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As with most Ricochetti, one of @drbastiat ‘s posts, Strange Things Aren’t Getting Better, got me a-thinkin’. Yeah, I know. A-thinkin’ isn’t my best look. The Lovely and Talented Mrs. Mongo probably echoes your thoughts. She has told me numerous times, “Honey, go do something physical or dynamic or ballistic. Go beat somebody up, or shoot up something, or blow something up, but in the interest of all that is good in this world, don’t set yourself to a-thinkin’.”
Doc lays out the trials and tribulations of Karen, the treating of whom is a nightmare (even a layman like me can see that), and, per Doc and many of the comments, sets the predicate for being a problem child of epic dimensions by saying, “I know my body.” Yeah. I get it. Anyone that would choose a crystal bracelet over ibuprofen for a sprained wrist is suspect. Still…
I know my body.
I think that most docs (and I certainly encourage any medical subject matter expert to chime in) after years of treating different people with wildly different maladies, find that their patients’ response to and compliance with their doctors’ instructions fall into a bell curve. I further posit that they get used to thinking that the 70-90% of their patients that make up that big ol’ swell in the bell curve are every patient that walks into their exam room. Outliers are not taken into account.
I’m only going to use personal examples, not because I’m a self-involved egoist who thinks everything is, ultimately, about me (I am and I do), but because with The Lovely and Talented Mrs. Mongo (aka Supernurse) is a clinical risk manager. Heaven forfend that anyone think, from my supplying hypothetical anecdotes that there were ever any pillow talk that violated HIPAA–or, as the Lovely and Talented Mrs. Mongo prefaces about every conversation with, “hippa, hippa, hippa.”
[Aside: Can you imagine the pain to the gluteus maximus when one half of a couple ensconced in marital bliss is in Special Operations, swaddled in OPSEC and NDAs and National Security stuff, and the other is a medical professional who takes HIPAA very, very seriously?
“Hey, honey,” I’d hear upon coming home, “how was your time x? (your time x = the day/week/month/year you were gone)”
“Fine. How was yours?”
My kids would start watching the ensuing exchange like they were at a tennis match. One of my more perceptive daughters would holler, “Popcorn!” and hie away to the kitchen. All the kids knew that the trauma on one, or the other, or both sides would leak out somehow, and it would be fun to watch. Li’l heathens. They got that from their mother.
Also, when hubby is on call for judiciously applying mayhem and (to the uninitiated) what appears to be wanton destruction, and wifey-poo (she will literally kill me if she ever reads this and sees that I said that) is a member of an open heart team that is on call, when both beepers went off–literally simultaneously, at the worst time imaginable, every time–playing “rock, paper, scissors” to see who got to go into work immediately and who got to bundle the kids up to take to their on-call, 24/7 emergency babysitter, well it was just fun. Good times, good times. And I know that was a run-on sentence, but you had to be there. End aside]
Example 1: Some years ago, I had to have a laparoscopic procedure on my knee. I’d torn up the meniscus, and they went in and cleaned up all the flotsam and jetsam. They also shaved the back of my patella, as apparently said meniscus detritus had scarred it up pretty bad. Because US healthcare is freakin’ awesome, it was an out-patient procedure. Before I checked out, the last visit was from the provider’s physical therapist. He gave me some pretty generic tips, and then told me “you want to get off the crutches as soon as possible.“
The procedure was on a Thursday. On Friday I gimped around on crutches. On Saturday, I decided it was time to sac up and kick the crutches habit. Done and done.
The next Monday, I had a follow-up appointment with the docs that had fixed my knee. Part of that was seeing the physical therapist. He walked in, looked around, and asked, “where are your crutches.”
“Got off ’em Saturday. You said get off them ASAP.”
“I meant in a couple of weeks! Not a couple of days!”
Well then, you should’ve said that. Victim of the Medical Bell Curve.
Not too long after I retired from the military (like, a couple of weeks) I got my Type II diabetes diagnosis. My primary care physician said, “take these pills (Metformin HCL), you can keep doing what you’re doing, and try to keep your blood sugars down.”
“Got it, Doc.”
Well, I didn’t keep doing what I was doing. I read everything I could about Type II and how to survive and thrive with the condition. I was knocking it out of the park. I was getting those blood sugar levels down.
I mentioned to The Lovely and Talented Mrs. Mongo, three/four months in, “Man, this is the second training session in a row that I couldn’t spar. I was so exhausted, I was a safety hazard, to me or someone else.”
Herself said, “Well, you’re still keeping a journal of your blood sugar levels, right?”
“Let me see your log.”
So, I have no idea whether the numbers are in parts per million, parts per billion, milliliters or centiliters. Bunch of metric stuff involved with Type II Diabetes. But, if you’re not fasting, a blood sugar count (again, no idea of the units) should be at/about 180. If you are fasting, should be at/about 120.
But I’d been told to get my blood sugar levels down as much as possible, per the doctor’s guidance. I was going for zero, baby.
The Lovely and Talented Mrs. Mongo reviewed my painstaking, day-by-day blood sugar log, and said, “Hey, dumbass, you know that any count below 70 is of medical concern, right?”
“Uh, no. No one mentioned that. So, I shouldn’t be proud of those entries that say 28? 32? 26?”
“No. Now go drink some orange juice right now.”
“But orange juice has a lot of sugar in it…”
“Did I sound like I was asking you?”
“No, my love. Getting orange juice on board time now, my love.”
I know my body.
I can tell, if I’m out in an austere environment, humping a heavy rucksack, the moment I go from burning fat to burning muscle, just by the smell.
I can tell, given the configuration of the shards of broken glass embedded in my shoulder, if this morning’s workout can have 20, 10, 5, or 1 pull-ups in it.
I can tell if some impingement or debility will just be a pain in the tuchus, or will hamper the odds of mission success.
I know my body.
Just saying.Published in