“You’re a healthy woman!” chirps my GP, her slim young hand on my shoulder. My internal wolf wants to bite that hand but just in time I remember I’d rather not lose another tooth.
Yesterday I read a heartening news story of a 45-year-old woman who had earned her PhD in spite of a terminal diagnosis of cancer. Her university was so impressed by […]
Mia never flagged, never lost courage, never abandoned or betrayed me, and never lost that twenty-four-carat smile.
That girl has grit. More grit than a gold pan and more nuggets, too.
What this body is experiencing is full-blown Sjogren’s, and maybe something else.
The end of the inflammation would surely mean the end of the stiffness and pain. My hands would regain their strength and acuity and I wouldn’t act like a zombie every morning any more.
It is always a pleasure to meet with the charming and approachable Dr. T. I did not expect to do battle with him.
Getting the form for the prescription of medical marijuana was the easy part. Finding a doctor sufficiently well seated in the current century to give me the prescription? That’s a lot harder.
Even Hippocrates would have appreciated the idea of shoving a camera into a human orifice and taking a visual safari through the guts of the matter.
Yes, you can have cancer right in the omentum and you can bet it’s having a lovely time gorging itself.
When one considers the level of stress in our society, its effect on the adrenals and thus on the endocrine system, and the plethora of people sick with mysterious “auto-immune disorders”, is it really so crazy for a patient to inquire after the state of those endocrine organs?