So I had some blood drawn a little while back and sent off to a laboratory to see if there was anything funky hanging out in my veins and arteries. I got the results back today and it turns out that instead of having Raynaud’s Disease, like I’ve thought I had since I was sixteen, I actually have Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis.

Uh huh. Who is this Hashimoto and why did he give me his thyroid? It’s not like I asked for it. Furthermore, I am Irish–well, at least .005799999% of me is, which gives me permission to own it. I feel green, my friends–So why isn’t this condition called O’ Brien’s Thyroiditis, or McGuire’s Thyroiditis? It would make more sense for me, if we’re going to use the possessive tense. Nothing against Mr. Hashimoto.

Weird thing is, even though I’ve known I had this little disorder for most of my life, and even though I still have it but it’s called by a different name (and explains a WHOLE LOT about my life and personality), and even though it now gives me a great card I can play for everything, from having dirty bathrooms to my voice cracking in the middle of a performance (“Hey! It’s  Hashimoto’s! It’s ain’t my fault!”), I’m a little freaked out by it.

Once again, it’s always been there. It’s just been a rose by another name. No reason to get my glands all in a bunch. 

Funny how our brains work. We can get comfortable with a certain frame of reference, feel fine about it, deal with whatever is attached to it. But the minute something new periscopes up out of it–something we weren’t expecting–our comfort zone evaporates. We feel lost at sea in a dinky dingy, and frantically cast about for anything familiar to anchor ourselves to again. The change doesn’t even have to be terribly dramatic. If it’s new, it’s freaky.

There are people–actual real live ones–who walk around in life openly embracing new concepts, thoughts, experiences. Actively seeking to broaden their horizons, learn new things, and immerse themselves in paradigms entirely unfamiliar to themselves. Like, these people go do stuff, freaked out or not.

I’d kind of like to be like that.

I have a kid who, when she was twelve, went with a church group to Lava Hot Springs (a little resort north of here in Spud-land, built up around–wait for it–a hot spring.) She decided to see what it was like to fling her terrified self off of the 30 foot platform into the swimming pool, and dragged her dad along behind her for moral support. My huz followed his pocket-sized daughter up the ladder–passing people who had changed their minds and were on their way back down. He spent a moment orienting her to what they were going to do, peered down at the postage-stamp-sized puddle below, then watched in astonishment as his kid made the jump before he even had time to reach for her hand to help her through it. (Which also meant there was no backing out for him; she’d gone. He had to. Preservation of his macho-hood and all that.)

Flash-forward almost a decade, and this child has turned into someone who punches fear in the face and then walks right along her way. It doesn’t mean she ain’t nervous; it means she’s not willing to be cowed by it. She rolls her eyes, steels herself, and pushes through it, flicking it away like so much dust. It reminds me of that quote from Robert Frost: “The best way out is always through.”

So, it’s not like my Hashimoto’s is the worst thing in the world. It isn’t-I think. But with all these amazing people I have hanging around me–both in and out of my family–the least I can do is learn about this disorder. Then I can grin right in it’s auto-immuned face. What’ve I got to lose? At least it ain’t no 30 foot platform. And it’s not in front of all the cute boys in my youth group. It’s in my veins. And I’ve had those for years.

Maybe next year I’ll go skydiving.

I said MAYBE.

Janiel Miller is a wife/mom/writer/friend/singer/chauffeur/chef/connoisseur-of-movies/eater-of-chocolate/partaker-of-hormones/actress-when-I-can-find-time/learner-from-life who lives in American Fork. You can follow Janiel via Twitter, Facebook or her personal blog, janielmiller.com.