yesterday, and I politely made it clear that I thought medication tweaking was not enough given how far things have shelved down, and how quickly. Fortunately, he was receptive to the idea that I wanted to be more aggressive in treatment. He agreed to the endocrinologist referral, suggested a possible new medication that would be a second-line move, and even listened to my maybe-irrational fears and ordered an abdominal CT scan to rule out a cancer, given that my liver readings are also a little out of range and the state of my colon hasn’t pleased me in months. Pancreatic and esophageal cancers are two that I’m truly scared of—they aren’t easy to spot, which leads to much later-stage diagnoses, and five-year survival rates are very poor. A diagnosis of either one usually creates a “you may as well order the coffin” situation. There isn’t a history of cancer in my family except for my uncle Dawson, who died of liver cancer (I suspect drinking may have had something to do with that), but then there wasn’t any history of diabetes in the family either, and that didn’t stop me from getting it.
He even (and this surprised me) suggested the possibility of bariatric surgery when I said that I had never had any success with weight loss. I told him I wasn’t willing to go there just yet, given that (1) I’m only fifty pounds over optimum weight, (2) it is a major invasive procedure with real risks of complications, and (3) I keep reading stories in the press about studies which cast doubt on the long-term benefit of the surgery.
The doctor’s office called me this afternoon to get an idea of what my schedule was so they could schedule the CT scan, and I told them Tuesday or Wednesday of next week would do, since I would have to go in fasting. I think they’re also arranging something with the endocrinologist, who is named Blevins—and I’m certain that the whole time with him I will have the Austin Lounge Lizards’ song “Old Blevins” running in my head.
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