Diagnosis

I have been putting off writing this one. I hadn't decided if I was going to discuss it on a public forum at all. But I've been complaining about my health on here a lot, so since the Great Mystery Illness has finally been diagnosed I might as well share that here as well.

The problem is I have been vacillating pretty drastically between generally feeling optimistic to wallowing in self-pity. On a good day I am glad that I will now be able to begin a treatment plan and start taking those baby steps in the right direction; maybe even allow myself to feel hopeful about who a happy healthy me could be... Like at least now I know what's wrong and can be proactive about solutions. But on a pessimistic day, I envision my future like this:

I've been diagnosed with PCOS. It's named after one of its more visible symptoms - polycystic ovaries - but it is actually a hormonal imbalance. More specifically, it's having an excess of androgens (male sex hormones like testosterone). I'll use my most recent bloodwork as an example. Say the ratio of LH to FSH should be 1:1, imbalanced would be 3:1. My level was 5:1. What's funny is I just finished my first Anatomy course and actually know what all of these hormones do! Thats life for you.

But a lot of what has been going on health-wise over the past year makes SO much more sense now, there is a reason for all of it! It's been such a pain in the ass, but I'm glad that I harassed GPs and got second opinions and made them run tests and relied on my own instincts instead of allowing my concerns to be dismissed. And we've caught it before any of the really bad (bad as in horrifyingly embarassing) symptoms have had time to develop, so I try to tell myself that I'm ahead of the game. I found a really good article written by a dermatologist who has PCOS, she's honest and straightforward regarding what to expect but still manages to be humourous and optimistic about the whole thing. You can check it out here.

Its manageable. Thats the point. Yes, its life-long, and I will have to form my own posse of endocrinologists and technicians and dermatologists (and fertility specialists, if we decide that is something we want) - but its manageable. And its about time I started taking better care of myself anyways. Now I just have a good reason to go to the salon regularly, keep my cholesterol low and my blood sugar steady, go for walks, and get 8+ hours of sleep. Maybe once its under control I will feel better than I have in years! But since it is my life we're talking about I have to consider the possibility that it all goes to hell. Maybe I go bald and grow a beard. Maybe I do gain 160 pounds over the next two years and get the diabeetus. At least I'll have a good reason for that too...

*I've decided to leave comments open on this one, but since I know there are some poeple who will be tempted: Having been diagnosed by, and consulting with, actual experts - I do not require your "expert" medical opinion. However, soothing noises, supportive murmurs, and anecdotes about your mom's friend's sister with Happily-Ever-After endings are acceptable.

Turns Out I'm "That Girl"

The stupid one in scary movies that goes wandering through the house in the middle of the night in just her pajamas to investigate something suspicious.

I was startled awake just before three in the morning by the sound of glass breaking. Greg wasn't home and when I was jolted off my pillow by the loud crash I noticed that both the cats were still curled up at the end of the bed. So if it wasn't Greg tripping over something and it wasn't the cats getting into trouble like cats in the night sometimes do, what was it?

The cats jump down and wander over to the top of the stairs to take a look and I sit there in bed rubbing my eyes and listening...  all seems quiet. So then, for some reason (maybe because I haven't watched a scary movie recently) I decide to go have a little look-see myself. In my pajamas, with barefeet, and nothing to protect myself, and my phone laying on my nightstand upstairs.

So there I am creeping through the house, not turning on the lights (because I am one of those dumb people we all shout at in the movies), and I end up stepping on some glass in the kitchen. Apparently a couple of dishes had decided to commit suicide by throwing themselves off the counter in the middle of the night. I abandon my brief search to get a broom, sweep it all up and head back upstairs. I get up to the bedroom and sit down to see if I was cut by any of the glass, and then I hear the door open and shut.

I was just downstairs - I could have grabbed the bat in the front closet, or a knife from the kitchen drawer, or at least turned some lights on and taken a good look around. But because I would be "Girl Victim Number 3" in a horror flick, I did none of those things.

Fortunately, it was Greg that came up the stairs - trying to sneak in so as not to wake me up. So maybe its a good thing I wasn't armed after all.

Reason #185 Why I Love My Husband

(Maybe a little background first so this all makes a little more sense: I usually take my engagement ring off at night to sleep. My fingers swell at night, and also the blankets get caught up on my diamonds. So I keep the wedding band on but I put the engagement ring in its box on my nightstand.) 

Due to my body's continuing acts of mutiny, recently I've been feeling like a miserable unattractive old prune. Which, needless to say, has made me more than a little insecure.

But instead of being dismissive, or annoyed (which is what I would probably be), each morning this week my amazing and incredibly supportive husband has picked up my ring and held my hand and asked me to marry him. Being proposed to by the man I love before the sun is even up every morning is a fantastic start to what would have been some hard days.