My thank-you notes to HASHIMOTO!

Where are my manners?

It suddenly occurred to me that I have not sent out my thank-you notes to Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, my cozy little friend who I have affectionately nicknamed “IT.” Why did I come up with that cute moniker? Because it is suitably boring, lacklustre and forgettable, just like my friend, and it also rhymes with a special word that starts with “SH.” Anyhow, “IT” may be an unwelcome, uninvited and unacceptable party guest, but still, IT always shows up with many interesting gifts for its stunned host. So, for the sake of party etiquette, here you have my long overdue offering of thanks to IT. These are inspired by the talk show host Jimmy Fallon and his popular weekly “Thank-you Notes” segment. (Watch his show to see the “delivery” of his hilarious notes, with the moving musical introduction to each note.)

Ok, so picture me as Jimmy and you’ll feel the vibe.

Here we go...

As a live-in guest at the party called “my life”, I offer these tributes to “IT”...

Thank-you IT, for being so mysterious, for being ever-hauntingly-present yet evading capture. Afflicting over 20% of the population and skillfully avoiding any kind of concerned attention from the masses, including the entire medical profession, is a phenomena of totally unexplained weirdness.

Thank-you IT, for having the proper name of “Hashimoto”, in the same family as Quasimodo, the barely verbal, deaf hunchback of Notre Dame. True to your family genetics, you give me that dumb stare and totally ignore me when I say, “Go away.”

Thank-you IT, for keeping every party from getting out of control. With your energy-sucking ways, there is never any fear of me swinging from chandeliers or dancing on tabletops. Better yet, you offer me your (unsolicited) advice and counsel me to simply bypass the party altogether.  “Why bother?” you advise. “You might fall from the ceiling and crack your head open, Bea.” Good point, IT. No chance of that happening when I’m eighteen inches off the ground and cracking open a bag of potato chips on my comfy couch.

Thank-you IT, for kick-starting my day and revving me up with my daily adrenaline rush. Not everyone gets to enjoy the heart-fluttering thrill of counting hairs falling out of their head, every morning, and every minute after. You, my dear hair-hating IT, push me through, with that terrifying, jittery question burning through every susceptible “job-on-the- line” follicle: “Oh no, am I next?!” Hang on, folks!

Thank-you IT, for your incredible knack of ruining any conversation and making me feel like a complete idiot. With your clever talent for squeezing out brain farts mid-sentence, your timely flatulence leaves me utterly speechless. Really, there are no words.

Thank-you IT, for turning me into the world’s most masterful “googler.” I am now an obsessed researcher of cures and potions of all kinds, for everything from constipation to bizarre rashes to hair loss. Right now, my head is wrapped in a towel, soaking in coconut milk, a sure-fire cure for hair loss. Last month it was evening primrose oil. Next, I might try standing on my head, rubbing olive oil on my feet and chanting the Prayer of Forgiveness. It’s worth a shot.  

Thank-you IT, for introducing me to so many clowns. With your eclectic and ridiculously loooong list of needs and demands, you have introduced me to all sorts of eclectic and ridiculous “healers”, a cornucopia of freaky sideshows and traveling gypsies with nifty tricks, juggling all sorts of divine promises of health and wellness. Where else could I overpay for so much sustenance-lacking cotton candy and flimsy balloon animals that don’t look like animals at all? I would never have known these talent-lacking, morality-deprived circus acts existed if it wasn’t for you. What a laugh and a half. Can’t wait to meet the lion tamer...eek! RUN BEA RUN!

Thank-you IT, for teaching me to dance. It may not be a pretty, graceful dance, but I had no idea I was capable of such astonishing feats of flexibility, coordination, and artistry while fumbling and tumbling through the “Synthroid dosing and drugging and dragging and dozing and drooling” jazzed-up routine, the “You’ve got the pre-pre-menopause mixed with pre-menopause mixed with low thyroid production mixed with whatever else we can throw in the mix”woozy blues number and the “Na na na na! It’s normal, tests are normal, numbers are normal, you’re normal, totally normal, normal, normal, nooorrmmaalll”show-stopping Broadway revue! Please note: All performances are done in the dark. There will be no limelight. No applause allowed. And please, we ask that there be no audience.

Thank-you IT, for allowing me to really hone my ability to persevere in the face of adversity, to tap into my "superhuman-ness." Let's face it, any living being who can lug around a bloated belly, with a colon unable to offer up even the tiniest hopeful gurgle for days on end, no promise of “relief and release” in sight, living by the desperate mantra “I LET GO WITH EASE AND GRACE," is a real champ. If you don’t believe me, try it.

Thank-you IT, for turning me into the invisible person. It’s amazing. I can have a visit with my doctor where I pour out my heart and soul, jump up and down, sing the National Anthem at the top of my lungs, do my dying swan impersonation, close with a marching band, and leave without a trace. Poof! Like it never even happened.

Thank-you IT, for all the craziness. It's empowering knowing that I don't really feel everything I feel. It's all just some absurd, make-believe world I created for fun.  

Thank-you IT, for showing me what it means to overstay one’s welcome. I love the way you don’t even notice that I’ve had your bags packed and sitting at the door for some time, and there’s a cab driver waiting impatiently to take you away...well, ok, he's going to drive you off a cliff and into the depths of the deep, dark, scary, hungry ocean, and then text me when it's done so I can pop open the Dom Perignon and party my face off. But, that aside, your laissez-faire “I think I’ll stay a while longer” attitude is, to say the least, a true inspiration for anyone looking to drive the most convivial host absolutely flipping nuts.  

Thank-you IT. You have rocked my world.

Now, get in the cab for God’s sake. The meter’s running, you little “--it.”