“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 […]
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.
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?
I turn and run out of the labyrinth, the walls shouting at me, “Take a look at platelet counts, the white blood cells! Any spleno-hepatomegaly (enlarged spleen and liver)! Radiation exposure! Copper deficiency!”
Probably my gimpy left knee was acting up from a long-ago accident which had broken the left leg at the ankle, torn up my back, crushed a shoulder and knocked me out. Who would notice a bunged-up knee in such a mess?