From my cousin Donna's fridge
OK---so not all the magnets are poems!
* Discussion *
Talk about it here.
WHAT I'M READING...
(not for the squeamish!)
WHAT I'M WATCHING...
Samples of two of the
Pictures from the Cincinnati are now up at Steve's Club Photo page.
Pictures from our Family reunion are on my own Club Photo page.
That's it for today!
AND THE DOCTOR SAID....
30 August 2001
Before I start on today's entry, and just so Sarah and Kelli aren't freaked out any more, let me say thank you to Wilma for sending me this long list of hints about how to take care of ants. Walt pointed out that starting each morning and ending each night by vacuuming ants out of the freezer was ridiculous. So this morning after I cleaned all the ants out, I sprinkled the bottom of the freezer and the door jam with cinnamon. Believe it or not, it has kept the ants away. I also sprinkled cinnamon around the place on the counter where they usually come in. The result? No ants, no toxic chemicals... and the kitchen smells lovely.
That said, I had my long-awaited MD appointment today. I saw a nurse practitioner a couple of months ago for a well woman check and got a clean bill of health and lots of referrals for all sorts of tests (none of which have been scheduled yet--their delay, not mine. Believe me, I don't mind in the least waiting to have someone's microcamera boldly go where no one has gone before).
Then when I didn't seem to be handling life too well, I conferred with the psychiatrist for whom I work. He and I decided I was doing all right at that moment, but he recommended a specific antidepressant, should one be needed. He then went on vacation.
Then I kind of fell apart and my psychologist sent me to another nurse practitioner. It's handy to type your own medical report, so I just printed up a copy of Dr. T's report to take it to the FNP and she prescribed the antidepressant for me (somehow they don't question your need for medication when you say "Well, in 1996 my 24 year old son died and in 1999 my 30 year old son died." They whip out that pen so fast it would make your head spin.)
When I saw the second nurse practitioner, I asked her to please write me some lab tests. I hadn't had a cholesterol done in a couple of years and I knew that I was also the perfect candidate for adult-onset diabetes and wanted to have a blood glucose test done.
A couple of weeks later, the nurse practitioner called back to say that the numbers had come back a bit high and she was ordering more tests to double check, so I went back to the lab.
Today, finally, it was time to meet new primary care physician, Dr. Fong.
It always amuses me the way doctors deliver bad news.
Several years ago, my eyes were getting worse and worse. I had been pretty regular with eye exams, but despite new glasses within the previous 2 years, I was still having trouble reading and I figured it was time for bifocals. I went to see the ophthalmologist, who did his usual thorough exam. Then he sat next to me, got his Very Serious Doctor Voice and his wide eyes and, as if he were giving me the news of a terminal illness, he said, "I'm afraid it's time for bifocals." Well, heck, I knew that! I guess some people find the thought of bifocals depressing. Another indication that you're growing old. However, for me all it meant was that I was finally going to be able to enjoy reading again.
Similarly, the night Paul died, we were fairly certain that it was hopeless when we sat in that damn room at the emergency department. When the doctor came in, the news was written all over his face. I take bad news well. In fact, we all pretty much take bad news well. We've had practice. But he stood with his back pressed up against the door like he was ready to make a hasty retreat in case we got hysterical. "He didn't make it," he said.(Funny how we use euphemisms. He died. Just say it. He died.) But we played the game and we let him leave right away so he didn't have to feel uncomfortable to be around our grief.
Compared to that, my appointment today was a piece of cake. (Ironic that phrase!) I was the one who initiated all these tests. I knew I was the classic candidate for adult onset diabetes--morbidly obese, age 58, father an adult-onset diabetic. No symptoms, but I wanted to know my status.
Dr. Fong fired up the computer to check the lab results, which I could read plainly for myself over his shoulder. I know what the numbers mean, but he turned around on his swivel stool and got a very grave look, and a very somber tone.
Not surprisingly, I am diabetic. But the numbers aren't horrible and he thinks that with diet (and dare I say the word: exercise) I might even "cure" it. ("temporarily," he adds) He said it almost apologetically, as if somehow it might have been his fault. I mentioned that I had known the chance was good, and mentioned being morbidly obese. He whipped out his weight wheel. "How much do you weigh?" he asked, and then "how tall are you?" and then he did his calculations. My god, man, LOOK at me! You don't need a wheel to tell you I'm morbidly obese.
So anyway, I'm now to be enrolled in a diabetic program which will tell me where we go from here and I'll learn the wonders of learning to live with diabetes.
(It's all Steve's fault, you know. I'm sure diabetes is contagious and he's given it to me.)
(yes, I'm kidding)
One Year Ago:
Some pictures from this journal
Created 8/30/01 by Bev Sykes