I Haven't Got Time For The Pain

🎶 Or the room, or the need for the pain 🎶

by yours truly, with music by Carly Simon

Well, well, well. Here I am. At my computer. Typing. It’s about time.

Truth be told, I’m over a month into this medical adventure, and still sporting a spruced-up version of pajamas every day due to my frequent need to nap and for providing easy access to my ass, which I still cannot wipe on my own. And why not wear PJs? It’s not like I can drive anywhere, like to a store, restaurant, or the park. I certainly can’t wrangle cattle or feed horses, and it will likely be another 2-3 months before I can garden and carry groceries in from the car.

And fuck hiking and swimming, my two favorite sports. I feel like heading up into the hills at the ranch like I need a hole in the head. And what could I possibly do in a pool right now? Float? Pretty sure that would piss off anyone who had to share a lane with me.

Yeah… after 10-12 fractures, I’m feeling a tad vulnerable. And stiff, and sore, and tottery. Yes, that’s a word. And the 6-inch scars on both arms from the surgeries… impressive! Makes my C-section look like a walk in the park. Ditto for my full hip replacement. Fortunately, my life partner has forgiving eyesight, and our bedroom lights are on a dimmer.

Hard to count the actual number of fractures in a carpal bone. My doctor likened this injury to a shattered marble.

Despite all this damage, I can do a lot more today than 5 weeks ago, when I had my calamitous fall. For starters, I am back to writing. But I still cannot believe this happened. You’re going along, you’re going along… and things seem great. Then fucking WHAM! You’re on the ground and broken into a million pieces.

Hey Debbie… not going to lie. When you had that spill on your bike a couple of years ago — you know, the one where you broke both of your arms – I thought, “What the fuck? How does someone do that?” That really did go through my head. Famous last thought bubble. I owe you a huge apology for going there, even if it was only in my mind.

FYI, Debbie has been my friend since 5th-grade hockey. She played guard, and I was the goalie for the Million Dollar Babies. We lost every single game that season, but we had a helluva lot of fun. Sometimes, when you have no skill at a thing, the only thing you can do is laugh. And that we did — much more fun than winning.

Hey, not trying to compete with you on this, Deb, but I broke both wrists in multiple locations and had a comminuted patellar fracture in the shape of a perfect X on my right kneecap, and a broken rib. And I wasn’t even on a bike. All I did was trip on a cement parking block. Yep… I snagged the gold at the Stupidity Olympics.

So, here goes. The not-so-short version of my tale of woe.

In March of 2025, I was diagnosed with Graves’ Disease, this after having a full-blown thyroid storm — a life-threatening combo of conditions. To be frank, before this storm blew in, I didn’t even know I had a thyroid problem, or where exactly the thyroid resided in my body, let alone any understanding of the function my thyroid played in keeping me alive. Turns out thyroids control just about everything in a person’s body, though in my case, my thyroid was cueing my whole body to malfunction, like a drunken orchestra conductor. Yes, music colleagues, I’m envisioning that Scottish dude who directed Daphnis and Chloé at the Scotia Festival of Music in the early 90s. You remember the guy. The festival orchestra slayed that piece and then got a 10-minute standing ovation. Then that fucker made us play the whole tune a second time. As an encore.

Our conductor looked a little like this dude.

For those of you not in the classical music world, know this: Daphnis and Chloé is widely considered one of the most difficult pieces in the orchestral repertoire. It is absolutely exhausting to play. Imagine, if you will, finishing the Boston Marathon, then immediately being bused back up to the top of the race to run it a second time. That’s what our illustrious conductor would have us do.

Maybe he had Graves’ Disease. Hadn’t thought of that.

From The Cleveland Clinic via AI

My thyroid in 2025

Prior to this crack in my engine block, I had pretty much been FINE. At age 63, I was taking one pill. For hypertension. That was it.

Then, out of the blue, a year ago, I developed a laundry list of symptoms — all of them pointing to Graves’ Disease according to Chamberlain’s Symptoms and Signs in Clinical Medicine.

This was not a subtle version of the disease — it was a full-on war with my body. Graves’ was taking out all of the feeling in my hands, weakening the muscles in my legs, making me hyper and reactive, causing my heart to race and my blood pressure to spike. And I lost a good chunk of my left kidney during the thyroid storm from a renal infarction, with other blood clots floating around out there, threatening more damage. At first, I assumed this downturn in my health was caused by my exposure to that endless stream of bad news we’ve all had to endure since Trump assumed his second term, as well as the subsequent stress I experienced in trying to write political satire when everything in this world had gone way beyond being funny or ironical.

