The Day I Ate My Feelings

Or as I call it, “yesterday.”

I got the results of my thyroid scan yesterday and, to no one’s dismay, I have Hashimoto’s Disease.

I have to take my Cytomel twice a day, without exception, and continue to diet if I want to lose weight. And not eat after 7:15 p.m., which I tried to say was almost impossible since I don’t get home from work most nights until 7 p.m., but he was having none of it. There is no answer to my weight gain other than to diet, which I hate, but there you have it. The added Cytomel should help, but I’m stuck for the time being.

Oh and did I mention that they also found a lymph node on my sternum?

It’s tiny, and not hard, and you can’t even feel it, though it’s a bit tender to the touch, but that’s probably from all of the force we applied to that area yesterday, trying to unearth it, but talk about the things you don’t want found on you. My doctor made some calls, and brought in the opinion of an oncologist he knows, and she was unfazed. As I was told, it could be the result of a sore throat you’re fighting off, which I have been for days.

“You’re healthy, we’re not worried about it,” he said.

I called Scott and told him about it, and that we weren’t going to worry if the doctors aren’t going to worry, but I did worry about it, to the point of tears, and I ended doing what I always do about things that upset me, and I bury it down deep as I can and try and ignore it. I work, work, work. Of course, as soon as work was over for the day, and I had nothing else but me, a package of frozen chicken breasts and no desire to cook, worry made itself known. No sooner had Scott walked out the door to pick up dinner did I shotgun several Girl Scout cookies before I knew what hit me. And then had a veggie sandwich. And some fries. I woke up this morning with a painful, upset stomach, and kinda laughed at how predictable I am.

I’m not beating myself up for anything more than not dealing with my anxiety in a more productive fashion. Old habits, they die hard, but it’s no excuse. I know better.

I should have talked to my husband about how scared it all made me. I should have talked about how frustrated I am that I can’t just eat and work out like I used to and not worry about gaining weight on top of my efforts. I can’t tell you how much it sucks, and how utterly defeating it is. And while I like myself a great deal, I’m just not at a weight where I feel comfortable. It’s not a matter of being skinny. It’s a matter of not carrying 10-15 extra pounds on me while I run, dance, lift or bike. It’s a matter of not being able to fit into my clothes. But I’ll diet if that’s what it takes to be at a weight where I feel comfortable, that’s the honest to God’s truth.

This means, of course, dealing with my feelings much better than I did last night.

I don’t really know how I’m going to manage not eating after 7:15 p.m., but we’ll try it. I trust my doctor, and I can make do. I told Scott that I don’t expect to be able to do this every day, and especially not on weekends when we have dinner plans, but I’ll make do. And I’ll make sure to take my medication in the afternoon as ordered and not forget it. AND not eat my anxiety into the bottom of a box of cookies or a bag of chips or a pile of french fries – I managed to stop myself before I finished those, which shocks me to no end.

In the morning light of today, I’m doing exactly what my doctor ordered me to so, and that is not to worry. I’m fine, and it was just a shock to the system, a scare. And I’m lucky to have awesome health insurance and health care (AHEM), so even if it had been something we could have handled it. But I have some work to do on handling my stress better. There’s no pill for that,