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"The Sweat Olympics"

6 February 2003

Around 2pm, the telephone at my desk rang. It was the doctor's office calling. "Janet, we have you down for a 1 o'clock appointment."

"But that's tomorrow."

"I'm sorry, no it's today, we're closed tomorrow." I pull out my schedule. She's right, I got the days mixed up. Great, just great. "If you can come over right away, I can probably still squeeze you in, otherwise the next open appointment is over a month away."

Doctors! Do they artifically keep their appointment calendar so full? Golf on Wednesday, the "conference" in the Carribbean next week, and, oh the office is closed on Fridays.

"OK," I hear myself say, "I'll leave work right now." I check with my boss, and it's no problem. I had been somewhat dry today, but before I even pull on my coat, I can feel the dampness beginning to well up in my armpits. Fortunately the polyester blouse I have on already has salty sweat rings from a prior wearing because I now know it's going to get soaked. Had I remembered the appointment was today I probably would have resorted to applying antiperspirant in the morning to stem the tide, but no such luck.

I don't really want this doctor's appointment, but I must go. I expect they are going to try to convince me to undergo radiation therapy as post operative cancer treatment. Other people have told me not to do that treatment. I don't know what to do! I never expected to be making life and death health decisions at my age. Mega stress!

You know how sometimes you can tell you're sweaty without even looking? This was one of those times. During the drive, as I'd turn my car's steering wheel, I could feel my wet blouse sticking and slipping along my skin. Midday traffic was minimal and I arrived at the doctor's in under 15 minutes. I checked myself in the mirror, but didn't even bother to probe under my coat to see the status. What could I do about it anyhow?

Inside, the receptionist tells me to have a seat. I pull off my coat, hang it on the rack, and go sit down, all without looking at my blouse. The woman in the opposing chair is watching me. Is the sweating as bad as I think it might be? After a moment, I lean over and reach to grab a magazine from the table at my left and at the same time I glance down. Oh my. My blouse is wet most of the way down to my elbows! Wow, this is going to be a personal record. After mindlessly paging through the magazine, I reach up and touch my side. Sure enough the wetness has soaked down to my bra band too. I look up and the woman across from me suddenly averts her gaze. _sigh_ For a moment I am tempted to prop my arm up on the back of my chair to let her fulfill her curiousity, but I don't. A word for non-HH people: it makes us uncomfortable if you stare. Yes, we know you're going to look, just please don't stare like we're circus freaks, thanks.

I've generally grown to accept my hyperhidrosis, but when it gets this extreme it's uncomfortable. Many days my sweat is limited enough that the armpit stains are visible only if I lift my arms, prop one on the back of a chair, that sort of thing. I consider that not worth even thinking about. Add stress and I advance to the next stage: visible damp ovals front and back even while my arms are at my sides. Even this doesn't bother me much unless I'm in a group setting. Add more stress, like public speaking or a visit to the dentist, and then the sweat starts to drip down my sides, as it is doing now. As I sit, I can actually feel the droplets of sweat sliding down. First, one on the left, then on the right. I start counting, 1001, 1002, 1003, 1004... The rate is one droplet about every 10 seconds. Old Faithful.

I must have sat there 30 minutes (I'm so glad I rushed over) before the nurse escorts me into the back. I look down and see that now my blouse has thin dark blue green stripes of wetness down to my waist. Incredible. If sweating were an Olympic event, I'd be a medal winner. "And, in the Long Sweat, the gold medal goes to Janet, for her new world's record of 3 feet, 6 inches."

The nurse tells me to sit on the exam table while she reaches for the sphygmomanometer (OK, I'm showing off that I once had to pen a technical manual about the device) to take my blood pressure. As I hold out my arm I ask "Must I remove my blouse?"

"No, you can..." she pauses as she turns and sees the Olympic sized "racing stripes" down my arm and side, "...leave... it... on." She fills in the results on my chart and starts asking more questions. "What symptoms do you have?" "When was your surgery?" that sort of thing.

As we're talking she keeps looking back and forth between the sweat stains under each arm, and I'm getting more uncomfortable and sweating even more. "What medications are you taking?" I tell her. "Are you taking any other drugs?" I tell her no. "Are you SURE?" she asks. What does she think, I'm trying to get ripped on steroids or something? I get a bit annoyed and say "No, I just always sweat a lot." She just says "Uh huh," and writes something on my chart.