The timeline was right: Trump was sworn in on January 20, 2025, and by the first week in March of 2025, the thyroid storm had rolled in. So yes, Trump was likely a contributing factor in my health crisis, though the evidence was only circumstantial. There was also the issue of the EIGHT amalgam fillings I’d had in my mouth since first grade. Apparently, amalgam fillings contain 50% elemental mercury, and guess what? Continuous exposure to that over many years can damage your thyroid. Yes, those fillings are now GONE.

The majority of my health issues, however, really seemed to be pointing to STRESS as the main contributing factor. This became abundantly clear as the year wore on and my huge team of doctors struggled to get my thyroid hormone levels under control — to no avail, I might add. Chronic stress, elevated cortisol levels — and decades of it — seemed to be the root cause of my problems, in combination with my having a genetic predisposition for the disease. Turns out several family members have had Graves’. Anyone who’s been a single mother with two kids, who’s also running their own business, can pretty much imagine how this situation might have gone down. Add to that a vindictive ex who was getting off on going to court every month for years, and there you have it! My thyroid was toast.

For all of 2025, the fabulous team of medical professionals at Kaiser Permanente kept the worst of my symptoms at bay, but the Methimazole and beta-blockers were not resolving the problem, and many of my symptoms were getting worse. So a decision was made that I needed a series of surgeries, first for my hands, where serious nerve damage was taking place, and then my whole medical team and their cheerleading squad came together in deciding the thyroid needed to go. All of it. Rah-rah.

And so, three surgeries were scheduled for the fall of 2025. These were done efficiently and with minimal pain. I healed quickly, had no complications, and within weeks, the feeling began to return to both of my hands. Yes!! And after the third surgery, a thyroidectomy, I felt instant relief. Many of my hyperthyroid symptoms fell off — just like that, within days of the surgery. A huge thank you to my medical team — the OR nurses, my surgeons, my PCP, my endocrinologist, and my physical therapists. A really kind and talented bunch.

The bit that would take longer to resolve, as it turned out, was finding the right dosage of Levothyroxine to take daily — that artificial hormone used to replace the essential-for-life thyroxine my thyroid gland had been producing. I was started on 150 mg, but within a short period of time, it became apparent this was way too much; my TSH and free T4 levels were off the charts, and I was back to experiencing all the classic symptoms of hyperthyroidism. Ugh. And so, the dosage was reduced slightly, with subsequent blood tests showing the situation still not cooling off. Patience was required, I was told. It would take time for everything to equilibrate.

And so I went about my life as if I were back to normal, which I was not. In fact, I felt superhuman. I needed very little sleep, I was writing like a fiend, I was back to hiking and swimming, and I had a voracious appetite. And really high blood pressure. Things were still off. Very.

And so it was on the day I fell, which was after a night of about 4 hours of sleep, a morning packed full of chores, and an 8-mile afternoon hike. Pretty sure I was exhausted, though nothing in my body or mind was registering this fact. Why? Because I was on the hyperthyroidism habitrail.

Remember these?

And then, suddenly, there I was, on the ground at the Food Shed parking lot, writhing in pain. In the flick of a switch, I went from trotting out to the car to get my reusable shopping tote to being splayed out on the asphalt, arms grossly deformed, and experiencing the worst pain I have felt in my entire life. And this pain was for good reason — I had a lot of broken bones.

This is where my description of the events on January 24th needs to end. The rest is far too triggering, and who needs to hear it? No one. Suffice it to say, that horrible night was followed by two weeks of excruciating pain (as I waited for bilateral arm surgery), and then three more weeks of severe pain after the surgery, during which, due to the numerous complications of my injuries, no nerve block could be administered. What a shitty five weeks. I pray I never have to relive this experience. And may you never have this happen to you.

The good news: I am feeling much better. And I am healing. And most importantly, I can now take a shower. There is NOTHING better than a long, hot shower after a month of being trapped in bed.

So, what happens when you’ve got 2500+ hours to lie around and think? I’m talking about endless hours where you’re incapable of doing even the most basic tasks. You cannot sit up or use your arms, hands, or fingers. You cannot walk, cannot use the bathroom, you can’t feed yourself, or hold a cup of water to your mouth. You can’t run a brush through your hair or put on a fresh nightgown.

So, you ruminate, and the days seem endless, and it feels like you will never be released from the pain. You wonder how long you can go on. You may, as I did, want the whole thing to end. Your life, that is.

But John… he was right there the whole time. He never let up. He never let himself get pulled into my abyss. He was strong and positive and constant. And he reminded me that I needed to hang in there because of my kids, and because of him. When I told him I couldn’t stand the thought of having to rely on him or them, that this was not how I envisioned my life, that they didn’t deserve this, he asked, “Don’t you want to be there to take care of me? Or them?” Well, of course I did.

I think that was a trick question. 😂

The pity party was officially over. I knew what I needed to do. I needed to get well. For myself and for them.

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