"So, do how do you think you've done?" The consultant endocrinologist* asks the same question every six months, as I shuck off my shoes and step onto the scales. I am typically modest. I've been slowly shedding the pounds for the last four years and I give the same answer every six months - "I don't know. I think I'm about the same". I feign a mild and pleasant surprise every time she tells me I've dropped a little. I'm fucking thrilled.
Last November she cautioned me. I was "about the same". I should have left her suite feeling chastened but instead I danced out - she'd agreed to take me off my dose of Glucophage for a while. Glucophage is a medication used to treat type 2 diabetes and, experimentally, PCOS. I'd been taking it in gradually increased doses for four years along with Aldactone, which is a horrible-tasting yellow-coloured potassium-sparing diuretic. Glucophage's side effects include abdominal discomfort, diarrhea, nausea, vomiting and weakness. Aldactone's main drawback is that I'm not supposed to eat bananas. It'd been a fun four years.
I'd been on four a day of the Glucophage by the time she decided to give me a break from it. Apart from an encyclopedic knowledge of Dublin's public conveniences, I didn't feel I had gained much. I was tired of feeling like a human sick-bag. I was tired of feeling so fucking tired, trying to good-humouredly bat away teasing about my 10pm bedtime. So I spent my seven month respite delighting in increased appetites and solid stools. I felt better and enjoyed eating without fear of nausea or shitattacks, as I refer to my abdominal discomforts. After four years of diarrhea, euphemisms wear thin.
In June, I returned for my check-up and we had our usual banter. How was I feeling? Great! How was being back on the pill suiting me? Marvellously! How did I think I'd done with the weight loss? I didn't know, I mumbled, but I thought I was about the same. I wasn't. I'd put on a full stone in those six months since I'd seen her last. She didn't tut tut, and I love her a little for that. We talked about my fertility plans (which are as vague as my holiday ones) and agreed a schedule of medication and weight loss to give me the best possible chance to conceive a baby of my own. I'm back on the Glucophage, one month on and up to two a day. There's a familiar nausea rolling in my belly and a grumpy tiredness rubbing at my eyes, all in the hope that I might somedaygraduate to morning sickness and sleep deprivation be blessed with a bundle of joy. I'd treat myself and buy one, but they're expensive and I'm not sure that the Credit Union would approve the loan.
*I think consultants charge according to how difficult their specialism is to spell. Is specialism the right word? I was going to write "specialist subject" but that makes her sound like a Mastermind contestant.
Last November she cautioned me. I was "about the same". I should have left her suite feeling chastened but instead I danced out - she'd agreed to take me off my dose of Glucophage for a while. Glucophage is a medication used to treat type 2 diabetes and, experimentally, PCOS. I'd been taking it in gradually increased doses for four years along with Aldactone, which is a horrible-tasting yellow-coloured potassium-sparing diuretic. Glucophage's side effects include abdominal discomfort, diarrhea, nausea, vomiting and weakness. Aldactone's main drawback is that I'm not supposed to eat bananas. It'd been a fun four years.
I'd been on four a day of the Glucophage by the time she decided to give me a break from it. Apart from an encyclopedic knowledge of Dublin's public conveniences, I didn't feel I had gained much. I was tired of feeling like a human sick-bag. I was tired of feeling so fucking tired, trying to good-humouredly bat away teasing about my 10pm bedtime. So I spent my seven month respite delighting in increased appetites and solid stools. I felt better and enjoyed eating without fear of nausea or shitattacks, as I refer to my abdominal discomforts. After four years of diarrhea, euphemisms wear thin.
In June, I returned for my check-up and we had our usual banter. How was I feeling? Great! How was being back on the pill suiting me? Marvellously! How did I think I'd done with the weight loss? I didn't know, I mumbled, but I thought I was about the same. I wasn't. I'd put on a full stone in those six months since I'd seen her last. She didn't tut tut, and I love her a little for that. We talked about my fertility plans (which are as vague as my holiday ones) and agreed a schedule of medication and weight loss to give me the best possible chance to conceive a baby of my own. I'm back on the Glucophage, one month on and up to two a day. There's a familiar nausea rolling in my belly and a grumpy tiredness rubbing at my eyes, all in the hope that I might someday
*I think consultants charge according to how difficult their specialism is to spell. Is specialism the right word? I was going to write "specialist subject" but that makes her sound like a Mastermind contestant.
