We’ve all heard the saying, “I love you like a fat girl loves cake.” Allow me to introduce myself. I am that fat girl. I am that fat girl who has had a lifelong love affair with cake. In fact, I’ve cheated on cake with candy, pies and sodas. I’m a Cake Whore.
Last Friday night I went to the ER for chest pains. Understand I have to be completely freaked out in order to go to the ER. Or to visit a doctor for that matter. I’m not a fan of the whole medical/needle/medication process. Friday night I was scared. I was in tremendous pain. My chest, shoulders, left arm and left hand felt as if they were on fire. On Thursday that same pain came and went rather quickly. Friday afternoon it began again and wouldn’t let up so after much debate, my boyfriend said “You’re going.” I went.
I was promptly taken back and the usual tests were conducted. An EKG, cardiac enzymes were tested and I was hooked up to machines then taken for x-rays. It was not long before the ER doctor came in and said, “Your heart is fine but I strongly suspect you are diabetic.” My fasting blood sugar was way too high. This coupled with a myriad of health issues I’ve been dealing with led him to this conclusion. The “official” diagnosis when I left the hospital was Type II Diabetes and I was given instructions to find a primary care physician immediately. Saturday morning I woke up a diabetic.
Now it’s confession time. I’ve not gone to the doctor in a lot of years. I won’t give an exact date here because it is, quite frankly, embarrassing. The truth is my health has not been priority. EVER. The other truth is I simply haven’t cared until I started getting older. I think a lot of us have that moment of clarity when we realize that we’re not young anymore and we certainly aren’t going to get younger. It’s a rather shocking moment. A minute ago I was 20. Now I’m 47. Where exactly did that time go?
I realize an actual official diagnosis will hinge on what my new primary care physician says but I will not be at all shocked if the ER doctor was spot on. This means change. Have I mentioned how much I abhor change? I am bad with it. Seriously bad with it.
As I write this, my attitude is quite positive. My logical self understands it is treatable with diet, exercise and medication. My logical self knows precisely what needs to change and how to go about that change but my illogical self? She’s a real pain in the ass. Do not be surprised if one day you find me chained to a bakery with explosives strapped to my waist because I’ve lost my mind and that sneaky little bitch has driven me over the edge.
However, until that day comes I will work on a new lifestyle. I’ll take it one day at a time. I’ll do my best and if I fail, I’ll begin again. I know it won’t be easy but onward and upward, right?