Much as I would have adored to prolong my trip another couple of days, my time was up all too soon and I found myself on the plane back to Scotland. The journey was about as bad as I expected it would be. I arrived yesterday morning after an uncomfy night flight, exhausted, petulant and sick. And there was very nearly an extremely humiliating pukey episode in the back of the taxi- about which I will say no more, as I am sure you're getting as tired of hearing about my constant barfing as I am of doing it.
On the bright side, I had managed to get an appointment with the lovely Dr Best Friend today about the thyroid issue. She was supportive and attentive as I explained my concerns, namely:
"Blah blah want to keep TSH under 2 whyfor mine 2.47, blah blah research (the internet!) suggests prescribing increased thyroxine dosage by up to 30% blah blah had not had any monitoring of thyroid levels in six weeks and whatthefuckingfuckisupwiththat?"
Except I am extremely ladylike in real life and did not saying fuckingfuck.
However, despite all the advance little mental rehearsals as to why she should prescribe MORE DRUGS immediately, I couldn't also couldn't quite bring myself to confess that I have in fact...ahem... already upped the dosage for the last two weeks. Nothing excessive, mind you- just an extra 25mcg a day. Which, I mean, really- a piddling variation, no? Not likely to set anyone's TSH on fire.
Still, I decided to keep quiet until we got the latest blood work result back, at which point I figured I could reveal my hand. As in, AHA! See, the 150 is already working! Now give me more! Moooore!
As it happens, Dr BF placed an immediate call to the Endocrine Master (or rather his secretary, since I gather the Master himself was off prodding goiters or whatever). She left a message to check to see if he wanted to see me, or at least ask him about the dosing etc. Which is about the best she could do, since they are no longer running the monthly combined antenal/endocrine clinic, because hey, why would anybody want to bother themselves with a trifling matter like possible miscarriage or the risk of a lower IQ for their child as a result of untreated hypothyroidism.
Ahem. I told you I was petulant.
Anyway, the good doc phoned me back later this afternoon to say The Master had been back in touch with her. Upshot: he doesn't need to see me, but recommends the dosage immediately be upped to..wait for it. By 25mcg to 150. AHAHAAHA! Whereupon I confessed all to Dr Best Friend about what I had been taking. She laughed her head off for a minute, and told me to mind-read the next step, since I was such a smartypants. And I said she would write a prescription for the extra more drugs and we would do further blood work in one months' time.
Exxxactly. At which point I felt rather less petulant and somewhat happier about all things thryoid-y. And maybe just a tiny bit smug.
Next time: Why I have decided to keep blogging during pregnancy, even though I once thought I wouldn't. Also ruminations from my formerly skinny self on surviving the "Not yet looking pregnant with cute bump but rather appearing as if there has been one too many cupcakes on holiday" chubster phase.