Whistling in the dark
I'm back from a fabulous trip to the Southwest, rested, relaxed and rejuvenated. This is a good thing, because half way to the airport last week I got a call from my doctor's office that scared the bejeezus out of me. The nurse informed me that my doctor wanted me to go in right away for more blood work – they had just received the results from the tests I'd had done the day before, in preparation for a routine physical I have scheduled for today, and the numbers were not good. One number in particular was so far off (all others being more or less within normal range) that they thought there might have been a mistake at the lab. They wanted to re-do the test so they'd have the second set of results back in time for my appointment today.
Of course I couldn't go back to the hospital that day, so instead I spent the next two hours until my flight left freaking out and crying and calling anyone I could think of who might be able to shed some light on the situation, about which I knew basically nothing except that my HDL and iron were a tad low, and my glucose was high enough to inspire an unscheduled call from my doctor. I did finally get someone at the hospital to talk to me (the nurse from my doctor's office must've called me just seconds before closing the office for the day), and after that I felt calm enough to sit in an uncomfortable airport chair and attempt to read my magazine, hiccuping and hiding my red eyes behind an enormous pair of sunglasses.
This is the kind of thing I used to write about in my other blogs – the stuff that feels really personal, the stuff I instinctively want to hide. More than that, it's the stuff I'm ashamed of. I need to lose some weight, and I need to exercise more. I've known this for a long time. I just never thought it was urgent. I'm fat, but I'm not all that fat. Or am I? Maybe I'm just so used to it, and used to not feeling all that great, that I don't even notice it anymore. When those television reports about the obesity epidemic show enormous people waddling down the street with a bacon double cheeseburger in one hand and a 64-oz. Pepsi in the other, I look at myself in the mirror on my closet door and think, "I don't look like that." But maybe I do.
But I really don't think I do. I don't weigh 300 pounds. I don't even weigh 200 pounds. Still, I guess it isn't so much the number on the scale that matters, but the way each individual body responds to being overweight and under-exercised. I keep trying to think of this as a challenge and an opportunity – I can research exercise and nutrition, apply what I learn, and finally start feeling better again. Sometimes I feel like I've been exhausted for years ... that's why I scheduled a physical in the first place.
Anyway, I'm scared. And when I get scared I always want to hide, and when I hide, nothing gets resolved. So I'm writing about it instead. I have no idea how serious this is going to turn out to be, but even if it turns out there was a lab error (which I have a terrible feeling is not going to be the case), I'm sufficiently scared to start finally making these changes. Meanwhile, I'm trying not to entertain all the horrible visions that keep pushing into my mind – for example, me with an oozing kidney transplant wound and both feet chopped off, blind and bald and strapped to a dialysis machine that looks like the gurney they put people on for a lethal injection.
Yeah, how's THIS for a cheery Monday afternoon topic of conversation!
Isn't it funny how just when I finally start feeling like I have a decent command of my tendency toward drama, something happens to test my new-found confidence? The fit of crying at the airport was understandable and maybe even kind of therapeutic, but it did feel a little drawn out. Probably if I'd been at home, or someplace where I could thoroughly melt down and get it out of my system, it wouldn't have lasted as long ... I really felt the extra stress of attempting to hold myself together when all I really wanted to do was fall into bed and wail.
It's also funny that I feel more nervous about all this being read and known by people who know me in real life, than by people who don't. Why do I care so much what people think of me? I half want to just delete this whole post, and write about it only after I know exactly what is going on – maybe not even then. But part of the purpose of putting any of this stuff online in the first place is to try to wean myself of the habit of shame, by simply stating the truth without judging myself or making excuses. I've been lazy, I got fat, and now I'm seeing some health consequences. Feeling some anxiety and regret over these facts seems kind of inevitable, but wallowing in shame would be pointless. I've already changed my diet and exercise (for a whole week already!), I'm reading everything I can find, I'm seeing my doctor in less than an hour, and, and ... well, I'm doing everything I can at this moment to make things better. For this moment, that will have to be enough.
Well. All this is neither here nor there. I'm leaving for my appointment in 20 minutes, and even with new blood work done this morning I don't know if they'll have enough information to tell me anything I don't already know – namely, that I need to lose weight, exercise, be rigorous with my diet, and (undoubtedly) come back for more tests and followup.
I've been feeling like I didn't have anything interesting going on in my life to write about lately. Be careful what you ask for, eh?
