Up two flights and down a long hall, surveying suite numbers as I pass, I come to a closed door with the name of Isaac Gardner, MD printed on the outside. I have come face to face with my future.
A bag full of medications, vitamins and notes hang from my right arm. I was less prepared when selling to my brokers, but this is, after all, my health. I open the door slowly to a tranquil sitting room where there is a couch, copy machine, a coat stand and a wall of articles on auto-immune diseases. Soft classical music plays in the background. There is no receptionist to greet me, just a typed note on the second door directing me to press a button to indicate I am in the waiting room.
I feel like Alice In Wonderland.
I press the button and take a seat on the couch surveying the many articles that hang from the bulletin board that covers one complete wall. There is a note that says "Feel free to copy anything that interests you." I am recognizing some of the research articles I have read. I can see that this doctor is familiar with the latest studies and is a patient advocate. I am liking him already.
The second door slowly swings open and a young, sweet girl smiles at me as she says "Hello Catherine, welcome to our office! Do you have your paperwork completed for me?" she extends her soft hand to shake mine. I smile back and reach into my bag, pulling my completed paperwork and hand it to her. "Very good" she responds "Dr. Gardner is with a patient and will be with you in a few minutes." She turns and disappears behind the closed door. At least she wasn't a tall rabbit with a pocket watch mumbling, "I'm late, I'm late for a very important date..."
I survey the titles to the articles on the wall and it reads like the thoughts in my head. I want to hurry up and see him. After about 10 minutes, the girl opens the door and says "Come in, Dr Gardner is ready for you." She directs me through hertiny office to a third door where this gray-haired man in glasses says "Hello there" and pushes his door open. "I am Dr. Gardner," he smiles and directs me to this large room.
Because he combines Psychology with endocrinology, half the room is like a Psychiatrists office with a couch and traditional counseling chairs and the other half of his office looks like a typical medical office. One corner is his desk, which is piled high with paperwork. It looks like the Mad Hatter's Tea Party, except the medical office version. He points to two chairs that face each other and says. "Have a seat Catherine."
He sits across from me with a long legal pad and begins to drill me with great questions. By his fourth question he has already asked more than any of my other Doctors combined. He holds a perfect poker face, as there are few times I can tell my disclosures disturb him with the medical treatment. He asks me over and over about my Synthroid (T4)and I can tell that he thinks the drug is useless. I worked in my mother's doctor's office for many years - I can recognize a disgusted doctor's face. They don't like criticizing each other, but within these first 30 minutes I can tell he is furious at my medical treatments.
Doc, welcome to my world.
His questions drift along the line of energy, mood and memory. It is like he is pinching at my heart. He doesn't explain his line of questioning, he just nods his head and feverishly takes notes. I open up my heart and soul to him. The only person that knows this much about me is God. In the end, he runs some tests, takes my blood pressure and removes his glasses.
"Did you know that you are amazingly healthy in spite of this disease?" he sits down facing me. "My guess is that you take good care of yourself, but this disease and the lack of proper medical care has sadly diminished you Catherine. It is nothing you have done. I am shocked you look as well as you do." he pats my arm. With this, tears flow down my face as I realize someone finally sees the real me. "Can I get better?" I ask in a tone like I expect him to say 'no'. He smiles, leans back and begins to unload his diagnosis.
It seems I have probably had this since I was a young girl. To him, I am a fighter. He concludes that I have been fighting my way through life for years. He asks me about my mornings and whether I have ever felt good when I wake up. My answer is never, and he doesn't look surprised. "I bet you are cold quite a bit and hate winters. You are probably at your worst in the fog," he comments as I nod my head in agreement. "Your prescription medications are all wrong. I am having trouble with the level of Synthroid, which I think is useless in your system. The T3 level that is prescribed is a joke, and we are going to consistently raise it over the next 4 weeks. I am prescribing you a good sleeping pill. Next week, I want your x husband to take your son. I want you to take a hot bath, turn off your phone, put on pjs, take a pill, turn all distractions off and go to bed. I want you to sleep until you are sick of sleeping. Then, when you wake up, call a good friend and go for a nice walk."
"In three weeks, because of the increased T3 and rest I expect to see a slowly improving Catherine. I will run blood tests at this time and I expect we will begin to see a slow recovery. In time, you will have a whole new view of life. I have seen sicker patients and you should see how well they are doing today." he takes a breath and hands me a Kleenex.
"This is a difficult disease to bear because the lack of a healthy functioning thyroid messes with your hormones, your body and your mind. The mind is the hardest part Catherine." he squeezes my arm as I wipe my eyes.
He writes out my new prescriptions and arranges my next appointment. He hands me over to his assistant who smiles at me like she knows that every patient leaving his office is already better. "He is pretty wonderful," I comment to her. She nods as she says, "Oh yes he really is." I finally found my savior in this little gray haired Einstein-looking doctor.
Now I only hope, as interest rates continue to rise that I can keep business going long enough to get well enough to find something else to do to support me while I finish my first book.
My new hottie 'uberman' muse has offered to meet me to help along with my chapters. He is too special to invade his privacy to write of him here, but sometimes God sends us angels when we least expect them. Now I have two. I only hope I can keep it all together long enough to get back on my feet. I am so close to going under that it frightens me and to rely on my x husband is killing me. I am so done with it all. I pray myself to sleep every night that I make it just one more month - buy myself just a little longer while I get better.
Like Moses towards the end of his crossing of the desert from Egypt to Midian, maybe these are the shepherds that take me in and allow me to shape a new life.
Until next time-
C
