On Thursday, I dragged my ass Yellow Cab conveyed me in relative comfort up the street (literally, right up Wilshire boulevard) to Beverly Hills, to see what hijinks my wacky thyroid has been up to lately.  I had to find a new endocrinologist, because my previous one is in Fullerton (chosen while I was still married and had access to a car) and booked until November, and my thyroid said, Hey dumbass, maybe someone closer can see you sooner.

And I know it was wasteful to take a cab, but I was running late.

It was all kinds of exciting High Drama when I got there, because the staff of four (4) receptionists had exactly zero (0) idea who I was, as they had no appointment listed for me.  Neat!  I showed them the call log on my phone, so that they could work out amongst themselves who fucked up.  I wasn't bitchy or really mad about this, just frustrated, because of the cab coinage I'd just dropped.  But apparently two of them were working on the day I scheduled the appointment, so that didn't solve anything.  They asked me if I remembered with whom I'd spoken.

"Umm, sorry no.  She sounded...Hispanic?  And kind of...soft-spoken?"

All four of them looked at me blankly.

"OK, look, it's really not a huge deal if you need me to come back another day, I don't want to get any of you in trouble if there was some mistake, but I did spend money on a taxi, so can you at least check with the doctor and see if he could squeeze me in?"

They did.  He could.

I loved the doctor.  He's maybe sixty five, very warm and solicitous.  And he wore a purple bow tie. He asked me a few questions about my personal background, and when he found out that I'm a little orphan Ellie, he said, "OK, well I'm your daddy for the next hour."  Oh lord, doc. If I had a dime.

He asked me to step on the scale. "I'm guessing one twenty..." I bit my lip, thinking. "...four?"  I'm usually dead-on with knowing my weight, even though I rarely weigh myself.  And I've been eating a ton of pasta lately.  Off by seven - I came in at 117 lbs.  Then he pulled out the tape measure to get my height and I said, "Just a hair short of five-seven, right?"

"You're dreaming." he replied. "Barely five-six."

What the fuck. I'm shrinking.

The doctor spent another forty minutes with me, discussing my medical history, the tests he was going to run, looking at my lab results from the last endocrinologist.  He told me I have Hashimoto's disease, which, OK, no big deal I guess, fairly common among the thryoid-challenged, but it would have been nice of my last endocrinologist to share this with me.

Eventually, someone took my blood, someone else took my money, and they sent me on my way.

I was a little rattled from the visit - needles and I are NOT friends - so I decided to just walk for a while down Wilshire, and pick up the bus when I'd gained my composure.

Well, the next thing I knew, I was at LACMA.  So I stopped and wandered around the grounds a little bit.  The weather wasn't intolerable and I was wearing comfortable shoes, so I just sort of kept walking.  I didn't have change for the bus, so I walked further.  I passed plenty of places where I could get change, but still, I walked.  I listened to music, played with Hipstamatic, and walked.  I texted friends and walked.

I suddenly remembered that one of my best friends recently mentioned Hashimoto's, so I messaged him.

Me: Did you say you have Hashimoto's disease?

Friend: Hai.

Me: Haishimoto's?

Friend: "Hai" is yes in Japanese. 

Me: DISEASE TWINS!  Hai five!

(friend lols)

Me: Did your doctor describe it like PacMan eating your thyroid?

Friend: No. He said my thryoid was a "gland in chaos."

Me:  Sounds like a Ken Burns documentary.  Gland In Chaos.

Friend: It does help a lot when they get the synthroid level right.

Me: Yeah, my synthroid has been KILLING me.

Friend: LOL, silly.  ...Fatigue, weight flux. All that shit.  Even helps depression.

Me: I AM NOT DEPRESSED.  ...It's just the vapors.

I walked and walked some more, and eventually it became an endurance test.  I decided I was in it this far, I may as well just pick up the train at Wilshire/Western.  And that's what I did.  Dumb, I know. I just didn't feel like getting on a rush hour bus.

Strangely, I'm more bothered by the fact that I'm 5'6" than a Hashimotorist.  I don't know where that other inch got off to, but I hope it's enjoying itself.

Chaucer haz a sad about The Missing Inch, too.