Life’s challenges are not meant to paralyze you; they’re meant to help you discover who you are.” – Bernice Johnson Reagon
As I celebrated turning forty, the coronavirus plunged Japan into a phase of uncertainty and isolation. Little did I know that year would become a defining chapter of my life. I wasn’t feeling like myself. I was physically and emotionally drained from overworking and busyness. Dry hair, increased hair fall, delicate skin, disrupted sleep, and erratic moods were already familiar companions. Perhaps it was just a natural part of aging, I thought, as I watched other women gracefully navigate through similar challenges. But then came signs that couldn’t be ignored—the dizzy spells, pounding migraines, and a sudden change in my physique.
Seeking answers, I found myself at the “Ladies Clinic,” a place that always made me anxious due to my less-than-perfect Japanese. To my relief, a kind young doctor, shrouded in layers of protective gear, greeted me warmly and spoke English well enough to bridge the gap. She ordered tests and asked me to return a week later. That week felt like an eternity, filled with worry and countless questions.
Sitting nervously in the same chair, I couldn’t help but notice the open medical journal on the doctor’s desk. With a gentle yet somber tone, she revealed that my prolactin levels were three times higher than normal—a red flag often associated with brain tumors. I barely registered her explanation of how my pituitary gland was producing too much prolactin, it all sounded bad. My heart sank, and anxiety set in. She handed me a letter of introduction to a Neurology clinic for further evaluation, specifically an MRI.
Walking out of the clinic, tears streamed down my mask as I called my family. The world felt heavy as I made my way home, each step a testament to the uncertainty that lay ahead. A week later, inside the deafening walls of the MRI machine, I anxiously wondered what they would discover, praying it wouldn’t be something unbearable. It was finally over, but my heart sank as the technician explained that another scan was necessary. The minutes stretched into an hour, intensifying the agony for both myself and my worried mother in the waiting room.
Finally, we were summoned to meet my neurologist—a surprisingly boisterous man who spoke almost like he was shouting. As we huddled together, he examined the scans with a careful eye. And then, he pointed to the images of my brain. “Here, nothing!” he exclaimed in Japanese. Again and again, he pointed, repeating, “Here, nothing!” The weight on my shoulders lifted, and even my mother let out a sigh of gratitude and a nervous giggle. Nothing in my brain, how wonderfully insulting. It was a moment of respite from the worries that had consumed us.
But our journey wasn’t over. The diagnosis: hyperprolactinemia. They couldn’t pinpoint the cause, but treatment was necessary. Thus began my complicated relationship with dopamine receptor agonist medication. While it brought my prolactin levels under control, it came at a cost—nausea, insomnia, and haunting nightmares. Taking time off wasn’t possible, nor could I leave my senior dog or elderly relatives to fend for themselves. There was no respite and no choice but to carry on. Eventually, my levels normalized, and I was able to discontinue the medication.
The young doctor, now in a single layer of protective gear, cautioned that my prolactin levels were almost certain to rise again in a few months, leading to a potential resumption of treatment. It was then that I realized this was a condition requiring long-term management. Determined to explore natural alternatives, I promised my doctor—I would return for regular check-ups and seek her guidance if needed. And so, here I am, entering my third year, sharing my story in the hope that it may resonate with others facing their own health challenges. In the following posts, I will share how I keep my prolactin levels low.
