Prediabooties

The last time I saw a doctor for anything non-vagina-related was more than five years ago.  I could argue that even that visit had pelvic origins; my primary care doctor was certain that the burning gastric pain I frequently experienced was the result of my monthly menstrual abuse of ibuprofen.  She refused point-blank to remove my gallbladder, prescribed a cocktail of Maalox and novocaine, and sent me off to make do with two chump-ass extra-strength Tylenol.

From this, I concluded that she was obviously a dangerous quack and resolved never to darken her doorstep again.  And in the succeeding five years, I never felt I needed to.  I am either very healthy, very stoic, or very stupid.

I had a battery of bloodwork run when we consulted the maternal/fetal medicine specialist, which uncovered Factor V Leiden.  In reviewing those results, my garden variety OB/GYN — the least specialized of my worldwide cadre of coochie doctors — noticed that I'd never had a followup glucose tolerance test postpartum.

You know where this is going, right?  Right?  C'mon, this is me.

Three more days of carb loading.  Ten more ounces of syrupy orange swill.  Two more hours of rolling my eyes, looking at my watch, and staring pointedly at the large-bellied woman sitting across from me knitting booties.  (I swear to God she was knitting booties.  Hey.  Lady.  Yeah.  You're pregnant.  We get it.)  And one more call from my gynecologist saying I'd flunked.

My fasting level was fine, but my final number was high — 140 is top end of normal, and I skidded in at a jaw-clenching, teeth-chattering, Jesus-gay-but-that-stuff-is-sweet 151.

That's not high enough to qualify as full-blown diabetes, but it's high enough to reveal that I have what's called impaired glucose tolerance, colloquially called prediabetes.  It's not a troublesome condition in and of itself, but rather a big flashing neon warning sign that I'm much more likely to develop Type 2 diabetes later in life, and am at elevated risk for heart disease and stroke.

Now, I already knew that based solely on family history.  (Parent with diabetes?  Check.  Parent with heart disease?  Check.  Parent with hereditary coagulopathy?  Check, please.)  But now my doctors know it, too, including my primary care doctor. 

My OB/GYN is a rotten goddamn tattletale, is what she is.

So now what's going to happen is that my primary care doctor, whom I couldn't pick out of a police lineup if she had "I am the real killer.  Please catch me before I kill again" tattooed on her forehead, will tell me I need to exercise more and watch my diet.  That's it.  To delay or perhaps even prevent the eventual onset of diabetes, the sole prescription is to lose weight — which I don't need to do, thanks to a cool 20 I recently lost — exercise more, and eat plenty of baconless leafy greens and colon-scouring fiber...which we all should be doing, anyway.

Hey!  Thanks for the help.

In other words, no surprises.  The most disturbing thing about this revelation is the fact that I'll be expected to do a glucose tolerance test every year.  That's an awful lot of bootie-knitters to glare at, you know.

Posted by Julie at 08:29:22 AM in The doctor is IN

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Prediabooties

The last time I saw a doctor for anything non-vagina-related was more than five years ago.  I could argue that even that visit had pelvic origins; my primary care doctor was certain that the burning gastric pain I frequently experienced was the result of my monthly menstrual abuse of ibuprofen.  She refused point-blank to remove my gallbladder, prescribed a cocktail of Maalox and novocaine, and sent me off to make do with two chump-ass extra-strength Tylenol.

From this, I concluded that she was obviously a dangerous quack and resolved never to darken her doorstep again.  And in the succeeding five years, I never felt I needed to.  I am either very healthy, very stoic, or very stupid.

I had a battery of bloodwork run when we consulted the maternal/fetal medicine specialist, which uncovered Factor V Leiden.  In reviewing those results, my garden variety OB/GYN — the least specialized of my worldwide cadre of coochie doctors — noticed that I'd never had a followup glucose tolerance test postpartum.

You know where this is going, right?  Right?  C'mon, this is me.

Three more days of carb loading.  Ten more ounces of syrupy orange swill.  Two more hours of rolling my eyes, looking at my watch, and staring pointedly at the large-bellied woman sitting across from me knitting booties.  (I swear to God she was knitting booties.  Hey.  Lady.  Yeah.  You're pregnant.  We get it.)  And one more call from my gynecologist saying I'd flunked.

My fasting level was fine, but my final number was high — 140 is top end of normal, and I skidded in at a jaw-clenching, teeth-chattering, Jesus-gay-but-that-stuff-is-sweet 151.

That's not high enough to qualify as full-blown diabetes, but it's high enough to reveal that I have what's called impaired glucose tolerance, colloquially called prediabetes.  It's not a troublesome condition in and of itself, but rather a big flashing neon warning sign that I'm much more likely to develop Type 2 diabetes later in life, and am at elevated risk for heart disease and stroke.

Now, I already knew that based solely on family history.  (Parent with diabetes?  Check.  Parent with heart disease?  Check.  Parent with hereditary coagulopathy?  Check, please.)  But now my doctors know it, too, including my primary care doctor. 

My OB/GYN is a rotten goddamn tattletale, is what she is.

So now what's going to happen is that my primary care doctor, whom I couldn't pick out of a police lineup if she had "I am the real killer.  Please catch me before I kill again" tattooed on her forehead, will tell me I need to exercise more and watch my diet.  That's it.  To delay or perhaps even prevent the eventual onset of diabetes, the sole prescription is to lose weight — which I don't need to do, thanks to a cool 20 I recently lost — exercise more, and eat plenty of baconless leafy greens and colon-scouring fiber...which we all should be doing, anyway.

Hey!  Thanks for the help.

In other words, no surprises.  The most disturbing thing about this revelation is the fact that I'll be expected to do a glucose tolerance test every year.  That's an awful lot of bootie-knitters to glare at, you know.