Oh My God I Have A Buffalo Hump!!!

I swear, twice today, I thought I had been shot with a poison dart or stung by a gigantic African bee. Once on my back and once on the back of my arm … a quick stab of pain … you know, the kind that you instinctively slap, for lack of a better response. Both times left me running to the bathroom, pulling my shirt off on the way.

Since my children don’t have access to poison darts (that I know of), I will assume that this startling sting is coming from these teensy, tiny little bumps … dry skin that refuses to accept moisture even from the richest and most expensive creams and ointments. Damn hormones.

I am unbalanced, anybody can tell you that … but, that’s not my problem. My problem is that my hormones are unbalanced and balancing them requires more money and time than I am genuinely interested in investing. It takes an endocrinologist on another end of the state, a rather bizarre primary care doctor who specializes in such things, a compounding pharmacy, numerous entities that analyze my spit and blood and urine, and another “medical” spa who sells various supplements. It makes me look and feel great, at least it did for a year, but is it really worth it??? I haven’t decided for sure, but if my skin keeps trying to rip a hole in my shirt, I’m probably going back!!!

Oddly enough my adventures in hormone therapy began because a substitute chiropractor told me he thought I had a “buffalo hump.” Yes, a buffalo hump … this is a medical condition … you can look it up if you don’t believe me. So, feeling insulted enough to give that guy the stink eye and stomp out of there, I hurried home to find out what “buffalo hump” was all about … and it scared the crap out of me … do I have Cushing Disease??? I think I have these symptoms. Oh my God!!! Dramatic, I know.

I start calling around. “I think I might have a buffalo hump”, I tell the receptionist.
“A what?”
“Buffalo hump.”
Click.

I think it through a little more … “Hello, I think I could have Cushing Syndrome.”
“Are you a patient of Dr. So-n-so?”
“No.”
“We’re not taking any new patients.”

At this point, I suddenly have a full-blown case of Cushing, even though I don’t even know what the hell it is. I lament … why won’t anyone help me. My hump looks bigger as I stare over my shoulder at my back in the mirror. I call the substitute chiropractor back. Apparently, he’s been made aware that this might happen and he instantly has a name and a number. Relief.
I call the doctor. Yes, I can be there tomorrow. Terrific. This is going well.

Arrive at doctor’s office. There are many things “for sale” … odd. I go back and answer at least 500 questions for a nurse who seems genuinely interested in whether or not my facial hair growth has increased a little, a lot, or not at all over the last year. She ushers me into another room where I await “The Doctor”.

“The Doctor” is a small man … suspiciously creepy looking, but harmless. He sits down with some kind of chart generated by the questioning nurse and goes on to describe my life as if he’s been stalking me … and not from afar. I mean this guy is telling me the times of day that I am pissy and the time of day that I’m hungry and what I would eat at that particular time as if he’s been filming me. He KNOWS me. I cry. He pats my knee. I feel as if he is my savior … he will fix me … all will be well.

To be fixed, I will only need a saliva test that costs about a hundred bucks. Then I will need a urine collection test … another hundred bucks. I’ll also need a blood test ~ insurance will pick that up. OK … good deal. I take the collection kits and head home.

I do the spit test the next day. Easy. Well, not really easy … it’s kind of hard to spit enough to fill up a test tube. Write the check and ship.

It takes two weeks to get the urine test done because I got my stupid period and did it wrong the first time. I finally get that one finished and shipped and get my blood drawn in the meantime. Moving right along.

I ask everyone, “Do you see this buffalo hump?” They all answer, “What?” I finally quit asking, but I’m pretty sure it’s getting worse.

Finally, six weeks later, all my tests results are in and I go for my appointment. Hormonally, I am a trainwreck. I have no testosterone, no progesterone, and the iodine levels of someone from Appalachia who eats tree bark and has never ingested table salt, and a twitchy thyroid. All correctable. All I will need is weekly injections, a few of these tablets, a prescription for that, some cream rubbed here and more exercise. Great … let’s do this thing. We both stand up to leave and then I remember …

“Oh yhea … what about my buffalo hump?”
“What?”
“This”, I say, patting my back.
“You don’t have a buffalo hump. What are you talking about?”