I have always been able to rely on my body. Obnoxiously healthy, my carcass has shaken off some fairly dramatic trauma, and powered on through.
A little while ago, our family physician dragged me (kicking and screaming) into a physical and after all the poking and prodding pronounced that I was pre-diabetic.
I was ... outraged.
I did some research on the World Wide Web, and armed with the results, went to get a second opinion from another doctor, well-respected in his field. He agreed with me that my results were on the low side of pre-diabetes. Matter-of-fact, my results could -- maybe, if you squinted --be interpreted as being in the fuzzy area between normal and pre-diabetic.
However, he cautioned, seeing as how both of my grandfathers had diabetes, and at least one of my fathers brothers had the disease, I was (drum-roll, please) "pre-disposed".
I was cautioned to exercise more, lay off the Dr Pepper, and to "stop eating like you're still 18".
A little after the first of 2010 I started noticing ... problems. I was losing words. Trying to write was like sifting through porridge. I knew what I wanted to say, but I couldn't figure out the words that were the structure to the ideas.
Then I started losing words in conversations. In the middle of a sentence, the next word in line would just sort of ... fade away ... leaving me to fumble about for a synonym.
You have no idea how good it is to write the word "synonym".
About three months ago, I was down south on an overnight trip to pick up one of our wandering critters when I lost a jail.
I remember waking up in the motel in McAllen, Texas. I remember leaving the motel to drive to the Hidalgo County Jail, looking at the scenery and remarking, "Damn, that looks a lot like San Antonio."
Baby Officer, who was driving, said, "That's because it is San Antone, 'Dog."
When I turned to look at her to tell her, "Nice try", I noticed that there was someone in the back seat of the cruiser.
Not only do I have absolutely no recollection of the four-hour, two-hundred and twenty mile trip from Edinburg to San Antonio, but -- and this is the terrifying part for someone who memorizes floor-plans out of habit -- I couldn't tell you where the Hidalgo County jail is, what it looks like, where Intake is, who I talked to, or how I received our prisoner.
To this day: nothing.
When we got back to the S.O., I drove down to my Dr, walked in and said, "Something's wrong."
Fifteen minutes later, he waves the infamous Little Sample Cup in my general direction and announces, "Here's your problem. This could be poured over pancakes. Go home. Nothing to eat after 10PM, be at the lab at 8 AM. Wear loose clothing."
Long story short, six months after being diagnosed with pre-diabetes, I'm looking at full-on Diabetes, Type 2 (Non Insulin Dependent).
After three months of a low-carb diet, exercise, and metformin twice daily the general fogginess that somehow snuck up on me has gone away, and I think I'm back up to snuff.
Which is A Good Thing.