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Published Apr 12, 2026 • Last updated 13 hours ago • 3 minute read
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Rayanne Boychuk was 21 when she was diagnosed Graves’ disease. Photo by SuppliedArticle content
Rayanne Boychuk was 21 when Graves’ disease didn’t arrive quietly — it stormed in.
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Now, every meal is a calculation, every bite a potential risk.
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Boychuk carefully tracks her triggers, fighting for the quiet moments with her husband and young son.
Not the exhaustion. Not the relentless walls of an Alberta medical system that fails her daily. But the love. The lopsided smiles at the dinner table. The warm hugs she refuses to give up on.
She’s rebuilding her life — not just for herself, but for others living with Graves’ disease. For those who show up in emergency rooms, desperate for answers, only to be told to wait.
Graves’ disease is an autoimmune disorder that hijacks the thyroid, pushing the heart into overdrive with a condition called supraventricular tachycardia. It takes over without warning, leaving her body in chaos.
In a moment of hope, she tried elderberry in February, believing it might help her stay strong for her son.
But on the fourth day, Boychuk’s chest tightened. Breathing became impossible. An EpiPen, a frantic car ride, and sirens filled the night.
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At the hospital, IV tape pressed against her skin as steroids were administered — a fragile truce for her body. For a week, she dared to believe it might work.
Then, at 1 a.m., pain twisted through her body as she gripped the steering wheel and pulled into the hospital parking lot. Inside, she begged for relief, for answers.
The doctors shook their heads. Steroids were no longer an option — they’d already pushed her body to its limits.
“You need a specialist,” they said, but the waitlist stretched over a year.
A year. Then came the diagnosis: Eosinophilic gastritis: a rare, chronic disease where white blood cells attack the stomach lining, causing inflammation and damage.
Boychuk sat in silence. The weight of the diagnosis sinking in. There was no cure, no quick fix — just a name for her pain and an uncertain road ahead. She left the hospital with tears blurring her vision.
The ER doctor called her case unusual because of her Graves’ disease, Boychuk couldn’t stop taking Synthroid.
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It was essential.
But … it clashed with the steroids, rendering both treatments ineffective.
Referrals were sent to a gastroenterologist and an allergy specialist, desperation in her voice, the response was cold.
“We have over 900 people on the waitlist,” the receptionist said, refusing to even check for her referral. Panic rising, she went to the clinic in person, pleading to be seen. Her requests were dismissed. “Sit on the waitlist,” they told her before asking her to leave.
She walked out, her chest tight, carrying the weight of a system that had no room for her.
Eventually, a doctor adjusted her Synthroid dose — twice — bringing her white blood cell levels down just enough to offer a fragile reprieve.
She’s not out of danger, not even close, but for now, the storm has quieted.
Every bite, every pill is a gamble. She scrutinizes labels like her life depends on it — because it does.
Summer feels like a looming threat. The buzz of a wasp or bee is a ticking time bomb. Desperate for answers, she spent $700 on an allergy blood test, clinging to the hope it might provide clarity.
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“I’ve been through this before,” Boychuk said. Fifteen years ago, the care I received was incredible. Every issue was addressed quickly and efficiently. I never worried because I knew I was in good hands and would get the treatment I needed.
“How the hell did we get here? Stories of people dying in waiting rooms are flooding the news. It’s terrifying.
“As for me? I sit on a crowded waitlist and pray I stay healthy enough to make it to my next appointment before another disaster strikes.”
We all need to demand better care.
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