Bad News

Since I barf out my life on this blog and don't care who sees it, I received some news today that has had me in a tizzy all evening. I've done nothing but sit, stare, cry, read blogs, write emails, and not much else. I've had Hubster call my mother; otherwise, nobody knows yet. But now you will.

You all know that I had my blood tested yesterday. The results came in today, and my doctor's office called this afternoon.

The mundane news is that my thyroid meds are way too low and need to be adjusted. That would account for the weight gain.

Then there was the other news.

(deep breath)

I am a diabetic.

There.

I've said it and haven't dropped dead.

Just in time for my 50th birthday, too. I can just imagine what my boys will do when they hear this tidbit of happiness.

I'm not at the insulin stage, but I'm teetering on the Type I/Type II fence. Exercise more, she said. Eat less and lose weight, she said. Do this, do that, stand on your head and flash the world, she said.

The only way I can exercise is to swim. We all know that where I live, it doesn't get hot enough to swim unless the pool is heated, and mine isn't.

I live on sandwiches as it is. If I ate any less, I would die. I realize that the less you eat, the more your body thinks it's starving and the slower your metabolism gets in order to conserve energy. But there's also that little problem of having a dead thyroid, so my weight isn't merely a function of what I eat or don't eat - it's a function of how accurate my meds are. And since they're insufficient, I could swim the English Channel right now and all I'd get from it are titsicles.

Speaking of tits, I also have to go for my yearly mammo torture. I've got a large lump in one breast which they've been watching. The minute it changes size, shape, or mass, they'll make me walk down the hall in one of those stupid gowns that are designed for stick women, lay on my tummy on this table with a hole in it for your boobles to hang down through, stick a large needle full of anesthetic right in the tumor, and do a biopsy. I won't know the results for about a week, and then they'll send me a letter saying that I have to come back. That's if it's bad news. I've already received one of those letters, and it was one of the longest three weeks I've had to live through.

I've been reading posts from women who are about to turn 40 and how they're dreading it. Rightly so. I was afraid of my 40th, and birthdays have never bothered me before. I was actually excited about my 50th. In my culture, I will now be an elder, a position which is venerated and powerful.

But I don't feel powerful right now.

I feel very, very scared.