The Thyroid Diagnosis
I’m twelve, sitting on the crinkly paper of the exam table, swinging my legs. Just being me. Getting my physical exam, the doctor checked my reflexes with a small reflex hammer
The doctor says there’s something wrong with my thyroid when they did blood work.
He says the word hypothyroidism, and I had that. I didn’t understand at the time, and he explained it to us. I would have to take medicine every day for the rest of my life and have to get blood work every month. They said it was likely passed down from my biological father. Being diagnosed at such a young age.
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The MRI
It starts because I eat and eat and never get full.
Margaret says there’s something wrong with me.
She says no normal child eats like that. She told the doctor everything she did for me, and how I could sit there and eat three plates of spaghetti.
Her voice is sharp when she talks to the nurse, like she’s trying to convince them I’m defective.
They scheduled an MRI. I remember being told to remove any metal from my clothes and put them in the locker, and I told them I do have braces. They said that be okay.
I’m told to lie still. The machine is cold and loud, like thunder trapped in metal.
I try to breathe steadily and zone out in my mind.
When it’s over, the doctor says everything looks normal.
She smiles and says, “Healthy as a horse.”
But Margaret doesn’t like that answer.
Her face tightens, lips pressed together.
She doesn’t want normal. She wants proof.
Proof that I’m the reason for the tension in that house. Proof that something inside me is wrong.
We leave, and she has nothing else to say, and I stay quiet.
I look out the car window, wondering if I'm not healthy. What is healthiness? Is there something wrong with me liking food? Is it my fault, like being punished for not being broken enough?
Not the first or last doctor, and trying to find something wrong with me.
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The Shots
I hate needles. I didn't like going to the doctor to get vaccines or the flu shot. None of them!
I didn't like how it felt, the sting, and my arm being sore. The way the air gets heavy before the sting.
When I was little, my biological mom used to hold my hand. She’d whisper, “You got this, baby. Just breathe.”
One motherly thing she did that I remembered and missed.
And I’d hold my breath, squeeze her fingers, and it would be okay.
Margaret refused to hold my hand when I asked if she could.
She stands back, arms crossed, watching me. Telling me, “No, get over it.”
I felt so hurt and empty on the inside. Was it because my biological mother used to do this, or is it my fault?
I stare at the wall, focus on the nurse’s voice, feel the pinch, and keep my face still.
The nurse tells me I’m brave.
Margaret doesn’t say a word.
I tell myself not to cry.
Not here.
Not now.
Can’t cry now. Cry later.
That’s what I tell myself every time.
All I needed was comfort and to be held.