An electric toothbrush battery will last around two weeks before needing to be charged again. The toothbrush itself will last three to five years before replacement. Doctors advertise their patients to invest in electric toothbrushes since they are able to clean teeth and gums more efficiently than a regular toothbrush. 

My mother has used an electric toothbrush for as long as I can remember. She is the most pristine person I know, religiously scared of germs and physical imperfections. On my twelfth birthday, she gave me my first electric toothbrush. 

It was a way to keep me clean. To keep me perfect. 

And the best part about it is that when the toothbrush stops working, you can just charge it and make it like it is brand new. 

You can’t do that when your organs stop working. 

* * *

The walls of the hospital were white as snow. The pediatric wing tried to bring joy to the area by adding colorful posters of animals and little cartoon kids, but I was fourteen. I knew it was still a hospital. 

Underneath the bright fluorescent lights, my skin looked sickly. Pale. Dry. My mother asked if I was using moisturizer. She didn’t ask if I was using sunscreen.

The doctor slowly opened the door and walked in head-first, ducking to fit through the door still. His body looked as frail as mine, wiry and wrinkled. Thin, white hair stuck straight-up from the top of his head. 

He had me hop up onto the examination table, waiting patiently as I struggled to lift myself up. From my collarbone to my jawline, his cold, spindly fingers examined my neck. He didn’t need a ruler to measure the lump in my throat. After what seemed like forever, he stepped away and turned towards my mother. 

The results from my tests today would be in by the morning. I would just need to sleep it off and hopefully they would have a game plan tomorrow. He thinks he knows what it is, but he doesn’t want to be sure until the tests come back. 

My mother helped me off the examination table. I shook off her touch, and together we walked back to the car.

I threw up in the parking lot.

I threw up on the side of the hallway.

And then I threw up in the bathroom for an hour at home.

My mom brought down my toothbrush, and watched as I struggled to brush my teeth. Every vibration, every movement of the bristles made me gag. She quietly changed the toothbrush head when I was done, then made a joke about how they should have given us a goodie bag like the dentist.

* * *

Toothbrush heads should be changed out every twelve weeks. After a certain amount of use, the bristles become frayed and worn, which reduces its efficiency. Some toothbrushes will alert users when to replace the head by flashing a light. Others will not, so it’s up to the user to remember. 

In some cases, when your organ fails, you can get a replacement. You can request a new liver, a new heart. 

When your thyroid stops working, you can’t get a new one. You have to let it die a slow, painful death. Then you get on medication. But there is a long battle that takes place in the time between death and diagnosis. 

* * *

“Which flavor would you like? We have mint, strawberry, chocolate…” The dental hygienist trailed off, as if I knew what the other flavors were. 

“Mint is good.” The simplest flavor there was.

As she cleaned my teeth, I tried to imagine I was anywhere else, but the metal contraptions in my mouth were forcing bile up my throat. I had been diagnosed with Hashimoto’s disease for two years now. I had been on medication for a year. Why was this still happening to me?

The dental hygienist complimented me on my perfect teeth, on how the notes in my record were always perfect. She asked if I used an electric toothbrush. I nodded my head, too scared to open my mouth. 

Soon enough she had me on my way with my goodie bag, packed to the brim with floss, a mini tube of toothpaste, and an orange plastic toothbrush. 

I hadn’t brushed my teeth for the past two nights. My toothbrush hadn’t been charged in months. 

I gave the goodie bag to my little brother. 

* * *

Hashimoto’s Disease is an autoimmune disorder that occurs when the immune system creates antibodies that attack the thyroid gland, located in the front of the throat. The body has decided that the thyroid is an enemy to the body, so it destroys it. 

The thyroid creates hormones that dictate the way the body uses energy, most importantly controlling digestion and metabolism. All the food one eats to replenish their energy stores throughout the days may not be digested and converted into energy if the thyroid doesn’t produce the proper hormones. 

