Hashimoto’s Conundrum
It’s always been a mystery. Like I didn’t know I had it. Who cares anyway? My dermatologist apparently does. She’s an archeologist of the body, finding relics and artifacts each time she digs. I want to excavate some soil she seems to say. Is it cancer? I ask. She shrugs as if that is supposed to relieve my feelings. She and her assistant leave me with my paper dress sitting on the slab of medical-grade plastic. I begin to examine myself: my fingernails are brittle like dried-out taffy. Skin is bumpy and certainly not smooth on my lower extremities. (Jeannie used to tell me once a year that I had great legs. The last two she didn’t.)
Turning in damp bed sheets, twisting, rolling from side to side. Some days I stay in bed for hours, unable to find the motivation to complete planned tasks. I call in sick for work. The dermatologist suggests I ask my primary care physician to run a test. He d
All is well for those who conform: choose pills with suggested dosage, stay prisoner to a medical plan, obey doctor’s orders. My thyroid oscillates, vibrates in my throat. I have difficulty summoning my endocrinologist who reminds me that it’s all about quality of life.
© John Dorroh
John Dorroh’s poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net, an awards-based anthology. His short fiction and essays have appeared in numerous literary publications and his book of flash-fiction, 99 Words (Black Rose Writing, 2012) is available on Amazon. He lives in Southwest Illinois near St. Louis.
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