A month before my first birthday, on our way to Grandpa and Grandma’s house for Christmas, a drunk driver smashed head-on into my parents’ car.
Built in the days before seat belts were mandated, our old car had none.
My mother’s head shattered the windshield, then her battered face hit the dashboard, where she left her perfect teeth embedded. She suffered a traumatic brain injury, from which she never fully recovered–although doctors proclaimed her to be as fit as a fiddle.
My father jolted into the steering wheel with his ribs and the dashboard with his knees. While he couldn’t walk for a while, his athleticism quickly returned him to full health.
Fortunately, my brothers and sister were protected because they were playing on the floor in the back seat–which my father had suggested just moments before–to limit their energetic activities a bit.
I torpedoed, face-first, from my mother’s lap into the car door. The impact tore the skin from my forehead, and I suffered a concussion.
Doctors didn’t know (and still don’t) that most concussions damage the pituitary gland, which controls the endocrine system, which, in turn, controls all of health.
According to the docs, I was fine–within minutes after the crash, in fact.
But my mother realized something was wrong.
And so started my doctor visits, each of which ended with the verdict that I was fine, followed by a little sermonette saying my worried mother should stop imagining things.
But God bless my mother. She kept trying. (Note to doctors: Believe the mother.)
We moved a lot, so a new town meant new doctors, and maybe one of them would help. But, no.
As the “She’s fine” chorus continued, my health slipped away. By my early twenties, I was in very deep trouble.
My brain became undependable. While teaching computer programming at IBM, I would suddenly forget why I was in the room. I was probably teaching, but what?
I couldn’t hold on to a thought. Known all my life as glib, speaking became a chore because I couldn’t come up with the words I needed. Most of my hair fell out, and what was left changed color. I couldn’t stay awake. I answered the phone in my sleep and never knew it.
My blood pressure was 70/40. My blood sugar was 46. My body temperature topped out at 95–on a good day. My pulse was about 50. I had Raynaud’s Syndrome. Shingles arrived in force. And on, and on and on.
Doctors still said I was fine. One doctor suggested my problem was I wanted to get married. Another suggested my difficulties came from emotional problems he was sure all preachers’ kids suffered. (I was too brain-dead to ask what problem all doctors’ kids suffered.)
Finally, at long last, I found a doctor who took me seriously.
After a hospital stay, several lengthy office visits and more tests than I thought possible, he said I had panhypopituitarism – meaning every part of my endocrine system was in a world of hurt. Huge problem, no known cure.
Shortly after the diagnosis, we moved across the country, I ended up back with “You’re fine!” doctors, and realized it was up to me. Okay, I can do this. I have to do this.
And so I started researching.
But answers didn’t come quickly. It’s hard to find information that contradicts what medicine wants you to know. The research may be fabulous, but if the conclusion offends the poobahs, under the carpet it goes.
Easy or not, I got hooked on research. In finding my healing, I also found a calling that paired my love of study with my desire to help others. I’m still digging around in research, especially since the internet is setting free solid studies buried for fifty or more years.
Research showed me:
• How the endocrine system actually works, what makes it not work and what makes it work better. This is huge! If you have any health issues, the endocrine system is smack-dab in the middle of the drama.
• What good nutrition is–which turns out to be very different from what we’re told. So I studied a lot about nutrition–and found it improved my health even more than medicines.
Nutrition includes a lot more than diet. Vitamins, minerals, amino acids, other supplements–whatever it takes to meet your body’s particular needs–are essential.
• We’re surrounded by enemies–toxins in the air and water, toxic ingredients in our food, genetically-modified foods that do enormous harm, and more. So I studied a lot about toxins. We can’t get rid of all toxins, but if we lighten the load, good nutrition can to win the battle.
So that’s the stuff I write about.
Along with the 500-pound gorilla nobody talks about: Getting diagnosed. Diagnosis is a lost art.
Nowadays, doctors are required to diagnose via simple blood tests–many of which are unreliable.
The doctor who diagnosed my pituitary problem used tests–some simple, some very advanced–not to diagnose, but to support his analysis of my symptoms. That doesn’t happen any more.
I couldn’t get diagnosed nowadays because insurance companies limit the time doctors can spend with a patient and which tests doctors can order. A broken leg may be pretty easy to spot, but figuring out a civil war that making body parts go haywire takes more than a simple blood test or two.
But without a diagnosis, how can we know what to do?
It’s about symptoms–as it always has been.
Symptoms tell the story of your health. They are your body’s way of telling you what’s going on. And who knows your symptoms better than you?
The really good news is your body wants to heal. It fights like tiger to heal. Your job is simply to provide whatever ammunition is needed to win the battle.
Okay, you can do this. You have to do this.
God is good,
Bette Dowdell
About the author: Bette Dowdell defines determination. In a really deep health ditch, with doctors who didn’t help, she got her Oh-Yeah! attitude in gear and researched her way out. She never intended to be a health expert, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and Bette’s still researching. Get more of Bette’s health information at http://TooPoopedToParticipate.com
