So this morning, lucky me, I had both a cholesterol and a diabetes test. Yes, lots of needle sticks and peeing-in-a-cup, which, I believe, is the ideal way to start a week, don't you?
It turns out my body has given me something else to consider. Perhaps the thrill of the fibroadenoma was at an end, the cracked elbow of last summer, oh, and that bad sprain when we first moved into this house--perhaps all that had faded, and my body needed a new attention. My doctor believes I might have a mild case of polycystic ovary syndrome, and when I looked it up, I am relieved I don't have a full blown case, since this involves all kinds of embarrassing symptoms I feel compelled to announce I do not have. It's very common; in fact, one in ten women are supposed to have it at one point or another. Ryan joked about getting me one of those days of the week pill boxes, and I was amiable and didn't kick him in the shin, even if I wanted to.
Anyway, this lovely new polysyllabic disorder, as I refer to it in our house, has something to do with insulin also, which means I was the lucky recipient of that orange glass of yeech, also known as the glucose test (yes, seventy five grams of sugar in some nasty syrupy drink that I abhorred, but drank down like the brave little soldier that I am). Two hours of adjusting myself on the uncomfortable hospital chairs, watching others come in and drink cupful after cupful of delicious water, which I hadn't had in fifteen hours at this point, or anything else, save toothpaste and that nasty orange drink. Cruelty, I believe, is a main ingredient in the glucose test.
I wonder at my husband, this superman who hasn't had any issues, but in the past three years, how I've had all these minor maladies (among which are the charmingly rhyme-able: a sty in my eye and a cyst on my wrist) lined up, returning me to the confines of our hospital and family practice. I am familiar now with the smell as I walk in, with the cockeyed lines in the parking lot, with the faces behind the reception desk. Nothing life threatening or even inherently interesting, but enough to keep me coming back, returning for more. I wouldn't mind something that involved a cast or a baby, some kind of true totem, a little keepsake beyond the frequent flier miles or the handy shot glass with the logo chipping away. Proof of time well spent in that building.
I'm going to take a nap now, which everyone can frown at collectively in a disapproving way, but I have officially had a sugar crash, the air conditioning is not on in our house so the sogginess lulls me, and I've got forty pages to go in my book club book. I think that formula equals a settling in with a fluffy pillow and some clean sheets, don't you?