Immediately on returning from our anniversary trip, it was time for my (theoretically) annual physical exam. My doctor and I play this little game where he writes my prescriptions for ever-smaller quantities until I break down and agree to come in and get naked. Then I come in, pretend I write superhero comics (don’t ask), turn down a rectal exam, and leave with a new lease on medication.
This time, the nurse pressured me into signing up to access their spiff new website so I could do things. I had no context for why I had to sign up for a new account when I already had an account for their crappy old website, but she left the screen open on the computer. After a few moments of sitting around in a tiny gown, at least filling out the form gave me something to do.
The next day, while watching a marathon of “My Cat From Hell” — which, by the way, made me appreciate our own furry little bastards all the more — I checked my email and saw that my labs were available for perusal.
I logged in and read over a baffling array of test results. All manner of cryptic abbreviations were followed by context-free numbers. One thing that I did understand was the note “borderline diabetic” on my blood test.
I frowned over my gut at the words on my tablet’s screen. I knew I was in bad shape — I’d regained all 80 pounds that I’d lost on a “buy our horrible food” diet — but I hadn’t really expected to be headed for diabetes. My people are not generally fit, but none have ever had blood sugar problems. Sure, it could be that the cancer and heart disease just happen to get them first…
Resolving to cut down on carbs (and portions), I soberly returned to work, where I found a giant box of donuts in every kitchen. I held out for a few hours but finally gave in, figuring that a single donut was still better than the four or five I usually ate.
I wound up eating three, all told. Take that, diabetes!