I needed to hear that from my doctor about as much as I needed to hear anything more about Donald Trump. Nonetheless, there it was.
It’s not a death sentence, I know. It’s not even all that high on the list of things you don’t want to hear from a doctor. It’s probably somewhere between ulcer and uric acid buildup.
But it’s a hassle, y’know?
So, now I’m taking Metformin HCL for a few weeks until I go back for more blood work and see how effective it’s been in the sugar-to-energy dance with insulin. If they decide not to tango, then I may be looking at a higher dose or possibly taking insulin.
In retrospect, this makes a lot of sense; over the past few years my weight has jumped (sure, that can just be middle age but I’ve been trying hard to decrease the amount I eat), cuts and injuries are slow to heal (ditto middle age thing but bear with me), my vision has started to blur (okay, I realize ALL these things happen at middle age but a guy with a medical licence told me today I HAVE diabetes) and I can’t climb any kind of incline without having to stop multiple times. I have a few of the other warning signs, too, but I may not have any obligatory jokes about them. Except for the erectile dysfunction; that’s hilarious all by itself. Good thing no one but me is relying on that organ.
Just when I was getting used to the meds I already take, I’m adding one that is almost guaranteed to cause diarreah and possibly nausea, headaches and other annoyances. Still, it’s another thing to experience I guess and, hey, isn’t life all about experiences?
To the death, Diabetes! You and I shall engage in a battle for the ages! They will sing of us by the light of roaring fires and write epic tomes of our heroics!
Or, I may end up stabbing myself in the gut or ass with a needle a few times a day.