Ok, so that may be a bit of a strange title to a blog entry, I would agree. But it should make sense by the time you get to the end.
About 3 years ago, I went in to the doctor to get a physical. It had been a while, I admit. But I was thinking that after about 10 years of going to Scout camp and resolutely avoiding getting a physical, it was about time to acquiesce. You see, every boy who goes to a Scout camp is required to have a physical so they don't kill over and die for some unforeseen reason because of an undetected health condition. It's much better to just send them up with a nice sharp pocket knife and Bic lighter and tell them to go to town. I think that secretly, the camp staff is only trained for life-threatening Bic lighter or pocket knife injuries and that having something else, say, a retinal myocardial disease, would be somewhat outside the scope of their training. (You know, I don't even know if retinal myocardial disease is real or not. I just kind of threw some medical-ish sounding words out there to make it sound like I knew what I was talking about).
But for adult leaders, it's a different story. They do very adamantly require that all adult leaders have a physical, and I suppose it makes sense. If someone were to keel over for an undetected medial reason, it would likely be an adult leader before one of the boys. But I always approached it from the standpoint of, "What are they going to do, send me home? MAKE MY DAY, PUNK!!!!" At which point, the staff would cower in shame and admit that they really didn't have any intentions of sending adult leaders home. In fact, they would ask first if we had some sort of cell phone that worked out there in the middle of nowhere just in case reinforcements were required.
After about 10 years of scoffing at those silly Scout camp requirements for adults, I thought that I better at least get one done one year. Well, big mistake there. I would have been so much better off had I not ever bothered.
One of the many rather joyful tests they do is the blood test. (Don't worry. I won't digress into all the tasteless things that a doctor does to the poor sot who goes in and submits, and even pays, to have this regimen of medieval torture performed on them. Partially because I am too ashamed to admit having endured them or even describe them, and partially because this is a family blog site, man! You just can't say those sorts of things! Anyhow, I digress).
Now the blood test is an interesting process. You can't eat anything for 12 hours before you go in because it messes up the blood test. So you starve yourself, and go in and let them dig around in your arm for that pesky little vein that holds the door of the mother-lode. You are already a little lightheaded from not eating, then they strap this rubber strap around your arm that tangles up in your arm hair and pulls out random clumps (yes, I have that much arm hair), then make you flex your arm while your hand changes shades of white, then blue, then purple, then green...oh, wait. Those last two only happen if you do it too long.
Then they start poking the crux of your arm. (What is that thing called, anyhow? It's not an arm pit - that's up higher. Is it the elbow pit? Back off, man. I'm an engineer, not a physician) At some point, you start to wonder if you are supposed to poke back, but then they feel something there (or pretend to), and then they swoop in with the needle. Once the needle is safely poked through the flesh, the digging can begin. Usually, that is followed by some light conversation like, "Hmmm...that little sucker is sure hard to find, isn't it?" To which I would usually answer, "If you want to talk to me, quit spinning so much around my head, ok?"
After a nice course of digging, they would make the lunge and reach the happy spot. That is somewhere outside the other side of the arm, I am sure. Once they are sure that arm guts are properly churned up, they put the little tube thing in the other end and in a mighty squirt, the blood begins to flow. And it starts getting really hot in the room, and things get fuzzy, and ....no, wait! I am not going to pass out! After drawing several small gallons of blood, the technician (I guess they call them blood-digger-techs?) eyes you up and down to determine if you can walk through the door without looking like a drunk (it scares off the other victims awaiting their torture) and lets you leave with some really styling florescent pink elbow band wrapped tightly around your arm to make sure none of the inner elbow guts don't leak out.
Now, we wait. After several days, a call comes back that the lab work is done. That's when I found out the good news. Apparently, my blood is straight lard.
They say there are 2 types of cholesterol; the good kind called "HDL" and the bad kind called "LDL". Now, don't get me wrong. I am always one to appreciate a good acronym. But I am at a loss at these two for these two. HDL is good and LDL is bad? That doesn't even rhyme, man!
Oh, and there are these other things in there call triglycerides. I know of nitroglycerin. That would be cool to have some of. What are these triglycerides? Who knows.
Apparently, my blood has too little of the HDL stuff and too much of the LDL stuff. And I have too many triglycerides too and apparently that is bad. The way they describe it, my blood should come out almost congealed (a fact I know is not true because just 2 days ago, I tore off half my upper lip while shaving and that sucker didn't congeal for hours! I had to walk around most of the day with a small piece of toilet paper stuck on my lip and that certainly is not fashionable.) Also, if I don't fix this thing, I am at a higher risk of encountering some sort of "heart related event" within 10 years. That doesn't sound so good.
To avoid this nasty event, they gave me drugs. And I was good about taking them. And they didn't make me feel any better. In fact, they wrecked havoc on my system. I won't get into many details (see the reference above to the general physical), but I was thinking that I could get used to it if it made my blood better. After a while some of the side effects went away and I did get used to them.
And every 3 months, they would have me go in and repeat the medieval torture routine to see how this medication was working. The general consensus back from the doctor was that my body was adjusting to the medication, but it was irritating my liver a bit much. Irritating my liver? I don't think I like irritated liver! But the doctor assured me it would get better with time and it was worth it in the overall scheme of things.
After about a year we sat back and assessed the results. Well, the LDL went down. My overall cholesterol went down. My HDLs stayed the same or got worse. Triglycerides didn't change.
Some would consider this progress, by my doctor did not. He said that it was good to get the LDL down, but by not moving the HDL, I was still just as likely to kick off as I was a year prior.
So we changed some medications. Same results. We changed them again to something completely different. I was taking a "statin". Then I changed to a "fibrate". My doctor told me that statins and fibrates don't like each other and really irritate the liver, so I had to make sure I got all the statins out before the fibrates started. After a while, we got the results back and everything was the same, except my LDLs went back up. So he wanted me to then take the statin and the fibrate together.
Wait a minute! Don't statins and fibrates not like each other? And don't they have their fight in my liver? I am no doctor, but I am guessing a statin and fibrate cage match in my liver is not one I want to do!
So I got frustrated and bagged the whole thing. This process sounded an awful lot like a crap shoot. He (my doctor) seemed to have no clue on which way to go - he was just throwing stuff at me in the hopes that something may work. That's fine when you are trying to fix a car or something, but I only have one liver.
I just went back after about a year or so and got checked again. And it's worse. I did some research on how to raise HDL and lower LDL and triglycerides. Beyond doing the Russian Roulette medication route, here is the best I can hope to do:
1. Keep my life insurance policy paid up and hope for the best. Kathryn really hates it when I suggest this plan, however. She threatens to beat me up, so I guess that may not be the best course of action.
2. Give up any sorts of food that I remotely like. I have to start eating carrots, and twigs, and ferns, and bushes, and anything that may grow alongside the road of life. No more meat, no more butter, no more substitute food. Just throw out the lawn mover and send me out back with a fork and knife.
3. I must become a marathon runner. I hate running, but the only way I can survive for more than 10 years from now is to become a runner.
In short, I have to become a bunny.
