When I was in my twenties, I couldn’t scream. It might sound strange, but it’s true. I recall being at my son’s football games and struggling to cheer for him. Every time I tried to scream, I felt a sharp pain shooting to my head. It was unbearable. My face would cringe, my shoulders would shrug up toward my ears, and my head would droop. The pain was so intense that I almost blacked out. It wasn’t just painful—it was terrifying.
My son never knew what I was going through on the sidelines. I was running the chains during his games, even teaching some of the men how to do it. They nicknamed me the "crazy chain lady," and I wore the title proudly. Despite the pain, all I wanted was for my son to enjoy himself on the field. Every time his team scored a touchdown or he knocked someone down, I wanted to cheer with all my might. But I couldn’t. I had to hold back because I knew what would happen if I pushed too hard: I would feel the sharp, stroke-like pain, and the blackout would follow.
Instead of loud cheers, I found other ways to support my son. I smiled at him and gave him a thumbs-up when he made a good play. I pretended to be fine, but sometimes I couldn’t catch myself in time. I’d fall to my knees, gripping the gate for balance as darkness threatened to overtake me. People thought I was just excited, but the truth was far more complex. I was in pain, but I didn’t want to burden anyone with it. Every time I went to the doctor, they told me I was fine. Test after test came back normal, leaving me feeling dismissed and confused.
It wasn’t just about the physical pain; it was also a matter of security. What if something happened and I needed to scream for help? The sound wouldn’t come out. The pain would magnify, and I’d be on the verge of blacking out again. I was losing my voice in more ways than one. But I didn’t connect the dots back then. I didn’t know that this was the beginning of a larger issue—my undiagnosed thyroid problems.
At the time, I was entirely focused on my son. He was my world, and I was determined to be there for him, no matter what it took. I hid my pain because I didn’t feel like anyone could help me, and I didn’t want to seem like I was seeking sympathy. But inside, I was scared. I knew something was wrong, and I wanted answers. Yet every medical visit ended the same way: I was told I was fine.
The pain didn’t go away. It grew. Looking back, I now know this was one of the first signs of my thyroid issues. At the time, I didn’t even know what a thyroid was, let alone how critical it was to my health. I’ve since learned how intricately connected the thyroid is to the rest of the body and how much it can affect mental and physical well-being. But in those days, I was just a young mom, doing my best to support her son while silently battling an invisible enemy.
This experience taught me so much about perseverance, love, and the need to advocate for yourself in the medical system. If something doesn’t feel right, it’s essential to keep pushing for answers. Your voice matters, even when it feels like no one is listening. For me, it took years to find the right answers and start healing. But I’m still here, and I’m still fighting—not just for myself, but for everyone who has ever felt unheard or invisible in their pain. My voice and then can't breathe wait until next week when death came knocking again.
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