Turning the Wheel

October 29 2019

The new moon hit with a vengeance this weekend and this has been a time of bodily transformation for me.  Well, okay, maybe not bodily transformation so much as a "The Tower" major arcana moment of a flash of insight that some foundation beliefs are not true.

October has been a month for aura-migraines.  These are different from migraines in that they don't paralyze me with debilitating pain, but I do get a kind of spiral staircase of lightning that grows from a spark in a random point in my eyesight and expands over a period of about a half hour to a strobing arc along one side of my field of vision.

I'm used to these types of light-shows because I typically get them about once every eighteen to thirty-six months.  I used to get full-blown migraines back in the early eighties, and the lightning staircases are a cake-walk by comparison.  I've gone decades between them.  They are more irritating than painful, mostly because I can't read or see around them very well, and I often feel tired or "off" after my vision clears.

Except that since October 1, I've had three. (Edited: three and a half counting the 30th.) Unfortunately, other than the flashing spirals, there haven't been any manifestations of Latent Superpowers, nor has the spiral turned into a Holy Lightning Snake who Sang me Divine Truth.  Which is too damn bad, because I could use a superpower or the gift of prophesy.

The last time I had an aura-migraine, everyone on the Internet advised me to make sure my retina wasn't falling off.  I went to an eye doctor and my retina was fine.

In any case, the October increase in frequency was worrisome and I made an appointment to see my primary health care provider about it.  Since I hadn't visited him in -- oh -- about three years, there were a bunch of tests they ordered.

The upshot of the tests was 1) my cholesterol levels have improved from something like 132 over 10, but the ratio is still Not Good, and 2) my pituitary gland is working overtime producing thyroid signals to get my thyroid into gear.  Unfortunately, this did not mean my Third Eye and Throat Chakra were opening ala Doctor Strange -- and now I have a diagnosis of hypothyroidism and a prescription for thyroid hormones.

Which launched me straight from denial about my age into anger at my weak flesh.
I am angry with my body for failing me in biology.

I am angry with my little brown prescription bottle of meds for the daily reminder that my body is breaking down, and for the unseen mountain of empty brown plastic bottles looming in my future.
I am angry that I have to take a daily little pill and the material chain that puts on me.  When I wake up, the first thing I have to do is take a pill and then wait an hour before eating.  If I were going to wake up in Paris or something, I'll have to plan to travel with my cache of medications.  And good-bye to Parisian tartlet breakfast in bed.

Mark was sympathetic to some degree, but pointed out that I live in a wonderful time where a little pill can redress hormonal imbalances.   I pointed out that this was a treatment, and not a cure.  And then I launched into an internal review of the "See this pill?  It's to remind me to take this pill." routine.

One of the possible side-effects of the pills is temporary hair-loss.  But if they treat hypothyroidism, they may treat things like dry skin, sore joints, feeling tired all the time, sensitivity to cold, and a grab-bag of little complaints that I was attributing to (secretly) being fifty-something.
I am also angry because having to take a daily prescription is something Old Men do, which doesn't fit into my inner vision of myself:  who is a man in his early thirties.   And if My Inner Me was taking supplements, it would be some Ylang-Ylang or protein concoction designed to enhance his Abs of Steel.

And then I tell myself I'm lucky they didn't find something worse, like cancer.  But I still feel angry about the situation of having to take a daily medication, and now I feel guilty for feeling angry about something that isn't a terminal illness.

Mark points out that at least I don't have to inject the meds, which I know is supposed to make me feel better, but I'm still pissed off that the medication-free days are over.

And underneath that anger is anger at myself for getting older and having to adjust my self image, and anger at time for taking away the part of me that I like:  my rugged good looks (okay, my goofy nerd looks), my gym body (yes, I'm aware I have a spare tire around my middle), my creativity (er, uniqueness), my mental sharpness (which some people call "lateral thinking") -- and then I wonder at what point will I stop being me, would I still be me if I couldn't have sex, or would I still be me if I lost the allure that pleases Mark.  (Okay, stud; stand in the half-light and swallow that levothyroidozine.  That's so hot.)  What if I got into some horrible accident, would I still be lovable and attractive?  What if I become a terrible burden to Mark?

I was so irritated that I went to the gym early and then went out for dinner instead of preparing Mandatory Taco Monday Tacos.

I think the only way to cope with this is to find the right medication dispenser.  And I'm not talking a square plastic pill box in the shape of a calendar.

I want a dispenser that is Death's Head PEZ dispenser -- except these pills are too small to fit into a PEZ dispenser.  I want a pill dispenser that is a fairy with a wicked smile and a silver chain; or in the image of the Norse Goddess who dispenses the Apples of Youth that keep the Aesir hale.

I want a pill dispenser that is a giant geared circle, slowly turning one cog every twenty four hours and dropping a pill into a crystal goblet with a chime.  

I want a dispenser that is Green Lantern's lantern and I can start out each day with, "By brightest day / by darkest night..."

Maybe I can train a flock of white birds to fly to our house after Mark and I face the East with our palms out, and sing the song that the aged star, Ramandu, and his daughter sang in "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader;" and then the brightest, whitest bird will drop a pill into my mouth the way one dropped a fire-berry from the valleys of the sun into Ramandu's mouth to make the aged star young again.

Naw, nix the birds -- they'd probably leave bird poop all over everything.