Weight Loss Starts With 'P'

On a visit to the doctor about two months ago, I had a visit with a dietitian on the premises.  She was there to consult with me on how I might go about lowering my blood sugar levels.  Being diagnosed with Type II diabetes a few years ago, my daily dose of Metformin can only do so much.  I decided to try to eat healthier, introducing more vegetables to my diet.  For those who follow my Twitter account (@ToontownJuggalo), you may have seen some of my pictures of prepared meals.  I'm quite proud of my tasty concoctions and don't mind promoting my culinary genius when possible.  There was discussion at the time about placing me on a new drug, called "Forxiga" (For-zee-ga), that would work in conjunction with the medication I'm already taking.  The prescription for that, however, would have to wait until I had a different test performed on my downstairs region.

Eventually, I met back up with the dietitian to further discuss my diabetic situation.  In the months in between meets, I was to test my blood on a semi-regular basis.  Semi-regular because due to my limited income, I can't afford the test strips required to test my blood.  The drug companies who control the sale of test strips have diabetics at a great disadvantage, as strips cost a f*ck-load of money.  Thankfully, the dietitian lady had free samples and was able to provide me with the testing equipment and strips.  On this visit, it was decided that we go ahead with the introduction of this new drug, Forxiga.

Information was provided prior to my filling the prescription briefly details what is to be expected from taking the pills, in addition, a list of the most common side effects was also listed.  Generally, this list is my favourite part of any prospective drug.  The most prominent is headaches, back pain, pain in my arms, frequent urination, constipation and diarrhea.  Ironically, I already suffer from headaches and back pain, so nothing new there.  The pain in the arms is new and if I forget, I begin to suspect I'm having a heart attack, before I remember.  I have been peeing a lot more, both in frequency and duration, but that's a major part of the drug's purpose as excess sugar is disposed in this manner.  As for the last two symptoms, I'm happy to report neither is affecting me.

Another positive to this new drug, aside from the guarantee that I will be receiving it free-of-charge for the next twelve months, is because of the frequent urination, weight loss is also associated with the taking of the drug.  Although I've only been taking Forxiga for about a week, I've already lost a couple of pounds, and that's considering the ample amounts of junk food I consumed over this past weekend.  Imagine the slick sexy self that will emerge when eating a more healthy diet along with the medicine.  Move over, Bert Kreischer, I'm bringing sexy back!! 

"Bringing sexy back!! That's a laugh!!"

Litmus Test

I've heard it said: Don't ever meet your heroes, they're never what they seem.  This is likely true, for the most part, otherwise there'd never be such a warning.  I've met a few people that I've looked up to, and (so far) they've been quite humble and respectable.  I'd never consider bacon, on the other hand, to be heroic, nor an idol to look upon fondly, although I do love that smokey taste when it's being gnarled between my teeth.  That being said, when the commercials for the new "Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza" from Little Caesar's began their shock and awe barrage on public television, I knew it was only a matter of time until I would visit the pizza chain.

I used to consume a shit-ton of fast food.  I'm lazy and tend to procrastinate a lot, so the thought of driving up to an establishment, paying for a tasty treat that required very little more than wiping my mouth and fingers with a moist towelette, was very appealing.  Unfortunately, several pounds later and a sad case of Type II diabetes, it's a rare treat, these days.  Unreasonable prices are also a major factor, though the spare tire around my middle section, should be suffice enough.

One contributor to the nastiness is KFC.  Generally, I would visit Kentucky Fried Chicken once a year, consume the chicken accompanied by their amazing gravy, then reap the uncomfortable sickness that would follow.  Like the consumption of alcohol, I would use this single experience like a Litmus Test.  A reminder as to why I don't submit myself to this kind of pain and discomfort more often within the calendar year.

