I’m noticing that my Doc and I use the same wireless mouse. Nice. He squints at the flatscreen as he calls up my blood test.<\/p>\n

My last Doc took off in November to Africa to heal sick Africans, the bastard (*), and my new Doc, a thin wisp of a man, pushes himself back from his desk with downturned eyes and a sigh. The kind of sigh that rips through your memory and lands on the moment when one of your parents decided that it was time to tell you about the birds and the bees, or why your pet goldfish is swimming upside down. Yeah. One of those<\/em> sighs.<\/p>\n

“The numbers suggest that you are diabetic,” he says looking to me and back to the monitor. He flips the page up and down, reciting numbers and blood acronyms that don’t register with me. I’m in “aaaw goddamn it” shock. “There’s no real border line here, really, it’s just that your blood sugars have topped and stayed over the limit where we consider someone diabetic.”<\/p>\n

I’m thinking back to the time when I was a manager of a traveller’s hostel in Ottawa and had keys to the pop vending machine. With reckless abandon, I would open the damn thing and suck back 3, 4, 5 cans a day. I also had keys to the chocolate bar display. Long nights behind the counter were ticked off with Kit Kats, on the hour. Successful calls to the difficult Executive Director was rewarded with a Mr Big.<\/p>\n

“There is a great program at the Women’s College for nutrition and diabetes. I’m going to fax them right now and get you signed up,” his fingers fly over his keyboard.<\/p>\n

I’m remembering bartending and how I would mainline syrupy Coke and Ginger Ale from the pop taps to keep my energy up and be nice to the customers after midnight, my usual bed time. I think about the little extra snacks I would have before bed at 3am, after a rough night at the bar.<\/p>\n

“The waiting list for this program can be a bit long,” he makes an apologetic ‘woopsie!’ face.<\/p>\n

I am thinking about that ice cream maker my brother gave me last year for my 40th birthday. I used it once! I swear!<\/p>\n

“…but it’s the best around. Worth the wait.”<\/p>\n

I’m thinking about pasta.<\/p>\n

“Two months, I should think.”<\/p>\n

I think about my foot falling off. I think about going blind. I think about my heart stopping. I stop tinking about that.<\/p>\n

“Can I get your blood pressure? I haven’t done that in a while.”<\/p>\n

So now I’ve become a statistic and a further burden on Canada’s envious health system. I think about how in the last 5 years I have used food as an emotional crutch. Eating has become my drug, evident in the wild fluxuation of my weight. And now I’m in a K(raft Dinner)-hole of sorts with the time come for me to pay the pusher.<\/p>\n

This evening, find me googling Type 2 Diabetes<\/em> and defiantly swilling red wine. Expect a maudlin post not much longer after that.<\/p>\n

(*) okay I don’t begrudge my old Doc for leaving. It was just “good” between us, you know? I could make him laugh at inappropriate things like the growth on my toenails. This new one reminds me of a bank loan manager and the few times I’ve tried, I get panicked looks shot back at me<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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