My doc called me in this week because she found something in my recent labwork. It’s not a very big deal, but I found out I have high triglycerides.
Now, my doctor is not Miss Bedside Manner, although she totally thinks she is. She’s got a rockin’ office, and her girls at the desk are all rockabilly and cute, and she wears Doc Martens and great glasses, and I would bet she’s got a wife at home. It’s the only doctor’s office in the whole world that I’ve ever been asked on a form whether I was sexually active, and if so, was it with the same sex, opposite sex, or both. I LOVED that. I do everything in my power to like her. I totally should like her. She says nice things about my knitting. (And then she winces and says, "I’d never have time." No one does, lady. We just do it.)
But she’s not helpful, and that’s irritating. When I had pneumonia last year, I had to pull the info out of her. She literally said, "I’m not going to tell you what you’d have, because you’d just worry. Just take this medication and you’ll feel better soon." We had to have a heart-to-heart in which I explained my buried-but-latent Type A-ness, and I HAD to know or I’d break into her office that very night to read my chart. And then there’s the mess to clean up, all the glass on the floor, and then there’s going to court in three months…. Messy. Better just to tell me my DIAGNOSIS.
When I went in for my migraines last month (I get a migraine once a month, three days into my period. Think it might be hormonal?), she didn’t do anything but write me a referral for a neurologist. She said the neurologist would know better than she would.
Two days ago, when she saw me, she explained that I have really high triglycerides (almost 400, should be less than 150) although I have reasonable cholesterol levels. So she’s putting me on meds and sending me to a cardiologist.
"But you said this isn’t a big deal, why do I have to see a cardiologist?"
"Mostly it’s for CYA. My own protection against malpractice. Besides, he talks about the heart all day long, and he likes it. I would be SO bored. But he’ll be able to tell you more."
THAT made me a little suspicious. So I checked, and as long as gallstones aren’t considered side effects (and why would they be? Such fun!), I’m all right.
Eh. But I’m going to go on the meds (low-dose gemfibozil) for now. I’ll go back on the fish oil, which I had forgotten about (women! Take your fish oil for the love of god!) and cut back on the beer, maybe just a couple of bottles with Lala once a week, and cut down on the sugar (but not on the ice cream, are they fucking nuts?) and make more of my own food and get tested again in three months. We’ll go from there.
Irritates the hell out of me that I could run a marathon and still be all hyper-lipid-y. For that matter, it irritates the hell out of me that I could run a marathon and still get winded walking up two flights of stairs. There is no justice.
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