I wouldn't categorize myself as an alcoholic, but the effects of sadness and depression that follow any drinking excursion isn't something I particularly look forward to and therefore reserve inebriation to once or twice a year.  It's pretty much all I can take.  I'm not a believer that a person can go for one or two drinks.  I do believe, on the other hand, that intoxicating oneself to complete annihilation, should be the goal.  For the most part, I find alcoholic beverages to taste tremendously bad, so why put yourself through that dissatisfaction, if there's no goal of inebriation to achieve?

I digress.  I'm getting completely off topic, to which I apologize.

Earlier this month, some coupons came in the mail and the varying pictures of KFC chicken became appealing to me.  I was about due for my yearly trek through intestinal hell, so I ventured down to the neighbourhood KFC and got a small four piece and brought it home.  However, the gut aches and feeling of vomiting that normally piggybacks the experience never came, although the meal was every bit as greasy and disgusting, as usual.  A couple weeks later, those coupons crossed my view and again I found myself placing an order for a four piece chicken box.  Once more, no nausea.  "What the f**k?!" I thought to myself.  A couple weeks later, this past Friday, I again went down and picked up a ten-piece bucket, this time and no nausea.  No feeling of dread or yearning to vomit.  "Strange!" I thought.

Days earlier, I'd broken down and visited Little Caesar's and bought the Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza that has been mercilessly prostituted on television for the past couple of months.  The images of the pizza in the commercial look so delectable and mouth-watering.  I could hardly contain myself when the clerk handed over my pizza.  I raced home and was horrified by the reality of the situation.  It was like one of those before and after pictures of Rihanna after a date with Chris Brown.  The beauty I was expecting to see, was just a beat up tramp.  My Bacon-Wrapped pizza was little more than a punching bag placed into a box.

It's appearance was a train wreck.  It smelled marginally better than it looked, but it's taste was equally, if not worse, than it's appearance.  What followed was all the experiences and memories I've ever had that was normally reserved for KFC.  It was a horrific experience.  I wound up lying on my couch in a ball, sweating heavily and fighting off the urge to puke.  I do not recommend that pizza to people.  Not unless you're bulimic.  You won't need to stick a finger down your throat, as odds are, the pizza will do that for you.

It's a sad sad day when I, of all people, have to admit that Kentucky Fried Chicken is better than pizza, but in this case I think it's gospel.  Little Caesar's has turned my off of pizza and I doubt I'll be eating pizza again for quite some time.  Thankfully, when I do, it'll be from a more reputable establishment and not some shit-hole vying for legitimacy in the forum with a cheap gimmick.

My coupons expire today, so I shan't be returning to the neighbourhood KFC, which my waistband and my colon are grateful.

Mr. Winky's Big Day Out

After much concern regarding a health issue, I finally consulted my doctor. Given that it dealt with such a personal subject, I'd been hesitant up to that point to mention anything, but on that day, I finally decided I'd had enough.

The doctor ran a couple tests in house and decided that it wasn't anything associated with my having Type II diabetes.  I breathed a sigh of relief on that point, however I wondered what exactly was the cause of my problem.  A few more tests were ordered up by my physician and on my way I went.

A couple days later I retrieved an official looking letter from my mailbox.  Typed on letterhead from the Saskatchewan College of Physicians, the note informed me that I was to attend an ultrasound appointment, followed up by a Cystoscopy a couple weeks following that.  I've had many ultrasounds over the years for a plethora of injuries I've sustained.  I knew there was nothing to fret about in regards to that, but by name alone, Cystoscopy sounded invasive and complex.  I read on in the letter, which vaguely described the nature of that test.  Thank the heaven's for Google, as I looked up the definition of Cystoscopy and was horrified by what I learned.  Long story short, the doctor freezes my downstairs area then shoves a camera in through my pee-pee.  Ho-ly-f*******ck!

So for a few weeks I had that to look forward to, even going so far as sharing on Twitter that while people would be outside enjoying the hot summer weather, your's truly was going to be in the hospital, legs up in the stirrups and a camera being raked through me like a piston hammering through the cylinder of a small block Chevy.

