In the past 36 hours, six vials worth of blood that used to be on the inside of my body is on the outside.
I went to the endocrinologist. She showed a bit of incredulity at the facts that
- I haven’t visited an endocrinologist in over ten years;
- I stopped taking the brain tumor meds without consulting a doctor; and
- I have a rare endocrine disease on each side of my family.
However, she got much less doctor-y condescending when
- I was clearly super anxious and
- I said my psychiatrist suggested these tests.
So after draining more than 10% of the blood from my body, I now must wait to hear about thyroid, cortisol, gastrin, blah, blah, blah, abnormalities.
Don’t I sound so chipper and well-adjusted about this?
It’s strange because I live under the assumption that I indeed have my dad’s genetic disease. It’s always been my ace-in-the-hole: a passive suicide, if you can call it that. That I can ignore the signs and symptoms and then claim ignorance as they claim me.
“Why did you get all those blood tests then?” you ask.
Because some part of me wants to know whether these stupid broken brain issues can be attributed to wacky body chemistry. Because that might mean it’s not my fault. That doesn’t mean I want to treat it or that I’ll accept the anxiety, et. al.; it means I might not have brought it upon myself – I can blame science.
I was (am) entirely too afraid of the results I wouldn’t get them on my own, so I needed a doctor to explicitly tell me to do it. Does that make sense?
The trickiest part is now – the aftermath. Since I don’t answer the phone, I’m going to sit with an unanswered voicemail from this doctor for days before mustering the courage to listen. What if she asks me to call her back? I simply won’t. So how will I get the results? Tricky.