I had a weird conversation with my doctor yesterday.
Tuesday, 8 April 2014 12:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carose59"I Have A Papercut From Writing My Suicide Note. It's A Start."*
-:- -:- -:-
So, I have a yeast infection, so I went to the doctor. And, of course, we had to have the cholesterol-blood pressure-too much sugar-weight conversation, although my blood pressure was fine. He asked me several times if I'm diabetic (no). He sent me for a sophisticated blood test because the last one I had, when plugged into some kind of formula (along with my weight and other things I couldn't read on his computer screen) says my chances of having a heart attack are only three percent. If I had ever been a smoker, they'd be higher. For some reason, before he did the results, he checked that I was a smoker—while saying that I'm not—and then did the results again. I don't know what the hell.
And that wasn't even the weird part.
Apparently, cholesterol, besides breaking down into good and bad, also breaks down into big clumps and little clumps, and it's the big ones that are bad, so we're checking to see what kind of clumps I have, at which point I will have to start taking a statin because my number will be higher. How does he know this? I have no idea.
I expressed my dismay at the idea of statins, and told him about the debilitating leg cramps I had. That's when the conversation went sideways.
We would try a different statin, because different statins have different enzyme bases, and different people have different enzyme bases. Now, I was following this just fine, but for some reason he then asked if I'd ever been in Grand Central Station in New York.
Yes. Yes, I have.
Well, he tells me, there are turnstiles there, and some of them are short and wide, and some of them are tall and narrow, and obviously short, wide people wouldn't be able to fit through the tall, narrow ones, and vice versa. And I understand the point he's making (though confused by the relevancy), but mostly I'm trying picture Grand Central Station (where I had a panic attack the last time I was there, and had to leave before anyone noticed) and to control the urge to say, "Have you ever been to Grand Central Station in New York? Because I'm pretty sure they do not, in fact, have turnstiles like you're talking about—what are you talking about, anyway? Man, I want to see the Empire State Building again, and breathe some New York air."
But I didn't say that, not so much because I'm trying to sound sane, but because my stomach hurt and I wanted to get my prescription and get out of there.
Anyway, I got sent to the lab for blood work, and the tech took blood from my wrist. Yep, my chances of becoming a junkie are even lower than my chances of having a heart attack because you cannot find veins in my arms. After one try, and much searching—and me telling her that the last couple of times they'd had to go to my wrist, she apologized repeatedly and stuck a needle in my wrist.
It hurts like hell, though not for very long. The bad part is, I can feel the blood coming out, and it's very upsetting.
Then I went to breakfast. It was one in the afternoon.
While I was eating, it started raining, and when I got in the car, I started crying. I was planning on going in to work, but instead I called in, picked up my prescription, and went home to sit in my house, listen to the rain, and cry.
When I got home, Patrick was sitting on his front porch. He got fired. As I understand it, he did something—or didn't do something—that he—and others—had done (or not done) before. The difference this time is, he has a brand new manager who, instead of handling it internally, reported him to corporate. And when it goes to corporate, you get fired, period.
He was talking about cashing in his 401k, and then he said that when that runs out, he can always shoot himself in the head.
"Do you still have a gun?" I asked. (He used to have several, before his house was burgled, repeatedly.
"No!" he said, and started laughing. "I need a better plan!" Then he told me that was why he likes talking to me; instead of getting all worried or trying to cheer him up, I go straight for the flaw in his plan, and I make him laugh. Well, he's not really suicidal—not actively suicidal. I think when your hobbies are drinking and smoking, you could be considered passively suicidal. But aren't we all, in our own ways?
I went inside with Meg, and we cuddled and slept in my chair all afternoon, watching Leverage.
*Stephen Wright
-:- -:- -:-
So, I have a yeast infection, so I went to the doctor. And, of course, we had to have the cholesterol-blood pressure-too much sugar-weight conversation, although my blood pressure was fine. He asked me several times if I'm diabetic (no). He sent me for a sophisticated blood test because the last one I had, when plugged into some kind of formula (along with my weight and other things I couldn't read on his computer screen) says my chances of having a heart attack are only three percent. If I had ever been a smoker, they'd be higher. For some reason, before he did the results, he checked that I was a smoker—while saying that I'm not—and then did the results again. I don't know what the hell.
And that wasn't even the weird part.
Apparently, cholesterol, besides breaking down into good and bad, also breaks down into big clumps and little clumps, and it's the big ones that are bad, so we're checking to see what kind of clumps I have, at which point I will have to start taking a statin because my number will be higher. How does he know this? I have no idea.
I expressed my dismay at the idea of statins, and told him about the debilitating leg cramps I had. That's when the conversation went sideways.
We would try a different statin, because different statins have different enzyme bases, and different people have different enzyme bases. Now, I was following this just fine, but for some reason he then asked if I'd ever been in Grand Central Station in New York.
Yes. Yes, I have.
Well, he tells me, there are turnstiles there, and some of them are short and wide, and some of them are tall and narrow, and obviously short, wide people wouldn't be able to fit through the tall, narrow ones, and vice versa. And I understand the point he's making (though confused by the relevancy), but mostly I'm trying picture Grand Central Station (where I had a panic attack the last time I was there, and had to leave before anyone noticed) and to control the urge to say, "Have you ever been to Grand Central Station in New York? Because I'm pretty sure they do not, in fact, have turnstiles like you're talking about—what are you talking about, anyway? Man, I want to see the Empire State Building again, and breathe some New York air."
But I didn't say that, not so much because I'm trying to sound sane, but because my stomach hurt and I wanted to get my prescription and get out of there.
Anyway, I got sent to the lab for blood work, and the tech took blood from my wrist. Yep, my chances of becoming a junkie are even lower than my chances of having a heart attack because you cannot find veins in my arms. After one try, and much searching—and me telling her that the last couple of times they'd had to go to my wrist, she apologized repeatedly and stuck a needle in my wrist.
It hurts like hell, though not for very long. The bad part is, I can feel the blood coming out, and it's very upsetting.
Then I went to breakfast. It was one in the afternoon.
While I was eating, it started raining, and when I got in the car, I started crying. I was planning on going in to work, but instead I called in, picked up my prescription, and went home to sit in my house, listen to the rain, and cry.
When I got home, Patrick was sitting on his front porch. He got fired. As I understand it, he did something—or didn't do something—that he—and others—had done (or not done) before. The difference this time is, he has a brand new manager who, instead of handling it internally, reported him to corporate. And when it goes to corporate, you get fired, period.
He was talking about cashing in his 401k, and then he said that when that runs out, he can always shoot himself in the head.
"Do you still have a gun?" I asked. (He used to have several, before his house was burgled, repeatedly.
"No!" he said, and started laughing. "I need a better plan!" Then he told me that was why he likes talking to me; instead of getting all worried or trying to cheer him up, I go straight for the flaw in his plan, and I make him laugh. Well, he's not really suicidal—not actively suicidal. I think when your hobbies are drinking and smoking, you could be considered passively suicidal. But aren't we all, in our own ways?
I went inside with Meg, and we cuddled and slept in my chair all afternoon, watching Leverage.
*Stephen Wright