Today was the big day.  I swallowed my pride and all my fears.  There was nothing I could do now, but to face the music and deal with this adversity like I do every other roadblock in life.  In fact, while I sat "commando" in the waiting room, a thin cotton fabric being the only thing separating "me" from the menagerie of odd looking persons in the room with me, I noted a parade of attractive nurses strolling past.  "I wonder if one of them is my nurse." I thought to myself, then realizing how embarrassing it would be, them eyeballing me in my state of vulnerability, or worse, my rising to the occasion.  It might be flattering, on some level, but highly inappropriate and embarrassing.

Soon I heard my name being called.  The nurse introduced himself as Emanuelle.  A him, I thought, this was going to be less embarrassing.  Emanuelle appeared to be an African transplant.  His accent was thick and I had him repeat his name, as I failed to catch it the first time.  He had long hair that was twisted into thin dreadlocks and it was tied back and spilling out from under his nurses cap.  It was at this precise moment I realized that I was going to have to write a blog about this.

Mere seconds ago, I was worried about popping wood in front of my nurse, and now I see my nurse is actually a young virile man.  A strapping young fella. An African-American young fellow and immediately my thoughts went to the stereotypes of young African-Americans and the incredible girth that they sport, "down there".   Although he is likely very professional in his application of medicine, this dude is likely going to snicker when he sees my insignificant appendage.  I know the comparison goes without saying, but it's still a bruise to the old ego.

He had me sit on the gurney to wait for the doctor's arrival, who entered the room almost immediately.  I'm relieved to see that he's of Asian decent and before any question of his fitness as a physician enters my mind, my self-consciousness wanes away believing that as insignificant as I'm going to be stacked next to the black guy, I gotta be monstrous over the Asian doctor's peanut.

I was instructed to lie back on the gurney while the nurse was going to clean and sanitize my area.  Again the thought of an uprising interrupted my usual thoughts.  Baseball, I thought.  Baseball.  The most boring sport on TV, that'll keep me "relaxed".  If I thought getting wood in the hands of the female nurse would be embarrassing, it'd go double, triple...,  a million times more embarrassing in the hands of a dude.

Next the doctor brought over the device that would he'd be doing the exploratory with.  I looked at him and said, "I don't think that's going to fit."  He smiled and assured me, "It'll fit.  Don't you worry."  This caused me to breathe heavily.  I laid back and stared at a poster on the ceiling.  It was a monkey with the caption "I've gotta learn to relax."  The nurse, Emanuelle, knelt down next to my head and pointed up at the poster and said, "Look at the monkey.  Take deep breaths and exhale through your mouth."

"Monkey?" I said, "I thought that was a mirror."  Emanuelle chuckled and patted me on the shoulder as he rose to his feet.  The procedure then began.  The freezing went in and ironically burned like a roman candle.  It felt like hot lava being pouring into me, a single droplet at a time.  The scorching sensation soon dissipated, but not for long.

What I initially believed would be equated to shards of broken glass being etched into my wiener, via the Google explanation, the discomfort associated with the procedure wasn't quite as violent or painful, but it wasn't a joyous experience either.

After all was said and done, the doctor informed me that everything checked out.  My bladder and all points in between checked out and appeared healthy.  I can now breathe another heavy sigh of relief, but can't help but wonder what the cause of my issues are.  The doctor suggested watching my diet.  Yay..!  A diet already limited by allergies, could soon become even more concentrated.  Pretty soon, I'll be sucking nutrients out of a f**king tube, like the astronauts do.

I sat down on the toilet, following the exam, and tried to urinate.  The freezing had really taken hold, I couldn't feel anything except something that felt like rusty razor blades.  I tried repeatedly, but believe that I'd failed.  I got up and looked into the bowl.  Something came out, to my surprise.  I hope I don't have any "accidents" on the way home, I thought.