Like a Punch in the Neck

A few days ago, I had a thyroid ultrasound.

I was totally cool with this at first. Sure, put goopy stuff on my neck and run a wand over it. In the course of what I am now calling Fun With Hypothyroidism, I’ve been through plenty of undignified visits to the doctor. At least now we might be getting somewhere.

That’s until I remembered a few things. Namely:

1) I’m a hypochondriac. No matter that the vast majority of thyroid irregularities are benign. It’s difficult for me to imagine that I’ll be part of the lucky majority. Most people in my spot would think, “Eh, it’s probably just a nodule.” I think, “It’s a tumor, and I’m going to wind up in a special turtleneck like poor, poor Roger Ebert.”

2) My neck is swollen anyway. So it’s less than comfy to have someone press on it with a plastic thingie.

3) Getting an ultrasound in New York means going to a standalone ultrasound/MRI shop, which means waiting for an hour in a waiting room with people who think Jerry Springer should still be Mayor of Cincinnati. Seriously, they were watching his show and hooting like extras from Idiocracy. At first, I thought they were kidding, but no, they meant it.

The actual exam was probably less uncomfortable than waiting in the waiting room, so maybe that’s part of the psychology behind it. Anyway, soon I’ll know if my thyroid is really enlarged, or if I’ve just convinced myself that it is, via panic attacks and too much research.