Hypo: -thermia, -thyroidism

I went to see a therapist today. It’s been interesting, seeing a therapist regularly for several years now. My parents didn’t see a therapist ever, when I was little. I didn’t even know it existed until in seventh grade I was sent to the school psychologist. In the little town where I lived all my youth, there may have been mental health professionals, but I didn’t know any.

During Christmas break, right after I turned 13 years old, I started throwing up at swim practice. It was very cold outside and the pool water was not super warm. I managed to reach the end of a lap before leaning over the side of the pool and barfing on the concrete. My parents took me home, wrapped me up in blankets and set me next to the wood stove in the living room. I was shaking and not very alert. My brother said I was faking it; he was 20 and still the know-it-all. He had a small strip of plastic, about the size of a bandage, that he held up to my forehead. It had several squares that changed color to indicate temperature. To his astonishment, my temperature was below them, too cold. With wonder and some respect he said I had hypothermia.

Over the next several days I recovered. My body started making its own heat again right away; I rested until school started. Then there were problems. I got sick. Every day, for a month, I started school feeling fine, kept going until about 11 a.m. My energy drained away; I felt faint and sick to my stomach. My teacher sent me to the principal’s office; there was no nurse in the building. I sat in his outer office with the secretary for a few minutes, then called my parents. My mother brought me home.

Next day, same thing, at about the same time. For four weeks! The principal told my mother that I would arrive in his office looking green, then set for a while and recover a bit, but still be really tired. My mother told him that I went home, slept for three hours, was awake in the evening, then slept all night.

I saw a physician; he didn’t know what was wrong. My parents were at a loss. This little town, a nearly ideal place to raise children because everyone knew everyone, did not have the resources to figure it out.

My teachers debated what was wrong. My afternoon teachers didn’t see me except in the hallway. The loudest teacher said I was depressed. This is the first I remember hearing about depression as a mental ailment instead of an economic collapse.

After a month my parents got a letter from the school. It said that I had missed two weeks of school; if I missed any more I would be counted truant. So when I felt faint again, I had to stay. When I walked into my afternoon class, the teacher and students cheered and clapped, with laughter. I smiled and walked slowly to my seat. I wanted to stay awake; I really did. I loved learning and enjoyed my classes.

The physician recommended we see an endocrinologist. There was one in Cody, Wyoming, an hour away by car. Endocrinology was a new thing to us. Hormones were the things that brought on puberty and made hair grow in odd places. I mean, really! Why would you put hair where it’ll get caught in whatever else is going on there?

The endocrinologist wanted blood tests, a bunch of them, one every month or so for the first year. And then they said I’d be tested every few months for the rest of my life! I decided I’d better get used to having my arms poked. I don’t freak out now, but I don’t enjoy it.

The diagnosis was hypothyroidism. In typical me fashion, I memorized how to spell it and how to pronounce it. I read all the information we were given about it, which wasn’t much. There wasn’t much known about it. My hometown physician hadn’t thought of it because I didn’t fit the known profile. I wasn’t fat. I wasn’t short or mentally slow. I was skinny, reasonably tall for my age, and at the top of my class. In fact, when the teacher said I was depressed, my mom answered, “Of course she’s depressed! She’s gone from all A’s to getting D’s.”

I started taking a pill every morning, and I felt better. Over the next couple months my life returned to normal. I had more energy; I went back to swimming. My grades went back into the stratosphere. And I saw the school psychologist occasionally. He was a portly, kind man with a cheerful face and demeanor. He loved people. He cared about us and we could tell. He was not worried about me; he said I had good parents who supported me. He encouraged me.