Did I tell you the story of how I nearly convinced myself that I had diabetes?
I should probably start with the back story. As a kid I almost never went to the doctor. I was mostly healthy and I don’t think we had insurance which kind of breeds my not so obvious disdain for chronically sick people. Don’t waste a band-aid if you aren’t gushing blood. Stop scratching. Walk it off. Not to forget the most popular and strangely accurate: maybe you just need to poop.
For the sake of patient history, I should note that there is nobody, but NOBODY in my immediate family with diabetes. There’s some cancer, but mostly heart disease. As I have no heart, I should be ok.
As an adult with an excellent health care provider, I still do not go to the doctor.(or as little as possible) Only really if I know it will result in a prescription for sinus infection, urinary tract infection, that kind of thing.
I know instinctively that in the event of an unexplainable illness, I will die because after all House is fiction.
It’s not that I don’t like my doctor. He’s funny and strangely adorable. Kind of a over 50s, Jewish, Marshall Erickson.(spoiler Jason Segal IS Jewish) It is only slightly creepy that every time I do go he mentions how blue my eyes are. Fluorescent lighting at its best. Even though I’ve on many occasions declared that I’d rather be naked and cold on the table with Dr. G than ever get dental work, I have in the past couple of years not seen him at all and spent many an hour drugged to the eyeballs getting drilled by the dentist. Regular doctor= low copay, some minimal discomfort, no drugs. Dentist=cost a fortune even with insurance, is horribly painful, heavy on the good prescription painkillers. Smile pretty honey. Show ’em your crowns (plural). .
A couple of years ago I gave up pop. Soda, Pepsi. Sure I have one every once in awhile-at the movies, to swallow a pill, in a Sonic limeade, at restaurants that I know have shitty iced tea. I didn’t lose any weight because I substituted that high caloric beverage for other tasty elixirs of the Gods. You know BEER and BOOZE and COFFEE.
In my all encompassing need to over analyze all things DEE, I started internalizing my internal workings. Every little unexplained symptom that I used to blow off got put on a list of what ifs. I’d continued to gain weight, my hair wouldn’t grow, my eyesight is going, my nails were brittle, and other whatnot too numerous and embarrassing to list.
I’ve been ingesting a ton of sugar and processed foods, what if I have the Diabetes? But you don’t. But I could. Yeah, you could, but you don’t. Are you sure? No one in our family has it, you don’t have it, you’re a moron. But what if I do? You don’t. I was “borderline gestational diabetic” when I was carrying Astrid? You were also swilling countless Pepsi’s and the mother in law fed you Ben and Jerry-it was a fluke. It’s possible, right? It’s possible you’re a dumbass. (as you can see my psyche is clearly needy AND contemptuous of it)
So. Did I go to the doctor, get a complete physical and rule it out? Of course not. I, instead, sought the counsel of my peers. I recounted this, my deepest innermost anxiety to my coworkers. (of all people!) I have since been heavily razzed with Wilford Brimley jokes about my diebeetus.
It’s a miracle. I’m cured.