Bitter Stream of Consciousness

Something happened this week that changed everything.  For good, for the most part. But, things still changed and I was faced with one of those hit-you-in-the-face moments. 

Life is different now. 

It's not cancer. It's not heart disease.  It's not diabetes even. 

It's Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. PCOs, is what we call it in this house now.  That's what I have. That's what I was diagnosed with this week. 

Not terminal. Not deadly.  But, definitely life changing. 


I knew that something was wrong for a little while.  I didn't know what exactly, but I knew something was wrong.  Or, that something would be wrong in the future.  Maybe that's a natural feeling coming from the Northwest.  Out there, MS is higher than it is in the rest of the country.  For the longest time, I had this feeling that something would happen and that I wouldn't be able to do things that I always wanted. 

Like run.  Running was always the thing that I'd miss the most.  That freeing feeling of letting go, letting your body take over, use up all of it's ability, and just go for it.  The warmth of your muscles performing, the cooling air on your face.  That's what I would fear losing. 

But, it's not THAT bad.  It's not great, right now, but it's not debilitating.

Instead, PCOs is a warning sign.  Of unstable insulin levels that need to be treated with medication.  Medication that I have to take for a long, long time.  Until menopause at least.  And that's the life-changing part, for me. 

Because, when you're 25, you think you have time.  You have time to eat more french fries and put off exercising and drink a little more than you should.  You don't have to put medical histories down on doctor's office papers.  You don't have to worry about what this pill will do to you.  Or what complications could come up. 

And then you think, why did this take so long to notice?  My dermatologist suggested it.  Gynecologists missed it.  Family doctors didn't even think of the possibility. 

One of the signs of PCOs is depression. 

That really makes me mad.  Now, as a nurse I understand completely that you can't dwell on the "what ifs". 

But, what if. 


The amount of sad days.  The feeling of complete failure.  The heaviness of depression that was constantly on my shoulders.  The number of times when I felt like I wasn't good enough.  The thoughts that I've had. 

What if they could have been avoided.  What if I could have been healthy and happy. 


So, I have to take care of myself now.  Physically and emotionally.  I took a couple days and mourned the fact that I was diagnosed with something that will put me at risk.  I ate way too many tater tots and stayed in front of the television, while the dog slept besides me.  I stayed up very late.  I cried on the phone with Theresa as she cried with me.  I cursed whoever I could for this happening and for it going unnoticed. 

And, then I moved on. 



This is my life now.  This is part of me.  The medication will be a twice daily part of my routine.  I will have to chose better choices.  I will have to push myself physically. 

If I was on the West Coast, I would have still ate tater tots and sulked in front of the TV.  I would have still been sad. 


Then, I would have driven to the ocean.  I would have stood on it's shore, waves crashing against bare feet.  I would have stared out into the horizon and would have let this go.  Given it up.  Accepted it.  Wind against my face.  Muscles warm and ready to run.