Well, that sucked.
I had some blood drawn in December when I changed doctors, and about a week later the nurse called to tell me everything was “fine.” Well, last week I thought, “You know… college. I’d like to make sure my liver is working,” so I called to ask for a printout of the lab results, and everything is not “fine.” I’m not dying, but…
- HOMEBOY IS TOO FAT. My blood is apparent the vampire equivalent of a Mallowmar. It doesn’t so much “flow” as “ooze.” My general cholesterol level is low, but it’s essentially all bad cholesterol – and guess who’s coming for dinner? Diabetes. It’s not here yet, but it’s got my address and is getting directions from Google Maps. It texted metabolic syndrome to see if it wanted to come too but hasn’t heard back.
- HOMEBOY HAS AWFUL HEREDITY. Apparently I carry three out of four genes “associated with sudden ischemic heart disease,” or as I like to call it, “heart-gonna-explode-pox.” I also have a gene that means I can’t take popular cholesterol-lowering drug Plavix, because it might kill me.
- HOMEBOY IS DEFICIENT. In Vitamin D and “omega-3 oils.” No wonder my bones snap in a stiff wind and my hair is dull and lifeless.
And this is just the shit I can understand. Silver lining is that my liver seems to be tootling along just fine, turning its homework in on time and getting eight hours of sleep at night.
Now, here are my emotions about the above:
- GRANTED, I’m too fat. I did not think I had been NEARLY fat enough for NEARLY long enough that my pancreas felt it had to sit me down for “the talk.” I don’t think this is fair.
- I have a guardian angel. About four years ago, I was so poor I almost took part in a clinical trial for Plavix. This involved taking enormous doses of Plavix and eating oranges “to see if it would still work.” I got strep throat the day before and couldn’t do it. This, you know, might have killed me. (I’m exaggerating, but not by a lot.) I like to imagine my guardian angel – I’d say it was Rue McClanahan because she apparently likes me (MORE ON THAT NEXT WEEK!), but she was still alive – floating to the hospital, touching her wand gently to a pile of medical waste, floating back over my sleeping form, and then scratching the hell out of my tonsils with her infectious wand. (I also clearly like to merge the concepts of guardian angels and fairy godmothers.)
- Sometime this week, my mother, uncle, and aunt will all get letters from me warning them not to take Plavix. I wrote these on postcards because I think if I amuse the postal workers they’ll be more likely to bring me my mail on time.
- To remedy my “severe” omega-3 deficit, I’ve started taking fish oil. This results in three or four sardine-flavored burps each day. Since I can no longer have sweets, I’ve decided to try to think of the fish burps as a new dessert concept. It is not working.
- I’m mad as a Goddamn hornet. Why the hell didn’t the doctor think this was worth telling me? It’s not like it takes much time to say “Lose thirty pounds YESTERDAY and occasionally make eye contact with a multivitamin.” I want to write a furious letter, but I’m afraid they’ll then want me to come back in and retake the bloodwork, and I want to have a few months to do better before being confronted with more red-bordered numbers.
- I have a new game called “Diabetes Is Watching.” I’ve created a personality and work history for diabetes so I can think of it as a person I’m avoiding through good judgment rather than a fatal metabolic disease I’ll develop if I keep frying ice cream. Here are the text messages I sent Butter Legs about my new enemy diabetes last night:
Diabetes: it’s watching.
Diabetes: it knows the last four digits of your social security number.
Diabetes: it just made eye contact with you from across the bar and tipped its Kahlua Mudslide in a little salute while raising an eyebrow flirtatiously.
Diabetes: it has one IMDB credit – the prisoner early in “Silence of the Lambs” who sexually harasses Jodie Foster.
Diabetes: it thinks your screenplay is a weak attempt to be the next Todd Solondz.*
Diabetes: it saw a typo on your resume and didn’t tell you.
Diabetes: IT KNOWS WHAT YOU ATE LAST SUMMER
Diabetes: the honey badger of metabolic disorders.
Diabetes: it donated forty-five dollars to the Santorum for President campaign in your name.
Diabetes: it can tell you’re not a virgin.
You know what’s going to suck? Diet and exercise. I’d almost rather die, but I have so much TV to watch. If “Roseanne” isn’t a reason to stay alive I do not know what is.
*UM DID YOU KNOW THERE’S A SEQUEL TO “WELCOME TO THE DOLLHOUSE” CALLED “PALINDROMES” THAT BEGINS AT DAWN WEINER’S FUNERAL AND IS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL ABOUT ABORTION? I learned this recently.