that this could be steroid induced, as the last endocrinologist had suspected, because my last dose was in August 2016 and my cortisol levels would have started to improve immediately. That left tumor caused.

In June I had an MRI. Let me just take a minute here to thank Jesus for Valium. MRI’s were discovered, I think, to use in place of being drawn and quartered. So, I got to get tortured for about an hour and pay almost a thousand dollars for it. FUN! Back to the story, though, when the results came back they had found a small adenoma (tumor) on my pituitary gland (in my brain). I heard brain tumor and did a minor freak out, until I realized that it was non-cancerous and I also remembered that I was widowed at 30 and survived so I’m basically resilient.  The kind of tumor that it is occurs normally in 10% of the population, so they needed to run a few more tests to make sure that it was Cushing’s disease before they would recommend surgery, the only cure for Cushing’s. If it isn’t causing Cushing’s it can just stay in there, because in most people an adenoma like mine is totally harmless and it’s not a good idea to cut into my brains if it’s not absolutely necessary.

There are 3 types of tests for Cushing’s (blood, urine and saliva), and I needed two out of three to come back with abnormal numbers. The blood numbers are always abnormal, so that was good (I guess?). We did another round of urine and saliva tests. That’s a treat let me tell you. This might be over sharing, but the urine one requires keeping all of my pee for 24 hours. In the fridge. Gross. In the end, the results on one were totally normal and the other weren’t normal, but weren’t abnormal enough. The endocrinologist told me that my case was basically too crazy and she didn’t know how to treat me. So, I could do one of two things. I could wait a couple of months and then we could run the tests again, or I could go to a research facility. I didn’t want to wait.

At that point it was July, and I started trying to get my insurance to cover a research facility/specialty clinic. Trying to get the clinic and Cigna, my insurance, to cooperate with each other required being on the phone with one or the other of them daily, sometimes both, from July until the last week of September. After all that, Cigna’s decision was that they wouldn’t cover an out of network doctor because they had people in network that could treat me. (Really? Cuz the in-network doctor said she couldn’t treat me.)

I did a number of things. I cried and threw a fit. I filed a complaint with the insurance commission. I went back to my in-network endocrinologist to formulate a plan.

She told me that I should just wait for open enrollment and start with a new insurance company for next year. I am going to do that, even though it infuriates me because it means that those f*ck3rs at Cigna win. She also ran another set of tests, now that it’s been a couple of months (that was her plan B back in July). I’m still waiting on results.

And that brings us up to date. It’s frustrating. It’s time consuming. It makes me feel impotent. And, I already don’t feel good. I’m exhausted all the time, and I feel fat (at this point I’ve gained about 45 lbs total, which is more than 1/3 again what I weighed back in March of 2016 when this whole thing started), and I always have a headache. I’m pretty sick of it and just want to get better. There are things I want to do, like go out at night with my friends (with adrenal fatigue, I'm always too tired). Like put on my socks (it’s hard with all this extra weight in the way!). I don’t give up. We’re gonna get this thing figured out.

Here's a visual. The above two were taken about a month before I hurt my back.

This one was this summer. 40lbs. later.

I think I've maybe dated all of the men in Denver.

So, do you guys remember that post from a million years ago where I had gone out with that one guy from eHarmony? With most guys that I’ve gone out with once, I forget their actual names and in my mind I call them whatever attribute stood out the most. I called this guy The Short Guy. Before we went out he acted interested but wouldn’t actually call, he would only text. I mean, that’s pretty par for the course in 2017, but in 2012, it was still somewhat unusual and gauche. I remember being so frustrated that he wanted to text back and forth and when I told him that I didn’t think texting was an affective way to get to know someone, would he like to call me? He pretty much said, “no,” but still asked me out. Anyway, after we met (and I found out he was lying about how tall he was, among other things), he accidentally really liked me. I told him that I wasn’t interested. I was really nice about it. 

Then, and I am not making this up, my phone texted him without my consent the next day. In my defense I will say that this was in my pre-iphone days. I don’t know what happened. I think my crappy phone randomly shut off, then when it powered back up it sent a text that must have been a partial from when we were texting back and forth. It was not even a complete thought or sentence. I can’t remember, but I think it was something like, “but then.” He texted back immediately to see if I had changed my mind "but then" wanted to go out. I had to say “no” again for the second time in 24 hours.

That’s as much as I told you a few years ago, but there’s more to the story.

I think his name was Mark. Or Marc. Or something like that. It was a name that several people I know have. Six months later, even though I thought I had deleted his number, and had switched phones and phone companies, his number popped up when I tried to call one of the other dudes with his name. He immediately knew it was me, but it took me awhile to figure out that I had not actually reached my mortgage broker’s voicemail, as I had intended. Mark texted me right after the call, of course, and after I figured out who he was, he asked me out again. Poor guy. I mean, it was totally my fault, and I could see how it would be confusing, and probably felt like fate, but I wondered how many times I was going to have to turn him down. Because, about six months after that, we were both on a free dating website and he asked me out a fourth time. Again I had to say, “no thanks.”

At the time his status was something like, “single, never been married.” The other day, on a different website, something like six years after I went out with him, he showed up as, “divorced.” With a kid. 

This is no surprise. Because, my life is a movie and this is an excellent fluffy arc to add humor to the bigger story, whatever that ends up being. If they actually film it, I think someone like Danny DeVito should play his part. But, it’s official: I’ve dated all of the men in Denver and now I’m starting back at the beginning and cycling back through. I just hope I don’t end up going out with The Spitter again. Because, gross.

Eight Years

Eight. Years.

It feels like yesterday. And also like a different lifetime.

I still remember the way the light looked on the morning that I kissed him goodbye, not knowing it was our last kiss. The sun had that beautiful butterscotch hue to it as it flooded the kitchen of our little condo, the rich color that only August sun has. I had on a too-big green give-away t-shirt and still had my TMJ mouth guard in. He scolded me for being out of bed early on my day off, but I wanted to make him coffee before he left for school. It was so--ordinary.

I would be widowed by the time that lovely sun set.

***

I find myself reflecting on the last eight years. What lessons have these years taught me? Among other things, this:

I learned how to grieve. Well, I know I’m still learning, but I learned early on that grief is a relentless teacher that never really takes a break, only changes, but can apparate back to it’s original form and back again in the same moment. I learned to give myself grace about timelines and linear “progress” and anything else that felt like expectation. I learned to give grace to others; too, even if they had expectations for my grieving that I could not meet.  Some of the support I got was tremendous (saints, I tell you!). But, it’s also amazing to me how few of the people in my current “inner circle” even knew me eight years ago. It’s hard for me sometimes that they never even knew Sawan, this man that changed me so fully and completely by his presence and then by his absence.

I learned that there are no guarantees. I was not promised a husband that would live until we were old. I was not promised children. I was not promised an easy life. (I was also not promised other marriage benefits-- like orgasms, or someone to do the “dude” things like changing the furnace filters and taking out the trash and opening all the jars.) I was only promised sufficient grace. You know, just enough grace to get by. Over the years I recognized that so much of the time I enjoy not merely sufficient grace, but rather an extravagance of grace.

I learned that life isn’t going to look like I thought it would. It isn’t even going to look like I thought it would once I realized I had to re-think life. I’m still learning to get over that and just live. I’m learning to live like this is my one wild and precious life, and I won’t squander it by merely surviving.

***

And where was I before the day

That I first saw your lovely face?

Now I see it every day.

And I know that I am the luckiest.

-Ben Folds from The Luckiest (which was “our song”)

It was pretty great while the luck held, Baby. I miss you every day.