P.S. One of these days I'll write about the trip, too.
diabetes
Of course I couldn't go back to the hospital that day, so instead I spent the next two hours until my flight left freaking out and crying and calling anyone I could think of who might be able to shed some light on the situation, about which I knew basically nothing except that my HDL and iron were a tad low, and my glucose was high enough to inspire an unscheduled call from my doctor. I did finally get someone at the hospital to talk to me (the nurse from my doctor's office must've called me just seconds before closing the office for the day), and after that I felt calm enough to sit in an uncomfortable airport chair and attempt to read my magazine, hiccuping and hiding my red eyes behind an enormous pair of sunglasses.
This is the kind of thing I used to write about in my other blogs – the stuff that feels really personal, the stuff I instinctively want to hide. More than that, it's the stuff I'm ashamed of. I need to lose some weight, and I need to exercise more. I've known this for a long time. I just never thought it was urgent. I'm fat, but I'm not all that fat. Or am I? Maybe I'm just so used to it, and used to not feeling all that great, that I don't even notice it anymore. When those television reports about the obesity epidemic show enormous people waddling down the street with a bacon double cheeseburger in one hand and a 64-oz. Pepsi in the other, I look at myself in the mirror on my closet door and think, "I don't look like that." But maybe I do.
But I really don't think I do. I don't weigh 300 pounds. I don't even weigh 200 pounds. Still, I guess it isn't so much the number on the scale that matters, but the way each individual body responds to being overweight and under-exercised. I keep trying to think of this as a challenge and an opportunity – I can research exercise and nutrition, apply what I learn, and finally start feeling better again. Sometimes I feel like I've been exhausted for years ... that's why I scheduled a physical in the first place.
Anyway, I'm scared. And when I get scared I always want to hide, and when I hide, nothing gets resolved. So I'm writing about it instead. I have no idea how serious this is going to turn out to be, but even if it turns out there was a lab error (which I have a terrible feeling is not going to be the case), I'm sufficiently scared to start finally making these changes. Meanwhile, I'm trying not to entertain all the horrible visions that keep pushing into my mind – for example, me with an oozing kidney transplant wound and both feet chopped off, blind and bald and strapped to a dialysis machine that looks like the gurney they put people on for a lethal injection.
Yeah, how's THIS for a cheery Monday afternoon topic of conversation!
Isn't it funny how just when I finally start feeling like I have a decent command of my tendency toward drama, something happens to test my new-found confidence? The fit of crying at the airport was understandable and maybe even kind of therapeutic, but it did feel a little drawn out. Probably if I'd been at home, or someplace where I could thoroughly melt down and get it out of my system, it wouldn't have lasted as long ... I really felt the extra stress of attempting to hold myself together when all I really wanted to do was fall into bed and wail.
It's also funny that I feel more nervous about all this being read and known by people who know me in real life, than by people who don't. Why do I care so much what people think of me? I half want to just delete this whole post, and write about it only after I know exactly what is going on – maybe not even then. But part of the purpose of putting any of this stuff online in the first place is to try to wean myself of the habit of shame, by simply stating the truth without judging myself or making excuses. I've been lazy, I got fat, and now I'm seeing some health consequences. Feeling some anxiety and regret over these facts seems kind of inevitable, but wallowing in shame would be pointless. I've already changed my diet and exercise (for a whole week already!), I'm reading everything I can find, I'm seeing my doctor in less than an hour, and, and ... well, I'm doing everything I can at this moment to make things better. For this moment, that will have to be enough.
Well. All this is neither here nor there. I'm leaving for my appointment in 20 minutes, and even with new blood work done this morning I don't know if they'll have enough information to tell me anything I don't already know – namely, that I need to lose weight, exercise, be rigorous with my diet, and (undoubtedly) come back for more tests and followup.
I've been feeling like I didn't have anything interesting going on in my life to write about lately. Be careful what you ask for, eh?
P.S. One of these days I'll write about the trip, too.
diabetes
Labels: diabetes
2 Comments:
it is incredibly brave to write about this the way that you just did.
the beauty in it is that by you being open about some challenge that you are facing, others feel less alone, and reassured that someone out there, someone that they admire, that is a beautiful, mindful healthy person who listens to her body still has challenges to face.
i really admire what you do with your blog.
i hope the repeat tests go ok.
xoxoxo
Tina, have just caught up on your most recent posts. You've written incredibly bravely here about what you're going through, and it's truly inspiring. It can feel so daunting to walk through the fear when it's right in front of us...and it sounds to me like that's just what you're doing. Sending you good thoughts as you embark on this new chapter in your journey. Hugs.
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