"OK, stay there. I want Dr. Akerson to see this," she comments. See what? That I sweat? Dr Akerson is not even the doctor my appointment is with. I sit there wondering what they are going to do, as the sweat continues to drip, drip, drip and the wet stripes get wider. I think to myself that the next time there's some big forest fire somewhere, they should put me in a helicopter with my arms sticking out the window, and I can rain on it and put it out.

A few minutes later the doctor steps into the room and introduces himself. The nurse tells him, "This is the diaphoresis case I was telling you about." He looks me over. "Umm, Janet, do you always perspire this much?"

When I'm irritated my mind slips into sarcasm mode. I felt like saying "Yeah, sure, every day that I'm trying to make a life and death health decision and people start looking me over like a criminal or addict, yes, I do." But instead I said "Well, I don't usually sweat this much. I'm feeling very stressed today."

He then went through the same questions about drugs. "Hmm, OK, I'm going to give you a prescription for something to try. You can pick it up on the way out."

Prescription for what? Anxiety? Sweating? I was so annoyed I didn't bother to ask. The nurse then told me "Dr. Simmons will be in to see you shortly. Please disrobe from the waist up and I'll get you a gown to wear."

I peeled off my blouse and saw for the first time what they had been observing. I've had some down-to-the-waist incidents before, but this was unreal. The stripes of wetness down my sides had widened to several inches, with gigantic circles at my pits. This was impressive, but did make me wonder if there really is something else wrong with me. My bra was drenched too, with the wetness soaking even into the cups. At least my pretty scarf, which I've been wearing while the surgery scar on my neck heals, was dry.

I sat there on the edge of the table, waiting and waiting. Have you ever noticed the waiting game they play at doctor's offices? First they have you wait outside. Then they bring you into the exam room and you wait some more, as if you're too math impaired to total the time and notice how long it is. In this particular case however, I can't complain too much since it was my fault I had forgotten the appointment.

The sweat continued to pour out of my armpits. It was unreal. Without my blouse to absorb them, the droplets glided down my skin to the waistline of my skirt, making it wet too. I decided to lie back, take deep breaths, and try to relax some. Where was that gown that was promised? I sat up again and looked back. The paper on the exam table now had two small puddles where my pits had been. I looked around the room and spotted a box of tissues. Why hadn't I thought of that sooner? I got some and wadded them into my armpits. If sweating is natural, I have a heck of a lot of nature in me! Maybe I should get a "REAL" label like the ones on milk cartons tatooed under each arm.

More time passed. Without the gown I started to get chilly, and the tide from my pits finally began to ebb somewhat. My hands and feet were clammy and cold, so I decided I'd play a simple little game to kill time: I'd count to 60. If no one had showed up by then, I would pull my blouse back on to stay warm. Well, that's what I ended up doing, but the fabric was still damp and not helping much so I buttoned it back up.

Finally Dr. Simmons knocked and came in. I must have been quite a sight sitting there in my wet blouse with nipples perky from the chill, and clammy cold hands and feet, looking worried. Every man's dream (yeah, right; well, maybe the first part). He didn't ask me about my sweatiness, even though my underarm taps again started flowing once the discussion began. Actually, I found him pretty nice, as well as easy to talk with. When I unbuttoned my blouse so he could better examine my chest and the incision scar at my neck, he asked me if I routinely didn't wear a bra. That seemed a little inappropriate a question, but maybe it had medical implications, so I let it pass. Apparently he hadn't spotted my bra drying on the nearby shelf.

As I expected, he did press me to do the radioactive iodine treatment. When I resisted he backed off and suggested some blood measurements that could give us an idea of whether cancer cells were active. I don't want to think about it, but I guess I have to. At least it sounded like a better way to check things rather than automatically doing the radiation. It will also give me more time to make a decision.

As I left they handed me a prescription for Paxil. I've already looked it up on the Web and see some people take it for social anxiety. I also see people report many side effects and withdrawal problems. It's always tough gleaning information from the Web for these things because the people who have had bad experiences with a medicine are far more likely to write about it than those who had good experiences. Yes, maybe 1000 people get sick from it and complain, but millions are helped and don't say a word. Tough to know for sure. To be on the safe side, I think I'll pass on it for now.

Once I got out of there I felt my body relax, and with that my armpit fountains quickly shut down. For me sweating is so connected to stress. The other effect I've noticed after a big sweat (and this one certainly qualifies) is a rebound to dryness for the next day or so. It's almost as if the little sweat factories in my pits are exhausted and resting to regroup so they can soak my shirt the next time I get stressed.

Life goes on.

For prior stories, see the archives.