Growing up, my father put on a couple of pounds. He started losing hair. So he went to the doctor. He was diagnosed with hypothyroidism, which meant his thyroid was not producing enough hormones. It was a minor case, and he was quickly put on medication and the ordeal was over. It wasn’t Hashimoto’s disease. 

When I was being diagnosed, my English teacher told me she also had hypothyroidism. She had been feeling fatigued, so she had blood drawn and her thyroid levels were low. She was put on medication, and the ordeal was over. It wasn’t Hasimoto’s disease. 

My twin sister was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s disease a couple of months after I was. Her main symptoms were fatigue, weight gain, and hair loss. When the thyroid starts being attacked by antibodies and stops producing hormones, the thyroid gland swells. My sister’s thyroid was abnormally large, which led the doctor’s to believe she had lymphoma. She had a biopsy done, and when it came back benign, she was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s disease. She was put on medication, she felt better after a couple of weeks, and the ordeal was over. 

It took three months for the doctors to diagnose me. In that time, I lost fifty pounds. I couldn’t eat anything, and every morning I woke up and threw up stomach acid. The doctors thought I was pregnant because I described it like it was morning sickness. When I washed my hair at night, my hands would come away from my head coated in dark hair. Water slushed around my feet, struggling to get down the drain past the lost stands of my hair. 

I got my medication.

The ordeal was supposed to be over.

I still can’t brush my teeth longer than twenty seconds. 

The thing about Hashimoto’s is that it never disappears. I can’t recharge my thyroid to make it perfect again. 

* * *

Cold. So, so cold. 

The sheets, the blanket, the quilt, they were all wrapped around me. It wasn’t enough. Each chill racked my body. I could feel my lips turning blue, hear my fingers and toes begging to fall off. There was no energy in my body to generate heat.

I stayed like that, frozen in my bed, for what felt like hours. 

Slowly, inch-by-inch, my hand reached towards the pill case resting on my nightstand. The tiny gray pills clinked around in their plastic prison as my shaky fingers struggled to pop open the lid that read Wednesday. 

Levothyroxine is a medication used to substitute the thyroxine hormone my body wasn’t making on its own. The pill rested on my tongue until a bitter taste filled my mouth. It took two tries to swallow. Water spilt over my pillowcase, since I couldn’t raise my head. 

The thought that maybe I should go throw up popped into my mind. I was nauseous, but when was I not? 

My body slapped to the ground like a hunk of cold, raw meat. I hadn’t meant to roll off of the bed that hard. The rug in my room was coarse against my cheek. It would have to be my resting spot for the next hour, since I had used all my energy to get from my bed to the floor. 

Staring at the beige ceiling of my room, I wondered when my life would become normal again. When I would be able to wake up and eat breakfast and carry my backpack down the stairs without almost passing out. When I could wear my favorite pair of jeans again. When I could be at school for a full week. When I could brush my teeth. 

Somehow I made my way across my room and into the bathroom. It connected my room with my sisters, so I had to be quiet. Throwing up made her anxious. 

I sat in front of the porcelain toilet bowl, waiting for the moment where my stomach lining would shove its way up my throat, but it never came. My reflection just stared back at me, crazy flyaways and dark bags underneath my eyes, waiting for something to happen. 

The cool tile underneath my knees started to sting. Gripping the toilet bowl, I gradually lifted myself up onto shaky legs. Turned around. Walked to the sink. 

It was about time to start getting ready for school. I hadn’t cared about my appearance in a while, but I took a moment to look at myself. I was still pale, my dark hair hanging limp around my face. My collarbone jutted out of my skin. Apparently, my thyroid was also jutting out at the base of my throat.

My electric toothbrush sat on the sink basin’s ledge. Fallen strands of hair wrapped around the base of the brush, and it blinked slowly to show that it was on low battery. It looked disgusting. 

I pulled the hair off of the brush as tenderly as possible. Digging around under the sink, I found the charger and plugged it into the wall. I hadn’t seen it in months. 

Then I started a routine that had once been as easy as breathing:

I wet the toothbrush head.

I put toothpaste on the brush.

I put the toothbrush in my mouth.

And I hit the power button.